Have you ever looked at one of those optical illusions where, when you first look at it you see one thing and maybe someone else sees a different thing? And then if you keep looking at it, you will probably eventually see that other thing too?
But sometimes you don’t. People are saying to you, “Look, don’t you see it?” and you try all kinds of tricks with your eyes – you squint, you look at it sideways, you try the soft-focus – but you still cannot see the image other people see. You just don’t have a clue. It is somehow, in the words of the Apostle, veiled to you.
In 2nd Corinthians we can see the contours of a relationship between the Apostle Paul and the church in Corinth. And if it seems a bit muddy to the reader, that is partially because this epistle is actually a composite of several letters Paul sent over a period of time – probably some years. There are hints that he made a return visit to Corinth which was contentious and very painful. Some suggestion that there was a third visit as well, which may have gone badly. And so Paul resolved not to visit Corinth any more but to pursue reconciliation through writing letters.
And then, at some point in compiling the writings that would become the New Testament, several of his letters were put together into what we call 2nd Corinthians. It’s a bit of a mess, really. Scholars have worked hard to figure it all out, and it seems like pieces of one letter have been inserted smack dab in the middle of another train of thought. This seems to happen more than once, which makes 2nd Corinthians a rather hard read. I won’t fault you if you haven’t tried.
Still, there are so many beautiful nuggets of wisdom and love in it that are worth lifting up. Again and again, it seems that the church in Corinth was failing to see the heart of the gospel, to understand what it was really about. Paul tried so hard to show them, but there was still strong resistance.
He writes that the gospel was veiled to some of them. The “god of this world” has blinded them. The values of this world, the conventional wisdom of this world, have blinded some to the light of Christ, the glory of God.
In the previous chapter, Paul used the illustration from the book of Exodus, where it is told that Moses wore a literal veil when he came down from his conversations with God, because the unearthly light in his face was more than the Israelites could bear. In a similar way, Paul suggests, there is a figurative veil over the light of Christ for those who are not able, or not ready, to see it in its glory.
It’s an image worthy of our time, our thought, because the resistance is real. The gods of this world are still alive and kicking.
Even within the community of the church, and this is who Paul is addressing, there is the problem of not really getting it, not seeing it, not embracing it. To be clear, it is not the case that there are some people who don’t get it while others do; it is really the case that all of us, every one, are works in progress, sometimes confused, sometimes misled. Sometimes willfully ignorant of the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ. Blind to this road toward greater, wider, more inclusive love.
This is to be expected. There are always growing pains on the journey toward Christlikeness. And the journey is made more difficult by the reality that, even within the church, it is not universally accepted that this is our calling.
It is a battle we wage within ourselves and amongst ourselves. There are many of us in the church who see ourselves as God’s understudy. We are waiting for the day when God develops a bad case of laryngitis or sprains an ankle. Then we will need to step in and take over, doing all the smiting and the judging and the condemning to hell and damnation – which, we think we would be good at. In the meantime we stand in the wings, watching with a critical eye, knowing just how we would do it if we were in charge.
We know, in fact, that we could do it pretty well, because we have a taste for judging others, a flair for gossip and criticism. Over coffee cups in the kitchen or beers in the backyard, we have practiced sorting the sheep and the goats of the world into various categories of goodness and badness. So, yes, we are good at it. Why shouldn’t we do it?
Why shouldn’t we?
There was a priest named Simon Bailey, who served as vicar of a small parish in Dinnington, in the north of England. He arrived there in 1985 and embraced the work. And as he taught them God’s deep, wide, inclusive love, the people developed a deep love for him.
Simon was a gay man at a time when it wasn’t talked about too much. A time when he was, as a rule, not permitted to be a priest in the Church of England. A time when I would not be permitted to be a priest in the Church of England either. Around the time he started in Dinnington, Simon was diagnosed with HIV. He began medical treatment and, for a number of years, kept it to himself.
But after several years it developed into AIDS and he began showing signs of sickness. It was growing apparent that he could no longer keep it to himself. And so, with the help of some close friends and his bishop, around 1993 Simon began the work of telling the members of the church, personally, one by one. Not a big announcement or an email blast. He told the church members the same way we would tell our nearest loved ones that we have a fatal disease.
By that time, Simon had laid the groundwork they needed to be able to respond with love. He preached and wrote and taught words like, “The first and overriding principle in Christian morals is not the making of clear rules and sharp dividing lines, the first principle is ‘No condemnation.’” And, “We are all in this together… a community of healing and growing together and love as unlimited as we can make it.” He taught it, he preached it, he wrote it, and he lived it.
By the time Simon was sick, they had already developed a parish motto, which said, “Unlimited, unconditional, unquestioning love, freely given with no expectation of return; with comradeship and equality for all.” And so, when Simon needed their support in order to remain as their vicar, it seemed like there was no hesitation. And when it was necessary for Simon to have someone stay at his house with him through the night, every night, there was a waiting list of people ready to take a shift.
His last Easter with them was in 1995. His sister Rosemary described this day in the book she wrote about his life. He stood in front of the congregation to celebrate the sacrament of Holy Communion. I envision his dying body shining so brightly with the light of God’s glory.
He died in November of that year.
He left behind many poems, including this one, called A Dream.
I’m dreaming about
a church of sensitivity and openness
a church of healing and welcome.
I’m dreaming about
a community of friends that celebrates differences and diversity and variety,
a community that is forgiving, cherishing, wide open.
I dream of
women and men who minister life and laughter and love;
of men and women who minister healing and harmony and hope;
of women and men who minister to each other and minister to the crying needs of a world that hurts.
I dream against the rough climb still to come,
against expectation
against pessimism and despair;
I dream, I dream of the clear panorama of the vision of light right at the top of the mountain.
If there is one thing we take away from Paul’s letters to the Corinthians, if there is one thing we take away from the Bible in its entirety, let it be this: Love is the all of it.
When the veil is removed, this is what we will see: Love is the all of it.
