Your Labor is Not in Vain

Sermon for Fifth Sunday After Epiphany, Berkeley Senior Sermon

Berkeley Divinity School | New Haven, CT

Fifth Sunday after Epiphany

Isaiah 6:1-8

Psalm 138

1 Corinthians 15: 1-11

Luke 5:1-11

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“O Lord, do not abandon the works of your hands.” In the name of the Holy Trinity, Amen.

If nothing else, seminary has equipped me with at least one exceptionally well-honed skill. Here it is: writing a really compelling ‘spiritual autobiography.’

In seminary, opportunities to share the account of one’s ministerial and vocational story seem to present themselves no less than once a term. Whether required for an application or for a course assignment, this ‘story of call’ is now well-rehearsed.

However, never once have I considered a throne room scene with six-winged seraphs. I clearly have some unfinished labor.

These lessons we’ve heard do just this: tell stories of calling. And they do so from multiple angles, too. There is the Prophet Isaiah’s exuberance, and the trepidation of those wearied fishermen.

But it isn’t either of these that catch my attention, today—in this winter season.

Rather, I find myself wondering about the situation in the Corinthian community. What is the story behind this letter from the Apostle Paul? The spiritual autobiographies here ring a bit different. If at one point the Corinthians experienced their own throne room moment, it would seem it has now long-since passed. There isn’t exactly a whole lot of fervor, at least to hear Paul tell it.

Out of the situation in Corinth a critical question rises: has the labor been in vain?

I think it’s important we sit with this question for two reasons. First, Corinthians might have something to tell us about how we measure the merit of our labor. And the second is this: whether or not we know that grace of God within us has much to do with our relation to labor.

The Apostle Paul’s response to the community in Corinth makes me curious. In inviting them to reflect on what they labor toward and why, I wonder how much this is actually a question rumbling around in Paul’s own spirit. Has the labor been in vain?

Evidently, things aren’t going so smoothly for the Corinthians. Back when Paul first founded this community, things might have been a little more easy. If nothing else, at least there was some semblance of clarity—a common cause and a shared outcome.

But now... things are different. This community is striving to live faithfully, and they have the best of intentions; so, why is there so much uncertainty? Different teachings and information are now coming from more than just one source—and it’s hard to sift though. And with great distance and separation from Paul, the community in Corinth has some questions.

One ethical dilemma after another seems queued up for deliberation. The situation at hand is one rife with ambiguity.

This is the kind of moment when it’s not so clear how to tell the story of one’s calling, because everything in the present is a little fuzzy. Their intention to follow Jesus has become ever-increasingly complex.

Things keep shifting. Just when they think they’ve settled on the latest guidelines, someone or something comes along and changes it all up. No doubt, it’s tiring. So, who could blame them if they are a bit exasperated?

As the Corinthians stumble through how they are to be-and-remain community, I can imagine a question surfacing...is it really worth it? Has the labor been in vain?

Responding, Paul’s words are patiently measured, thoroughly citing all of the latest data, and perhaps they are also just a little exasperated.

His tone sounds a little prickly. I mean, after a lengthy per-my-last email multi-point list of everything done for someone, it is bold to sign up with an “unless.” “Unless”— he writes—none of those things matter to you anymore.

Perhaps this is annoyance; perhaps it is sorrow. It would certainly seem that there is concern regarding the wellbeing of the people in Corinth. For the Corinthians—and dare I say—for the Apostle Paul, that moment of initial exuberance is now in the rearview mirror. They have settled in to the daily grind, and they strive to remain faithful to a call they once discerned some time ago.

This is that long-slog through the middle. The situation is like that of mid-winter bleakness.

And here we are, friends. It is winter time. We are in this fallow season.

Over these recent years, there has been much talk of productivity culture. But even though there is no shortage in op-eds, an anxious wondering about the merits of our labor remains ever-present.

Productivity is a prized virtue—even in the fallow season.

Like that description the Prophet Isaiah hears, it would seem that “...vast is the emptiness in the midst of the land.” And in the void: certain things have a way of surfacing. While we winter, questions urgently demand attention: How do I remain productive? Have I done enough? Am I enough? Has the labor been in vain?

I admit, so much of this season has not been what it was supposed to be. Trudging through these pandemic trenches was not how this time was supposed to be. Nearly 1-million people dying—in the US alone—isn’t how it was supposed to be. And a near constant struggle for psychological and emotional wellness wasn’t how this was all supposed to be. Cultivating wellness in my spirit has demanded labor through blood, sweat, and tears.

When I first uttered those words of the Prophet Isaiah, “Here am I, Send me!,” they weren’t supposed to bring me here—to this endless wintering. In recent days, I a prayer has been rumbling within me. It reverberates alongside these questions in the winter void. I have uttered the words many times. Over and over again. Found in the Daily Office of the Book of Common Prayer is this hopeful and perhaps foolish petition: “Make your chosen people joyful.”

To be honest, even uttering these words now, I wonder how we possibly talk about joy in this time? How audacious. I mean, really? We are in the middle of these shortened days of winter—when deep darkness seems to hover over the land.

But, to borrow Howard Thurman’s term, perhaps there is no more appropriate time to talk about joy than in these luminous dark days.

We can’t talk about winter and joy without talking about darkness. As the Rev. Dr. Wil Gafney suggests, how we image darkness shapes how we encounter darkness.

Virginia Woolf knew something of this, too. Writing in her journal, just six months after the First World War had begun, she wrote these words: “The future is dark, which is on the whole, the best thing the future can be, I think.”

There’s another important story that tells us something about these winter days.

It goes like this: In the beginning, God hovered over deep waters and a formless emptiness. And out from that womb of deep luminous darkness—when God spoke —all of creation burst forth into being. “This God,” in Wil Gafney’s words, “conjured, confected, and crafted creation out of holy darkness.” In each of our readings today, there exists a common moment. It is a pivot. A time of decision or of reorienting. It’s the moment that the those fishermen’s weariness from labor done in vain leads to the “yet-if-you-say-so” faith that makes them disciples.

And it is in Paul’s reminder to those floundering in Corinth. ...Remember, you received good news of salvation... ...Remember, hold firm, stand on the foundation of this good news...

...Remember, from the grace of God things are made new...

Has the labor been in vain?

In his letter, Paul suggests a measure for the merits of our labor. The standard is whether or not it makes things new. If life flows forth, then surely the labor is not in vain.

While we wait in our wintering, the life-giving purpose of God remains. God is steadfast. In the luminous darkness, we are mothered by God—and the labor of God is not in vain.

Beloveds, in sharing life and receiving it from others, your labor is not in vain. In audacious joy, your labor is not in vain.

So, in our labor, may we also know rest. And through our labor, may we bring rest to others.

In the steadfast, mothering arms of God, may we cling to the call we have received, knowing that “the Lord will make good his purpose”—and the labor is not in vain.

Amen.