Sam Bush, “A New Center of Gravity”

“Always different, always the same.” That’s how journalist James Parker describes hotel rooms in a piece in the Atlantic. Whether it’s one-star or five-stars, as you open the door of your room you are greeted by what he calls “a neutral waft of possibility.” But, as your luggage starts to sprawl and crumbs collect, Parker says, “the old gravity asserts itself, the old you-ness.” Housekeeping may promise new beginnings, but it won’t prevent what he calls “a minor moral collapse.” Soon, the rush of checkout flings you back into the world, but before you go, Parker asks, “Did you change in here? Advance, wallow backwards, go sideways?” Whatever the case, he says, you’ll pop in on another day, in another hotel, “wide-eyed with expectation, almost innocent, you’ll open another door.” 

Now, I don’t know if you can relate - maybe you prefer Airbnb - but wherever your summer travels will take you this year, a fundamental question is being addressed: can a person ever change? Your surroundings may change but, be it Crozet or Croatia, the old gravity has a way of asserting itself wherever you are. 

How much of you has really changed since you were twenty-six? There are times when I feel like I’ve matured - I’m now a husband, a father and an associate rector - but should my family ever go away for a night, I revert back to my former self (devouring frozen pizza and playing the same four songs on guitar). External forces (i.e. my wife and children) may have shaped me into a more responsible person out of necessity, but once those forces are removed, I backslide. It begs the question, is there any hope for real change - to calm your temper, to drop an addiction, to become content with your life? 

This is what the Apostle Paul is addressing in his letter to the Romans this morning. A few sentences earlier, he proclaimed the gospel that despite our sin, God’s grace abounds all the more. But he anticipates the inevitable follow-up question to grace: if God loves us no matter what then what’s keeping us from living our life as a total moral free-for-all (EDM festival)? Maybe W.H. Auden said it best when he wrote, “I like committing crimes. God likes forgiving them. Really the world is admirably arranged.” This is what makes people nervous about grace, the idea that we’re going to cheat the system.

Paul is addressing this question head-on. He says, “Should we continue in sin in order that grace may abound? By no means! How can we who died to sin go on living in it?” He then says the very words that become the baptismal liturgy when a person is “buried with Christ in his death in order to share in his resurrection and be reborn by the Holy Spirit.” What does he mean by that? Well, in the early church, baptism was likely performed by immersion. It was a picture of a person being buried with Christ when submerged in water and then being raised to new life with Christ as he emerges. In other words, Paul is saying, “It doesn’t make sense to keep on sinning because that person has died.” That might sound extreme, but, for Paul, extreme circumstances call for extreme measures. 

Sin is far deeper than surface-level morality. It’s a condition that has worked its way into our heart. Jesus says, “For out of the heart come evil intentions, murder, adultery, fornication, theft, false witness, slander” (Mat 15:19). This is not a list of external forces that warp our innocent minds, but things that come naturally to us. Left to our own devices, these are a few of our favorite things. Not so much “raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens” as much as “murder and slander and evil intentions.” 

Forgetting the depth of our sin, we forget that telling someone to change is not enough to get them to do so. Things may change for a couple of weeks, but it’s more like painting over a mold-stained wall. The old gravity asserts itself. If the problem with humans is the human heart, in order for there to be any inner transformation, you have to be given a new heart. But first, Paul argues, your old heart has to stop beating. 

He writes, “We know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body of sin might be destroyed.” In other words, God is not interested in moral renovation. It is better to tear it all down and start from scratch, his own son as the cornerstone. In other words, God is not just giving us a second chance. He’s doing what we never could have done for ourselves. He’s saying, “If I want this thing done well, I guess I’ll have to do it myself.” This is what happened on the Cross. Jesus, who was without sin, took your sin and mine to the grave. Why? Paul says that “we might no longer be enslaved to sin.” 

Sin, you see, is an enslaving power. Think about it: every kind of sin - lust, envy, greed - they each cycle through us like an addiction. It starts when there’s stress in your life, and then something promises escape and freedom from that stress but it’s actually setting a trap because, over time, as you turn to it again and again, you build up a tolerance, and then you need more and more and by that time it’s taken over. Into that vicious cycle,

Paul says the tyranny of sin has been defeated. In other words, the serpent has been beheaded. It might be writhing on the floor but it has no more power over you anymore. 

What does this mean for you? How can your life look different than just going from one hotel room to the next, always different but always the same? Where’s the newness of life that Paul is talking about? In his book On the Grace of God, Justin Holcomb, a former associate-rector here, tells a story about Abraham Lincoln who, one day, went to a slave auction and was appalled at what he saw. He was drawn to a young woman on the auction block. The bidding began, and Lincoln bid until he purchased her—no matter the cost. After he paid the auctioneer, he walked over to the woman and said “You’re free.” “Free? What is that supposed to mean?” she asked. “It means you are free,” Lincoln answered, “completely free!” “Does it mean I can do whatever I want to do?” “Yes,” he said, “free to do whatever you want to do.” “Free to say whatever I want to say?” “Yes, free to say whatever you want to say.” “Does freedom mean,” asking with hope and hesitation, “that I can go wherever I want to go?” “It means exactly that you can go wherever you want to go.” With tears of joy and gratitude welling up in her eyes, she said, “Then, I think I’ll go with you.” 

You want freedom? Look no further than Jesus. Your career won’t give you freedom; success or affirmation will leave you wanting more and more. Only God’s radical love can unlock a person from the forces and patterns that bind them and free someone to stop drinking, or save their marriage, or become a kinder and gentler person. After all, you have a new identity: dead to sin and alive in Christ. That’s why it might not feel the same when you go back to your vice of choice because you are essentially having an identity crisis. You are no longer a slave to sin but an heir to the throne of God’s everlasting kingdom. 

OK. But what happens as you go off on your summer travels and the old gravity asserts itself? You may think, “I want to give my life to Jesus, but I can’t shake the old me.” Well, the Christian life is a daily reenactment of death to self and being resurrected in Christ, but there was a man whose death and resurrection sealed you as Christ’s own forever, once and for all. That is where the gospel has the final word, the message that, while you may struggle to give your life to Jesus, Jesus gave his life for you. Throughout the New Testament, Paul says our salvation was accomplished, past tense. In other words, no matter what happens, here’s what happened: “The death he died, he died to sin, once for all (period).” He is your new center of gravity of which you cannot escape. So as you long for change in our world or for others, but especially yourself, know that if there’s one thing that will never change, it is the love of God for you. Amen.