chasing yoder

"Wawa Give Me This" A Lesson from Annie

2012-01-28T11:51:00.000-08:00

Annie and I went on an ice cream date today. Day in and day out, I am very mindful to not *just* say how beautiful I think she is. But I do try to say it, and especially on these dates. Today when I said so, she looked at her clothes and item by item proceeded to tell me the name of the person who gave it to her. This is standard for Annie, that each article of clothing has only a few, essential descriptors worth knowing: color, print or pattern, the name of the animal on it (if applicable), and the one who gave it to her. "Grampy give this to me" (sic).

I am always humbled by the priority of this information to Annie. There are few toys, clothes, or other miscellaneous items that she cannot account for. From Mommy to Abuela to Grammy to Uncle Ben and Aunt Beth, dozens of names that she keeps in a Rolodex of ongoing gratitude.

I pray this doesn't give her a complex. Like, she'll be thirty-seven and hanging on to the shoes that Uncle Michael picked out for her when she was two and a half. But I do hope she keeps the gift of this ever-present gratitude, and that it rubs off more fully on me.

The other day two door-to-door sales kids came by selling cleaner. The cleaner is, eh, but what the kids were really selling was their work ethic. This was their second chance, and they were working hard. "We want to be like you," one explained. "We know you worked for this home and that car and all that you have, that nobody gave anything to you. That's why we're out here." I admired the work ethic and God knows we've worked hard, too, but the truth is always less sexy: the car was a gift of Rebekah's father to her when she was in college. In truth, we've owned five cars between the two of us, and every one has been a gift. The house is a lease.

All truth be told, we have never purchased furniture, except for a few wooden chairs (thus our 'eclectic' style), and we've been giving Annie's clothes away as fast as we've been given them because you can only store so much in closets. We been given a lot - have been rich and poor at the very same time. Truthfully, this fact makes it easier to give a lot. I don't look at the living room and see a collection of that which is "mine." I see the faces of friends whom I love: the ones who have given to us, and the ones, though maybe strangers now, to whom we will give.

The Church has always taught that the gifts to one are God's gifts to the body. Would that my life be changed by making this my standard practice, like Annie's: to count among the essential descriptors of each thing/occasion/experience/memory/joy/etc. that I have the name of the one who has most recently shared it and the face of the One who gives all things to (all of) us - to share.

Why Failure is to be Expected in Church(and why it's not to be feared)

2012-01-28T09:11:00.000-08:00

Many churches self-describe the desire to feel connected like family. This yearning alternately confuses me on some days and cracks me up on others. Conservative guesses at the Christian divorce rate put the number near 38%. We won't even get into what Christmas was like at your extended family gathering this past year. (1) Remarkably, many extremely faithful members of the Body of Christ worship Sunday after Sunday while members of their home stay, well, home. Like family? Really??

My confusion is not that the Church should want to be above the brokenness of family life (I don't think that all), only that by the time a church announces the desire to be like family, it feels like everyone involved has forgotten what this would mean. (2)

I experienced something of the same confusion when I listened to the address of the Presiding Bishop's Pre-General Convention address (3) this morning. I have the utmost respect for our Presiding Bishop, but I was perplexed by her endorsement of a more entrepreneurial church. (4) As with churches who want to be more family-like (and then complain when it is), I wonder about a church that wants to be more entrepreneurial: do any of us have the slightest idea of what this would mean?

For example (5):

- The US Small Business Administration reports that in 2002, more small businesses were closed than were open (among small businesses that hire employees).
- Among businesses with less than 20 paid employees, there there is a 67% chance that the business will not exist in 4 years; and 91% chance that the business will be gone in 10 years.
- Among restaurants, only 20% survive the first two years of operation.

It may still be true that the Church is called to a small business model (6), with accompanying canonical freedom, but it must be a true calling, because small business success is not a forgone conclusion, much less a way to stave off institutional death. In fact, theologically one could make the case that if we are called as the Church to operate like small businesses, it is because we have a great need as Christians to become a community willing and able to fail (and to die). After all, this is presumably where the forgiveness and love of the cross come in.

My final observation is that I find it deeply ironic that the two values most (I would argue) uncritically bandied about as the future of the living church in both traditional and progressive circles are family connectedness and mission-minded entrepreneurial-ism. Put them together and what to you have? That's right! A family small business. A literal mom and pop operation.

This new future feels a lot like the old one.

But if the crux is the cross (and it is, that's a rhetorical flourish), this future might be just the one God has made possible for us - and this future (failures and all) might well still surprise us.

(Thanks be to God!)

___________________________________

(1) I don't for a minute want to dismiss the pain of the holidays without family. But precisely as evidenced by the regret many of us experience when we lose a family member, we often do not realize what we have until we lose it. The situation is not unlike the old Woody Allen joke: "Waiter, the food here is terrible. And such small portions!"

(2) Mark Driscoll gives one of the best (and funniest) practical accounts that I've heard about what this might mean and/or look like and how it issues from the Gospel of Jesus.

(3)

(4) A common move, even (perhaps most frequently) among evangelicals, and often linked, as here, with a commitment to mission.

(5) Report here.

(6) I should be very clear that I am pro-mission always. There are simply multiple ways to skin a cat and our selection of a particular method must be at least as theological as we think it will be practical.

The Eleventh Hour

2012-01-27T05:00:00.000-08:00

As I give a go at making this blog more regular - with daily writings - I'm keeping Friday as a day to share hymns or other short offerings from the Church's tradition. Today being the feast of St John Chrysostom, the first of these Friday offerings comes from the "Golden-Tongued One" himself: John's famous Easter sermon.

This version was prepared by André Lavergne

editor@worship.ca

Cf. The editions of

Mark Baker

Frank Dobbs

Originally posted here.

_______________________

A re thereany who are devout lovers of God?
Let them enjoy this beautiful bright festival!

Are there any who are grateful servants?
Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord!

Are there any weary from fasting?
Let them now receive their due!

If any havetoiled from the first hour,
let them receive their reward.

If any have come after the third hour,
let them with gratitude join in the feast!

Those who arrived after the sixth hour,
let them not doubt; for they shall not be short-changed.

Those who have tarried until the ninth hour,
let them not hesitate; but let them come too.

And those who arrived only at the eleventh hour,
let them not be afraid by reason of their delay.

For the Lord is gracious and receives the last even as the first.
The Lord gives rest to those who come at the eleventh hour,
even as to those who toiled from the beginning.

To one and all the Lord gives generously.
The Lord accepts the offering of every work.
The Lord honours every deed and commends their intention.

Let us all enter into the joy of the Lord!

First and lastalike, receive your reward.
Rich and poor, rejoice together!

Conscientious and lazy, celebrate the day!
You who have kept the fast, and you who have not,
rejoice, this day, for the table is bountifully spread!

Feast royally, for the calf is fatted.
Let no one go away hungry.
Partake, all, of the banquet of faith.
Enjoy the bounty of the Lord's goodness!

Let no onegrieve being poor,
for the universal reign has been revealed.

Let no one lament persistent failings,
for forgiveness has risen from the grave.

Let no one fear death,
for the death of our Saviour has set us free.

The Lord has destroyed death by enduring it.
The Lord vanquished hell when he descended into it.
The Lord put hell in turmoil even as it tasted of his flesh.

Isaiah foretold this when he said,
"You, O Hell, were placed in turmoil when he encountering you below."

Hell was inturmoil having been eclipsed.
Hell was in turmoil having been mocked.
Hell was in turmoil having been destroyed.
Hell was in turmoil having been abolished.
Hell was in turmoil having been made captive.

Hell grasped a corpse, and met God.
Hell seized earth, and encountered heaven.
Hell took what it saw, and was overcome by what it could not see.

O death, where is your sting?
O hell, where is your victory?

Christ isrisen, and you are cast down!
Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen!
Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is risen, and life is set free!
Christ is risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead.

For Christ, having risen from the dead,
is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.

To Christ be glory and power forever and ever. Amen!

Winners Want the Ball

2012-01-26T19:42:00.000-08:00

It started yesterday over lunch with a priest friend of mine. We were talking about the blessings and stresses of ministry when the question came up: how does one thrive, not merely survive, in the crunch-time, the hard time, of ministry? You know, when pressure and anxiety are running highest and hope is on the run. My friend smiled and made what seemed like a gesture toward the television behind me, on which was playing a repeat of yesterday's basketball game. He told me about a scene in The Replacements (a movie I haven't seen about B-league football guys getting their shot during a labor dispute) in which Keanu Reeves' character (the quarterback) hands off at a pivotal moment of the game. The coach tells him afterwards: "Winners always want the ball... when the game is on the line."

Winners always want the ball when the game is on the line.

My friend finds uncommon focus and energy when his team's back is against the wall.

Then today over coffee another friend was telling me about his son's recent spelling bee victory. My friend would like to say that Eli studied for weeks before his triumph, but that wasn't the case at all - he decided the night before he would like to win the contest, and he did. While my friend talked openly about the need for a developed study ethic (something time will no doubt teach), he admired what he recognizes as "the killer instinct" in his son. Whether on the baseball diamond or in the auditorium, he wants the ball at the end. Winners always want the ball when the game is on the line.

This repeating theme has got me thinking:

What does winning look like for a Christian? What does it mean to want the ball among the community of believers? And when is the game on the line for the people called Church?

Two thoughts have ordered my reflections on these questions.

The first thought comes from my mentor, Father Timothy, which he shared during my time as a seminarian at Church of the Holy Family. He shared with me once that the Commission on Ministry had asked him during his own time of discernment why a person of his intelligence and gifting was considering a life spent ("wasted" was the insinuated meaning) as a priest? Timothy answered that his understanding was that no matter how rural or tiny the placement, the promise of the Gospel was that where two or more were gathered, Christ would be fully present in the Eucharistic moment, the blessed bread and wine. "That's right," they said. "Then for what else would I want?"

This thought reminds me what crunch-time really is. Crunch-time, by definition, is the time that matters most. "Alleluia! Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us."

As often as I celebrate the Eucharist, I remind myself of (and pray for) this: that I have no earthly longing beyond this moment. That the game is played for this.

The second thought that orders my reflection to the question of wanting the ball (and winning) with the game on the line as a Christian is slightly more intuitive. Shuffled in among the many ordinary exchanges that constitute a day, there are a handful each day that rise up and seem to demand: "Here! Here, the truth must be spoken." These are moments when my soul realizes that holy listening will not be enough this time, that this moment is crucial and crying not just for some version of politeness or social order but for the Gospel itself. Moments when forgiveness must win over tolerance; justice must win over cowardice; grace must overcome guilt and self-hate.

In these moments, I often don't know what the truthful words are in advance, but the sense of the need for Gospel truth is palpable. These are moments when the Spirit stays true to the promise: the Holy Spirit will teach you in that very hour what you ought to say. [Luke 12:12]

These two moments - the reception of Christ's Body and, together as the Church, the becoming of Christ's Body - are moments I live for, when the game's on the line. What are yours?

J+

Confessions of an Impatient Priest (Slowly, Slowly Catch the Monkey)

2012-01-25T15:41:00.000-08:00

At a dear friend's wedding, the father of the bride shared a South African saying with a group of friends gathered around him: "Slowly, slowly catch the monkey, one step at a time."

Slowly, slowly catch the monkey.

At the time, I took away only the most obvious meaning of the words: "one step at a time." I heard the proverb as a call to patience and perseverance. You know, the tortoise and the hare. Duly noted and I moved on.

Then yesterday, the proverb strangely seemed to fit a handful of highly varied situations related to my priestly calling: finishing the parochial report (slowly, slowly...), playing phone tag with parishioners and diocesan leaders (slowly, slowly...), sitting on "hold" as I spoke on the phone while reserving the space for our Vestry Spring Retreat and again in order to make an insurance adjustment (slowly, slowly), rescheduling (postponing) meetings that are probably overdue (slowly, slowly...), and finally praying at the hospital bedside of a friend and parishioner for the second time in three days, with his children gathered around him. "I anoint you (again) in the Name of Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit..." Slowly, slowly... painfully, slowly...

And in that final moment, it hit me: DUH! Slowly means perseverance, yes, but also that if you simply chased the monkey, of course he'd run off and up the tree. Slowly, slowly.

Suddenly, a few verses hit me hard:

“Behold, I am sending you out as sheep in the midst of wolves, so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves." [Matthew 10:16] (Because monkey-catching requires stealth and wisdom.)

And he looked up and said, “I see men, but they look like trees, walking.” Then Jesus laid his hands on his eyes again; and he opened his eyes, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly. [Mark 8:24-25] (Because Jesus was not unfamiliar with healings that take time.)

And finally,

For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. [Romans 8:22] (The very essence of healing taking time, with the process an inextricable part of the ending.)

All of them, in their own ways, reminders that something in the time itself it takes to heal that is called to be part of the healing: "and regard the patience of our Lord as salvation." [2 Peter 3:15]

Peter, reminding me that, exactly when things are slowest, take the longest, the patience of God is revealed because the Lord does not want any to perish. Therefore, says St Peter, "regard the patience of our Lord as salvation."

Slowly, slowly... catch the monkey.

...the Tiger Shall Lie Down with the Moose??

2012-01-24T11:45:00.000-08:00

Over lunch, Rebekah and I are swapping insights and questions related to the book of Job (1) across the kitchen table when Annie - heretofore oblivious to us and playing on the floor - rises up, grabs her stuffed moose, and sends him to the refrigerator for "Bible study." We pause. Moments later, Mogs (the moose) is sent across the kitchen to enroll in "another Bible study" with Annie's over-sized stuffed Tiger. We pause again, keenly aware that there's a fine line between imitation and mockery and that children exploit the ambiguity of that line like no other. We wait. Harmless, good-faith imitation this time (or so it appears).

Now I get that, as a priest, this is in one sense stuff to expect - it "comes with the territory." Even so, neither Rebekah or me had mentioned the Bible - only our confusion at Job's friends and all the fuss they get. To be sure, a while back, Rebekah did host what amounted to a Bible study at our house, but I don't remember using those words to describe it, mostly because Bek was looking for some freedom from the old-school connotations 'Bible study' suggests. But who did she (or we) think we were fooling? Not Annie. The roving moose with the Bible, sitting alongside the tiger, was proof.

I marvel at the ability of children to determine what is important to their parents. Not what the parents want to be important to their children (or what the parents want to be important for themselves!) but what is actually, factually, already important to the parents. Children are savants in this respect. Augustine, among others, liked to remind Christians that we do not necessarily know ourselves best of all. And this seems strange but hard to deny: that the One who knows me best of all is not me. Or as Merton put it: "Nor do I really know myself..." In this tradition, the role of holy friends can be to help us gain a distance by which we know ourselves more truly. (2)

Who would have thought that children are these kinds of holy friends? Little, godly mirrors by which we learn what is actually, factually, already important to us. And of course this can be encouraging, but undoubtedly humbling, too. I once heard a preacher say that if you want to know your priorities, look at your checkbook. But what if the truth was even more readily at hand?

Most to the point: what do I think is actually, factually important to me? And would my children agree?

Peace always,

J+

________________________________________

(1) In the context of a read-the-Bible-in-one-year reading program we're both doing.

(2) As a friend told me once: "If I knew what they were, they wouldn't be blind spots, would they?"

Out of the Fish's Mouth:An Interview with Jonah

2012-01-22T20:05:00.000-08:00

[Preached January 22, 2012]

I’m a little flustered just now. I feel like I owe you an apology. I had hoped to have a guest speaker here this morning. I thought I had arranged it - I HAD arranged it - to have an authority on our Old Testament reading speak to you. We were supposed to meet up prior to the service, but we mis-communicated (my fault), he arrived late last night, by the time I got here, he was saying something about his being nervous so close to the water. Had to go, he said. Before he left, I did ask him if he'd be willing to sit down and answer a few questions for us, by way of an interview, which it turns out he was happy to do. With his permission and yours, I'd like to share with you some highlights from that interview with him this morning. My earlier conversation with Jonah:

JM: Grateful to have this time with you, Jonah -- thanks for coming in this morning.

Jonah: You bet, glad to be here.

JM: Jonah, in our opening collect this morning, we will ask God to help us "answer readily the call of our Savior Jesus Christ..." Your call is perhaps one of the best-known in Scripture. I'm wondering if you could talk for a moment about your own general sense and understanding of calling.

Jonah: Hehe. Sure. As you know, Jonathan, I got off to a rough start; I've grown a little bit in my understanding of God's call through the years. Most people who know my own call will remember the big fish and the ship and later the scrub brush and the worm. I'm not proud of it, but hey, it's my story. But what my story taught me about God's calling is this: calling is about God's heart. And God's heart is so much bigger than your heart and my heart. And hearts like your heart and my heart grow more like God's heart when we're faithful to God's calling.

JM: Say more about calling as something that reveals God's heart.

Jonah: The thing that stinks about calling is that you don't have to believe in the thing that you're called to. God can make it work, even when you're going through the motions. Because calling is mostly about the one who calls (God). Here's what I mean: I didn't believe that the people in Nineveh were worth saving. You're talking about scum bags. Irreverent, apathetic, pathetic. You're talking about people who killed members of my family. And look, it's easy to laugh some thousands of years later at the fool who thumbed his nose at God and spent a weekend in a fish, but I contend that we all have our Ninevehs. Hate is a strong word, perhaps; but I thought my world would be better off without them. That's what I mean when I say we all have our Ninevehs.

JM: So you had given up on them?

Jonah: Sure. Good riddance.

JM: And God's desire to save the people in Nineveh showed that God was a loving God?

Jonah: Not really. You could make the case that it would have been really loving to let folks reap what they sow. To protect the ones who try to do good. No, I wouldn't say God's compassion for the Ninevites proved God was loving; but it DID prove what God means by love.

JM: Which is what?

Jonah: Sacrificial forgiveness. Forgiveness that costs you. And not just you, but costs God, too. That's what the cross is about, I think.

JM: And this is what you mean by learning that God has a heart bigger than our own?

Jonah: Yeah. I think now I would put it this way - I got this from one of your books, by the way - "The wrong idea has taken root in the world: And the (wrong) idea is this: there just might be lives out there that matter less than other lives." So God's heart is bigger because it has room for more of us than maybe my heart does.

JM: I see what you’re saying. What you're saying reminds me of the famous quote from the writer Anne Lamott: “You can safely assume you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.” Would you say that that's about right?

Jonah: (laughing) Yeah, that's about right. I like that. I would just want to make sure that the focus doesn't stay on the smallness of my heart, but eventually lands on the greatness of God's heart.

JM: I like THAT. When we started, you mentioned the fish (of course), the ship, the bush and worm. Tell us more about your own particular call. Maybe something that you feel tends to get left out by the casual reader.

Jonah: Mmm. I noticed your reading today that starts off: "The Word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time." Then I go, say something to Nineveh, everybody's sorry, God spares 'em all. Great story. I look really good if that's the whole story, but of course I get to live with those words "a second time." A second time, because I pretty well flubbed the first one up. Going to Tarshish. Some people don't realize that Tarshish is not just not-Nineveh - it’s the exact opposite direction of Nineveh. I wasn't going to Tarshish so much as going away from God’s call. I guess if there's something that sometimes gets lost in the story it's this: Tarshish ain't a bad place to go to. Nothing wrong with being a tourist in Tarshish. Nothing at all UNLESS the Word of the Lord has come to your face and spoken in your ears and told you to go in the opposite direction. That's trouble. It's a trouble on the inside.

JM: I think I follow, but say more about that.

Jonah: No one else could tell me I was doing wrong (until the storm came) because the only thing that made Tarshish a bad thing for me was the voice that said, "GO TO NINEVEH!" And if you don't remember that God calls and talks to folks - that God calls and talks to people - you might walk away from the story thinking that some places are bad places and others are good; you might tell other people where they should go; or wonder what makes a good place good or bad place bad and not ask the people, "what are you hearing? What is God saying?"

JM: You're talking about prayer now.

Jonah: You betcha. But I'm talking especially about living prayer. Prayer that leads to action. Prayer that says, "Lord, I see you working; what can I do? How can I be a part of what you're doing?"

JM: Changing directions slightly. Jesus is calling disciples in this morning's gospel: his famous words about making the disciples into "fishers of people." Does that line ever strike you as, well, ironic? A little close to home?

Jonah: Do you mean do I think he's rubbing it in my face all these years later? One big fish story? Do I think he might be "baiting" me. (laughing) Yeah, I do. It ain't lost on me. And it's okay by me. I mean, we all have our stories. And this one is mine.

JM: If you had been there when he called them, what would you have wanted to say to the disciples?

Jonah: Put on your swim trunks! (laughing) No, I mean, they did all right, the disciples did. Y'all turned out all right, too. And they'd be proud of that. I guess I would tell them that God calls you to fish for others because God loves the others. BUT God calls you to fish for others because God loves you, too. When God calls you - when God gives you a calling - it's not because you're just a tool in the tool box of God, that he's got a job to do and no one else will do it and you just happen to not have other plans. God gives you a call because there is something about that call that uniquely stands to bless you - something he wants to show YOU. He KNOWS anyone could do it - God knows the disciples aren't the cream of the crop - (laughing) but he wants them, because there's something about himself that he wants to give them, show them, uniquely. So much so that sometimes he’ll give the ones he calls another chance, you know, when they miss the boat - so to speak.

JM: Like yourself?

Jonah: Like me. To answer you question about what I’d say to the disciples, I'd remind them that his calling them isn't different from his loving them. Hey Pete, hey John - he loves you!! (laughing)

JM: So true. I'm thinking of Peter and Cornelius in the Book of Acts and the mutual conversion that happens there.

Jonah: Sure, but don't forget Moses - his intimate moments on the mountain with God, the slow conversions, what he learns in the wilderness, and Abraham, a stranger in a strange land made daily more faithful, closer to God, Paul is a no-brainer. I mean, it's just how God works. It drives me crazy when people talk about God's call like it’s a list of responsibilities - duties to divvy up. Are you crazy? This is the moment he wants to say "I love you" uniquely to you through his calling.

JM: This, it would be fair to say, is a decidedly post-Nineveh reflection for you. (laughing)

Jonah: Yeah, that's a fair point. You don't have to see it at the time to live it. And maybe it's only after we live it that we realize the gift God wanted to give us along the way.

JM: Give us a practical implication of what you're talking about.

Jonah: I'll give you two. When it comes to calling, just do it. Pray in a way that says, "Lord, I see you working; what can I do? How can I be a part of what you're doing?"

Two: don't make it more complicated than it is. If God calls you to Nineveh and you'd rather go to Tarshish - if God calls you to Ghana, and you'd rather go to Gregory, or if God calls you to Gregory and you'd rather go to Ghana - don't make up some generalized nonsense about which one is the right place. (You know, like: we'll get to helping over there when we get our house in order here.) The only question that really matters is: "Has God called you or not?" Lord, I see you working. What can I do? How can I be a part of what you're doing? When he answers these questions, don't over-think it. Listen (that's your prayer); obey (that's your action); trust God to surprise you and show you his love. He calls you to serve them because he loves them - but also because he loves you. Move with the Spirit, and he'll guide you.

JM: Jonah, no offense, but you're a much better preacher now than you were at Nineveh.

Jonah: (smiling) What can I say? My hearts a little bigger now. Praise God, my hearts a little bigger.

JM: Jonah, thank you so much for the time.

Jonah: My pleasure. Happy fishing.

Under the Fig TreeSt C's Annual Parish Address

2012-01-15T19:26:00.000-08:00

January 15, 2012

The Annual Meeting takes place at noon this afternoon, in the parish hall. I hope you'll stay or come back for it. My father-in-law likes to say that they call it pot luck because there's a lot of luck involved. No such fear today; your Vestry has prepared the dinner. As has been our custom, my words to you during this time take the shape of a reflection on the year behind us and the one before us.

When you talk to people inside and outside of St Christopher's, you are equally likely to hear either of two pictures of our common life.

One side will describe to you a place of faithful risk-taking and quiet surprises for the Kingdom of God. These people will point to the sixteen intentional outreach efforts of our parish this past year. These people will tell you about the African Children's Choir concert, which raised more than $2,000 for orphans in Uganda and across Africa at the beginning of the year. They will tell you about the youth-led evangelism effort on the Saturday before Easter and the way a boy with a tuba unexpectedly showed up and dazzled the crowd of thirty or so of our neighbors. They will tell you about the Taize service undertaken this summer, the praise band that came together that same summer, the series of outdoor movies hosted this summer for our neighbors. They'll talk about the renewal of the Cursillo movement within our parish family, the hosting of two ALPHA courses, and maybe most of all, they will tell you about the dramatic transformation of our food pantry, as it has shifted from a closet with a key to a host of leaders and relationships both with the Corpus Christi Food Bank and the poor within and without our community.

People who describe this place this way will talk about the importance of sharing God's love with our neighbors. They will talk about being good neighbors, and striving to see our neighbors through God's eyes. The people who describe this past year at St Christopher's as a place of faithful risk-taking and quiet surprises for the Kingdom of God will tell you about ending the year with more friends among our neighbors than when they began. Whether among the Presbyterians, or the Sea City folks, or in groups like the Portland Garden Club and Hannah's House, new groups which spent time in our building this past year. And of course, they'll talk about new friends down the street.

This is one picture you are likely to hear if you ask individuals inside and outside St Christopher's about the past year.

The other picture you are likely to hear if you ask individuals inside and outside St Christopher's about this past year is one of drift and decline. These voices will tell you about the cumulative stress that financial pressure and the loss of key families and other members have placed on the parish family. They will talk about a pervading sense of being adrift, lacking a focus, and the need for repair and direction.

People who describe the church this way will talk about deeply felt losses. Some will suggest particular remedies; others will express exasperation and a grief for the way things once were. In remembering the way things once were, they will talk about the Scripture's call to an intimate Christian community among the faithful and Gospel's imperative to reach out beyond ourselves in God's Name. Some will remember times when we did these things better; others will remember that what they see as struggles now are struggles our church has had before and, indeed, has struggled to escape.

This is the second picture you are likely to hear if you ask individuals inside and outside St Christopher's about the past year.

So this, I guess, is the question: which picture is true? Which picture tells the truth about us? Which picture accurately describes the past year in our parish family?

I want to suggest - even insist - that the answer is "both."

Both. And this sounds unhelpful, maybe, until we remember that great line from our gospel this morning: Nathanael asking Philip why Philip is excited about Jesus, he asks, "Can anything good come from Nazareth?" The answer of course, is yes, something VERY GOOD has come from Nazareth, but it is equally obvious from Nathanael's sarcasm that the story of Nazareth is at least a story with two pictures, good and bad. It's not a place he's experienced as a place of life or much excitement.

Philip, on the other hand, has just been asked to become a disciple by the Savior of the world. He has found great life, much hope, and the way to God made open in the person of Jesus. Given all this, I wonder if Philip wasn't tempted to be angry with Nathanael. Tempted to say something snarky like, "Yeah, well, takes one to know one." But he doesn't. He's too excited. Maybe he recognizes the truth behind Nathanael's sarcasm - the deep disappoint Nazareth has been. He laughs it off. He answers Nathanael: Come and see.

Back to St Christopher's. Two co-existing pictures. One of faithful risk-taking and quiet surprises for the Kingdom of God. One of drift and decline. And they're both true, depending on who you talk to. Philip or Nathanael.

Of course, that there are two stories to tell and that they're both being told reveals the common ground that unites the hope of the one story and the disappointment of the other story: everyone involved wants the best for St Christopher’s; everyone involves wants St Christopher's to be a strong, vibrant, living witness to Jesus. Nobody wants anything less than the full flourishing of God's Kingdom and this church.

This may seem like an obvious point, but I pray that it becomes a crucial point of charity with one another in the coming year. The alternative to this charity is blame, and blame might feel good for a moment, but it will not help us flourish. I assume you are here because you want to be a part of God's flourishing God's Kingdom through the people of St Christopher's. We all want St Christopher's to be a strong, vibrant, living witness to Jesus.

So there are two stories, but one, shared heart. How then to move forward toward the future we all want?

In 2012, Larry and I are recommending to your Vestry and the congregation a process that our bishops have just this past week recommended to us: the plan is to begin 2012 with a series of home visits - a kind of every member canvas, but without talking about money. The plan is for at least two Vestry members and myself to attend each of these small gatherings. The goal of these gatherings is to listen to you: your disappointments, your hopes, and an important question the bishop commended: what are you personally willing to contribute to the spiritual health of our parish family? You will hear more concrete details about these gatherings in weeks ahead.

As in all of life, we are learning as we go, and your Vestry and I will need your patience along the way. We believe that this listening process will help us identify with you the gifts that God has given us to share God's love in and through this community in this time, and this place, and this season.

God has given us unique gifts to share his love with one another and others. In the newsletter you received this past week, I quoted the theologian who said: "You are... because God wanted on like you." I believe that the same thing is true of St Christopher's: "St Christopher's is... because God wanted one like us."

The vision is already clear: to reach out to one another and our neighbors with the love and gifts of God - all things for sharing. The crucial moment before us as we begin 2012 is a taking stock, a taking inventory, of the gifts we believe God has given us, each of us, and committing with one another to a common plan, that we will develop together, by which we reconnect to the joy that we knew when the Lord first called us here, by which we reconnect to one another as a family of two stories but one heart - we all want St Christopher's to be a strong and vibrant witness of Jesus's love, and by which we reconnect to our community - because we don't know exactly who Jesus meant when he said to love our neighbors, but we're pretty sure he at least meant our actual neighbors.

There will be some good news in the parish finances this year. Not perfect news, but clear progress. The questions, therefore, of our discernment are not about money, but about mission and, most of all, identity. Larry likes to ask: If we receive a million dollars tomorrow, how would it change who we are?

The questions before us that I am committed with your Senior Warden to exploring and living with you are "How can we take together the next step: to move from surviving to always thriving? What will this look like? What do we enjoy and how can we share it?" And, finally, "what are you personally willing to commit to this future?"

Two stories, one heart. Like Philip and Nathanael. I hope our story's next chapter is like that of Philip and Nathanael. Philip was excited because he had been made God's disciple. Nathanael was doubtful because he knew too much about the past. They committed to walk the road together. But neither of them had dreams big enough for the goodness God had planned for them:

Jesus said: Do you believe because I told you that I saw you under the fig tree? You will see greater things than these. Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.

This is my prayer for St Christopher's: that we be a place where heaven is opened, that all people may see and know the person and presence of the risen Jesus.

God bless you, and may God be gracious, surprising, and unfailingly generous to all of us in his family at St Christopher's.

Amen.

Greatest Wedding Sermon: Tribute

2012-01-14T19:00:00.000-08:00

January 14, 2012

Samantha and Ryan, take a peek behind you just now; and a peek in front of you. The company of all who love and support you and the company of God around you. You are beautiful. And you are richly blessed.

A confession for the rest of you: I have already shared what I consider to be the very best marriage sermon I have ever heard with Samantha and Ryan in our weeks of counsel together. This isn't that sermon. It's only a Tribute.

Samantha and Ryan, you chose the readings we just heard to call to mind images of love, your love and God’s love; images to take with you on your journey together. In this moment before your moment, I want to pay attention for just a second to one other preparation you’ve made for one another: I want to pay attention to the the vows you have written. Don't worry, I won't spoil what y'all have prepared for each other. I want to pay attention for just a second to the words that the church gives you to begin your vows with: "In the name of God, I, Samantha; in the name of God, I, Ryan. In the name of God, I.

This may be the simplest, truest way to talk about your marriage. In days after this day, it may be the simplest, truest way to remember what your marriage is all about: In the name of God, I. Everything else that you promise to do after these words lines up behind and takes its lead from these words. Today you are asking God to help you love another person in the Name of the God, with the same love God has for this person, just as God loves this person. Today you promise to relate to the beautiful (or handsome) person you are taking just now the way God relates to that person: with patience. With generosity. With loving-kindness. With gentleness. With joy. The way God sees and loves this person.

And this will be easier to promise on days when your clothes are dazzling and your smiles are wide and everyone you love is gathered behind you. And this will be harder on days the clothes aren’t quite as dazzling, are crumpled up, un-ironed, along the floorboard, and the rent is due or passed due and the day's been hard and it doesn't feel like anyone's behind you at all. Whether the tears be joyful or filled with pain, your commitment remains: with patience, with generosity, with love-kindness, with gentleness, with joy. The way God sees and loves this person. Indeed, you promise to love this person with the same love God has for all persons and the whole of creation. Your love is a practice in learning God’s love.

Of course you won't do this perfectly, you'll mess up, you'll need forgiveness, but after you fall, when you get up again, you'll know exactly what your next task is: to see and love this person the way God sees and loves this person. In the Name of God, I.

That's the gist of the promise you make you each other today. But wait! There's more. A surprise. The surprise is that God is making a promise to the both of you, too. The promise God makes to you today is that as you begin to look at each other the way God looks at you, you will find more than the ability to graciously overlook the times he leaves his socks on the kitchen counter; you’ll find more than grace to forbear one another’s faults: God’s promise to you is that you will discover Christ himself in your spouse. You will discover Jesus, the fullest expression of God's love, look back at you, calling back to you, in joy and in pain, because in the one you are seeking to love as God loves you will find the one who is seeking to see you, the way God sees you. And Jesus is the way God sees you. In him, you are both remarkable, deeply loved children of God.

Samantha and Ryan, this is the challenge of marriage if you choose to accept it. And this is the promise of marriage if you choose to accept it.

Samantha and Ryan have shared with me their desire to bless others through their marriage. To the two of you: please don't ever forget or underestimate how you will bless the rest of us by practicing God's love on each other. By showing the world what it looks like, how it is, when we look at each other through the eyes of God’s love; when we receive a beloved creature of God with all of the delight of the Creator. You are God's delight.

Of course you'll need help - that's what we're here for, and we're pulling for you. That's what God's here for, and he's living in you. But just in case you've forgotten it - and so the folks behind you don't feel left out - let me close with the best marriage sermon I ever heard - by reminding you again of the ten fool-proof steps to a faithful and fruitful marriage - a faithful and fruitful life together. Are you ready?

1. Forgive.
2. Forgive
3. (say it with me if you think you know it:) Forgive.
4. Forgive.
5. Forgive.
6. Forgive.
7. Forgive.
8. Forgive.
9. Forgive.
10. Forgive.

This is more than good advice. This is how you learn the love God has for you.

Samantha and Ryan, love each other as God loves you (remember 1 Corinthians), seek and find Christ in each other (remember the Song of Solomon), and bless us by your delight in one another.

Amen.

The Best Marriage Sermon Ever

2012-01-09T13:11:00.000-08:00

Great article here on marriage that I wanted to share. It happens to share Stanley Hauerwas's great line about marriage ("you always marry the wrong person") that I first received from my priest in the context of premarital counseling. I would add to the article that the kind of love that marriage requires (and the Gospel makes possible) is beautifully captured in what is hands-down the single best sermon on marriage that I have ever heard. That sermon, given by an eighty year-old Catholic priest, began by informing us in the congregation that there are exactly ten steps required for a faithful and fruitful marriage. In no particular order, here are the steps that he went on to share:

1. Forgive.

2. Forgive.

3. Forgive.

4. Forgive.

5. Forgive.

6. Forgive.

7. Forgive.

8. Forgive.

9. Forgive.

10. Forgive.

I'll forever be grateful for this sermon.

Sharing Simple Gifts(in the face of overwhelming need)

2012-01-09T13:00:00.000-08:00

Marge came into my office to visit today. I always enjoy talking to Marge (or to most of you for that matter). That’s why the office door is always open. Anyway, before Marge and I talked about what she came into the office to talk about, we gave each other unexpected gifts: I showed her how to turn off her Kindle Fire (you have to hold the button down, else it just goes to sleep), and Marge taught me how check out electronic books from the library (the book simply ‘disappears’ on the due date - no more late fees!). More on this story in a moment. Just now, it’s enough to have shared it.

Much is made about the many needs that need meeting in the world today. Poverty, illiteracy, the heater that went out on my parents, the unexpected hospital bill, the car that won’t start, and on and on. We are never truly without because - at least it seems this way - we always at least have our needs.

On top of that, into a world convinced of its neediness, the church is often pressured to justify its existence by meeting the unmeetable need. I remember a youth of our parish asking me, as we handed out food to the homeless in downtown Corpus Christi: “What is the point?” The meals get dropped into the unmeetable need like a dewdrop in the fire. Her feeling of despair in that moment was palpable.

I want to suggest that, for Christians, the needs of others are important, but they aren’t of first importance. Hang with me a second. On a purely practice measure, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the guilt and despair of the needs-first approach (identify the surrounding needs and meeting them already!) can’t be the best approach because it so quickly eats up its proponents with feelings of helplessness and loss of self-worth. By a deeper measure, any approach that ushers its proponents to the edge of despair is surely not in keeping with the Gospel of Jesus, which is a gospel of hope.

But if I don’t start with the needs around me, where do I start?

Do you remember what it was that Jesus told the disciples when they realized that the crowd was hungry and that it was well past supper time? (Sure you do.) “You give them something to eat.”

“You give something to eat.” The immediate concern isn’t the need, which Jesus counts as obvious - the first concern is the disciples. Jesus is saying, in effect, “Give what you have.” And indeed, we can only give what we have.

Give what you have, and trust Jesus to see how far it will go.

So at least one approach to need-meeting is not to start with the need, but to take inventory of what you have to give. Two questions that I particularly like for this sort of inventory are: “What do I like to do? How can I share it with others?”

What do I like to do? How can I share it with others?

These questions do not lead to despair or the loss of self-worth. Rather, they help me identify the goods gifts God has planted in me. These questions make me thankful. These questions make me able to see the unique gifting God has given me - the one-of-a-kind fingerprints that God has placed on me that make me uniquely able to sing God’s praise like no other person in the world.

One theologian puts it this way: “You are...because God wanted one like you.”

So...what do you like to do? How can you share it with others?

No doubt, this approach will lead you to give to those in need, but not from a sense of the greatness of the need. Instead, you will give out an abiding sense of the greatness of the God who has given you gifts to give others.

Which brings me back to Marge’s story. It was a simple moment, but one in which we shared with one another out of what we had. Truthfully, I hadn’t ever thought to ask about the possibility of electronic books until she shared the information with me. She shared it with me because she had herself experienced the thing she was sharing as a gift that brought her joy. In being aware of the needs of others, begin with the gifts that bring you joy.

I pray that you experience Jesus as a gift that brings you joy. And that your giving to the needs of others finds an eternal spring, a sure foundation, in the abundance of that gift.

Joe Buck, the Beloved, and the Miracle of Baptism

2012-01-08T19:33:00.000-08:00

Sermon preached January 8, 2012, on the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord.

“We’ll see you tomorrow night.” That was Joe Buck’s now-famous play-call in game six of this past year’s World Series; the Texas Rangers, despite a valiant effort, falling to the St. Louis Cardinals in seven electrifying games.

This particular moment was high baseball drama: David Freese had just hit a game-ending, walk-off home run in the bottom of the 11th inning to seal the victory for St. Louis. We’ll see you tomorrow night, Buck said. It was in that moment an apt, if not spectacular, description of what had just happened. Had the Rangers won that night, the series would have been over. No game tomorrow night. But now, with the better part of two states watching on the edges of their seats, all parties would reconvene for game seven the next day.

Now, for those unfamiliar with baseball - or at least baseball of TV - this much must be said: Joe Buck has never been accused of raucous enthusiasm. No, his style is short, simple, to the point, still seeking to capture something of the moment’s essence: We’ll see you tomorrow night.

But on this night, something else was going on behind Joe Buck’s characteristically understated call. Maybe you heard about it. While he was speaking truth about the moment, Buck was also borrowing words his late father had used some twenty years before: Jack Buck, longtime the voice of the St. Louis Cardinals, and himself an outstanding postseason broadcaster, made that same call in 1991 when Kirby Puckett’s game-ending blast in the 10th inning of that game propelled the Minnesota Twins to victory over the Braves of Atlanta.

We’ll see you tomorrow night.

So when Freese won the game for St. Louis, Joe Buck’s words fit the moment to a ‘t’, but for those with extra ears to hear, Buck’s call transcended the announcer’s purely descriptive task and opened up a point of connection across time and space, back through twenty years and, indeed, into the the palpably emotional bond between a son and his late father. We’ll see you tomorrow night, he said. But he also said, “I love you, Dad. And I miss you.”

And sometimes words do this, surprise us, stand up before us as symbols that tell us that more than what we see is going on in the present moment; they signal to us that the moment is deeper, is richer, than maybe we thought in the first place. True moments that somehow become truer by the connections they reveal.

Our gospel this morning is just such a moment. As with the baseball game between the Rangers and Cardinals, the story of Jesus’s baptism has much to commend it standing wholly on its own: we watch the drama unfold as Jesus comes up out of the water and sees the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending on him like a dove. Then a voice comes down from heaven, saying, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

You’ll remember that when John the Baptist first showed up, there had been some question as to whether he would be the center of the story. John said he wouldn’t be, that another was coming, and so a measure of uncertainty hung over the initial verses of the gospel. But then, suddenly, the heavens are torn open, the dove descends, and the voice cries out. This story answers the question the Old Testament had asked of John: it marks Jesus as the one around whom we’ll all reconvene the next day.

Plenty of drama, but also something else going on here. Not Jack Buck or Kirby Puckett, but this time our Old Testament lesson is the clue:

In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. Then God said, "Let there be light"; and there was light.

It’s the familiar story you know: the story of creation, and it hinges on God’s voice over the face of the waters. Chaos and uncertainty until the three words that changed everything: “then God said...”

Then God said. The voice of God speaks over the formless void and creation springs into being.

So back to our ballgame: the baptism of Jesus. For those with extra ears to hear in Mark’s gospel this morning, the voice over the water that calls Jesus God’s Son does more than point out who Jesus is; the voice over the water tells us what it means for Jesus to be God’s Son. The voice over the water tells us that God’s Son signals God’s re-creation, that this is creation happening again, new creation; that from this moment on, the destiny of the whole created order will be found, fashioned, redeemed, and remade in the person of this one in the water over whom the voice of God is speaking again. This is what the church means when she calls Jesus “the firstborn of all creation.”

For those with ears to hear, Mark’s gospel transcends the evangelist’s purely descriptive task and opens up a point of connection across time and space, takes us all the way back to creation and, indeed, into the the palpably emotional bond of a Son and his Father. It’s a true moment made truer by the connection it reveals.

Mark’s play by play of the gospel asks us to think of Jesus as God’s re-creating and redeeming God’s good creation. So Mark’s telling of Jesus’s baptism also asks us to go back and compare the first creation to the second. What do you remember from the first creation story?

You remember the main gist of the the first creation in Genesis: the water, the voice over the face of the water, light and dark, days and nights, plants and animals, lastly man and woman. The garden. The serpent and the tree. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil. And it ends with Adam and Eve eating from the tree and being ashamed of their nakedness, hiding from God. In a strange act of mercy, God puts them out of the garden, because to eat of the tree of life at that point would have been to cement the estrangement of God and the people he called good. They leave the garden in shame. That’s the story of the first creation.

With these images in mind, we come back to Jesus’s baptism, and we learn that if Adam’s story ended with his hiding from God in shame, here is Jesus, naked in a river, receiving for humanity the words God has for so long wanted to give back to humanity: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” This is Jesus receiving his goodness as God’s gift; this is Jesus as second Adam. The old, broken, creation made new and restored. The shame of Adam undone in the face of the pleasure of God.

I wonder: how often do you wonder about the pleasure God has in you?

Let’s pause just a moment to consider this notion of shame that God’s pleasure undoes. Gregory Boyle is a Jesuit priest who has worked with communities of gang members in inner-city Los Angeles for the past twenty-five years. He writes this about shame:

The absence of self-love is shame. Guilt, of course, is feeling bad about one’s action, but shame is feeling bad about one’s self.

The inability to receive one’s self as a good gift of God, Boyle observes, creates all manner of misbehaviors, addictions, voluntary and involuntary enslavements - like gang banging itself - all rooted in the conviction of one’s unlovability.

This is what Adam discovered after the first creation when he learned to hide the self God had given him from God. But this is also the shame that the voice of the new creation undoes when the voice speaks over the water: “This is my Son, my beloved, with you I am well pleased.” This is how Jesus begins God’s new creation.

Of course, we’re not all the way home yet. When we say that Jesus’s baptism begins God’s new creation, it’s a bit like when the blockbuster movie gives you just enough of a tease at the end to anticipate the sequel, the next move, in the story. What’s the next move?

If the voice first spoke over the water at creation and the voice spoke a second time over the water at Jesus’s baptism - a new creation - we anticipate a third voice over the water, and that is your baptism: the moment in which you were baptized, made one with, the death and resurrection of Jesus. If Jesus’ baptism erases the shame of the first creation with the words “this is my Son, my beloved, with you I am well pleased,” the third voice over the water makes these words true for you. The third voice is Christ’s clothing you with the pleasure that God has had in him from the beginning. So hear them for you: “This is my daughter, my son, my beloved. With you I am well pleased.” This is what it means to be sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.

Admittedly, this miracle strikes all of us differently, I think. God only knows the shame that God’s pleasure undoes in your life. Only God knows the deepest extent to which you have been made to believe that love was not or could not be meant for you. But the God who made you, re-made you, calls you GOOD. VERY GOOD. You are a child in whom the fullness of God is pleased to dwell. You are beloved by God.

So, in just a very few minutes, when we baptize Lily Heffley, pay attention. Put on your hearing ears. The story that you’ll see will have plenty of drama - a tub full of water, candles and fire, splashing and oil, but notably these will not be the first time the words have been used, spoken over the water. Moreover, the re-use of these words, spoken over the water, is not for lack of creativity, but will join Lily Heffley to the new creation of life and love made possible by our Savior, the healing of Jesus’s baptism made her own. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear the undoing of any shame that says Lily is not God’s wholly good creation, and Lily will be joined to the one in whom God’s first and last response is pleasure - delight. The Spirit of God moving once more over water. The voice over the water, speaking God’s true Word for her.

And sometimes words do this, surprise us, stand up before us as symbols that tell us that more than what we see is going on in the present moment; they signal to us that the moment is deeper, is richer, than maybe we thought in the first place. A true moment made truer for the connection it reveals, opening up points of connection across time and space, taking us back to creation and, indeed, into the the palpably emotional bond between the Father and the Son. Our share in the love that they share is the miracle of baptism.

Amen.

Inviting Jesus In: Meditations for a Holy Advent

2011-12-08T14:15:00.001-08:00

As a bonus this week, here are meditations from a Quiet Evening I had the privilege of leading at Church of the Messiah (Gonzales, TX) last night.

__________________________________________________________________

Inviting Jesus In:
Meditations for a Holy Advent

Introduction

So, you’ve made it to a quiet evening. And you may be wondering why you’ve come or what will come of it. I’m with you. Let me share the beginning of a letter I wrote to my parish two weeks ago, as I was getting ready to share tonight with you:

This week, I am preparing meditations for an Advent Quiet Evening at my father’s church. This seems strange to me on several levels. First, to be asked to lead such an evening by a parent - someone who knows me at a depth beyond all pretending - is deeply humbling. There’s no sense of my having inadvertently fooled anyone into believing a false impression about the person they’ve invited. Second, and more obviously, a Quiet Evening in Advent is, for most of us, an oxymoron with which we might not know what to do.

For most of us, in practice, Advent serves as the de facto series of warm-up parties before the Big Day. Folks gather in these days of early dusk for port wine and popcorn balls. We scurry about in busyness between our popcorn parties, looking for presents for one another. There’s very little quiet suggested by the season. In fact, when the notion of quiet does finally come up – if it does at all – it’s usually proposed as an escape from the season: “I can’t wait until this is over and the season is gone.” What a tragedy.

Maybe you’re here to avoid the tragedy. Or simply to name it. Maybe you just need a safe place. Times of holy silence can be good for all of these things.

But maybe you don’t trust yourself to know what to do with silence. Suppose you and I don’t do this thing right. A couple of words might be in order by way of simple instruction for the time of silence we’re about to share:

First, remember (above all else) that you can’t mess it up. Holy silence is not your job to perform; it’s God’s gift to you. It’s God’s desire to hold you in the midst of so much noise.

Second, if you don’t spend much time in silence - or haven’t in a while - it’s not just possible that tonight will feel weird for you, it’s almost guaranteed. Being quiet together in community, we’ll have to remind ourselves not to speak the automatic and polite words we use so often to our fellow brothers and sisters. This is meant to be a gift, too. The gift of enjoying one another without the pressure to perform. This will feel strange, but good, I hope.

The second weirdness belongs to the time when you’ve finally settled down in silence, just you and God, and then, in that moment, any one of a thousand other things breaks the peace you want to enter. Grocery lists, Christmas dinner menus, family phone calls you forgot to return, they’ll want to come into the silence. My experience says that it’s best not to fight them, but to name them, acknowledge them, and slowly work back to your focus - to God, where the goal is to be still.

Some folks find it helpful to focus on some aspect of the present moment: like their breathing; pay attention to your posture; your surroundings. Be present to the present. Be planted in the moment. Additionally, other folks find that a holy word helps to call them back when they find themselves distracted. Some people will tell you to put your watches away. I actually find it helpful to keep mine out (or at least to keep it handy), and to note the time when I decide to be present to God and to also note the time when I get distracted. How long did I make it? I did this on an eighteen minute walk the other day and never made it more than two-and-a-half minutes. It was a busy day. Each time, I would smile at my weakness, thank God for the two-and-a-half minutes, reset my intention, and begin again.

You may want to keep paper and pen handy. If a thought - either distracting OR holy - keeps re-entering the picture, give the thought its peace by writing it down. It will be there for you when you are through.

Last thing: a word about the evening. Throughout the evening we’ll gather here for three times of meditation. Three images, really, to order the silence. I’ll share the first meditation after we’ve all had a chance to get up and stretch; we’ll begin the silence. Between the meditations, you are free to stay in this space or equally to wander off. Your cue and call to return, to gather here for meditation or prayer, will be the bell.

That’s it. Silence is simple. Be well and be present, to God and yourself. Mother Teresa once said that “God is the friend of silence.” We seek friendship with silence because we long for friendship with God. Be friends with this time.

Now get up - get any last words, noises, squawks, out of you. Stretch. Turn off your phone. Loosen your body. And we’ll begin in a moment.

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Mediation I: The Light of the World

The first image I want to share with you comes from the book of Revelation: “Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” That’s the old King James. The more contemporary language puts it this way: “Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking;” and then, “if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me.”

This verse inspired the painting, called “The Light of the World” by William Holman Hunt, in the 19th century.

This painting is my picture of Advent. Advent means coming. Christ will come again, we’re told. The first and second comings of Christ. Like a thief in the night. And I’ve often wondered what kind of self-respecting Savior would come like a thief, late at night.

But then, in the painting, we see the thorns on his head and remember that self-respect wasn’t something our Lord got especially hung up on.

In the painting, there is Christ, knocking on the door, presumably of your heart. And he’s patient. And maybe because I think of this painting at Advent, I imagine that it’s cold outside. The many layers of clothing Jesus wears in the painting make me think that’s the case. It feels like a painting for short days and long nights and dark skies and potatoes and stew and all of the things that make this time of year eerily cozy and uniquely compelling. The season of haunting Christmas melodies and the company of carolers.

But there are no carolers in this painting. They’ve all gone home. It’s that hour some call the witching hour, and only Christ is out there.

Behold I stand at the door and knock, and I notice the door, how there’s no knob, how it can only be opened from the inside. And I notice the vines, overgrown on the door. And I wonder about the vines that adorn the door. At the very least, they say that the door might need a push to open. That it hasn’t been opened in a while. That it’s stiff. But maybe the vines are more than descriptive - maybe they do more than tell a story of inactivity. Maybe they’re active; maybe they hold the door shut.
And few of us are completely boarded and shut up - like a shop in a town that waits for a hurricane - few of us are that barren, that deserted. But most of us have closed off places. Hidden gardens. Locked-off chambers, and the vines that grow on the doors of these parts of ourselves are like wounds - or protectors, guardians of wounds, of deep hurts and quiet shames. These places aren’t pretty, and in fact, we like it that way, because the more disheveled these parts of us look, the more likely any visitor is to move on. To assume it’s been abandoned. That there is no one home. But it’s not abandoned. We’re still in there. And while the pain of the loneliness isn’t as bad as we imagine the pain of the touch might be, it’s close. The vines that protect us protect us in prisons.

As if in answer to a prayer we don’t really mean, he comes full of mercy and knocks on the door.

He knocks on the door. And the look in his eyes reveals a mutual loneliness. While I am alone, locked in my room with myself and my fears, he is likewise alone. Wandering the night, coming again, and knocking on doors, my door, with a face that says he’s realistic about his prospects.
Strangely, undeniably, I am the reason he is alone. Can there be such a thing as a union of loneliness? His is a voluntary loneliness meant to end my loneliness, because he’s knocking on my door. Here is almost an echo of the cross on which he hung and yelled from Golgotha, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Alone to end all loneliness. To lift the world up to God, to restore my soul, to invite us to love, to fill us with joy, and to make his own joy complete. So he knocks.

In the letter to the Ephesians, Paul describes the image this way: Christ “himself is our peace, who has made us both one and has broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility.”

The wall is torn down. Yet for love, he wanders and knocks.

This begins are first time of quiet reflection. Some optional questions for this time of reflection (you can pick them up in the back):

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Questions for Mediation I: The Light of the World

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” Revelation 3:20

i. What do you notice about William Hunt’s painting that tells you something either about God or yourself?

ii. After the resurrection, Mary “mistakes” Jesus for the gardener outside the tomb. What hope does the image of Jesus as gardener suggest to you as you consider the symbolic vines in Hunts painting and your own life?

iii. What does the inside of your dwelling look like? (This isn’t a metaphor question so much as an invitation to artists. Draw the “other side” of Hunt’s work.)

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Mediation II: Mary and the New Exodus

Our first image for this evening was of Jesus knocking at the door of your heart. A symbol picture both of Christ’s first coming and also of his second. The second image moves us more obviously toward the season of Christmas: the Christ child’s birth and the hay and the manger; good news and glad tidings. The second image is the story of Mary.

From Luke’s gospel:

And [the angel] came to her and said, ‘Greetings, favoured one! The Lord is with you.’ But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be. The angel said to her, ‘Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favour with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob for ever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.’ Mary said to the angel, ‘How can this be, since I am a virgin?’ The angel said to her, ‘The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing will be impossible with God.’ Then Mary said, ‘Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.’ Then the angel departed from her.

Mary says “yes” to the Spirit. Not just the “yes” of agreement with a fact; the “yes” of invitation in one’s heart and soul and body. Mary becomes a picture of the door opened to God from the inside. She conceives the child by the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit comes upon her. And from the book of Acts we remember that the Spirit comes like fire.

Think back to our first image, Jesus knocking at the door, and remember that Jesus also comes to us with the lantern, the promise of fire.

Now, the mixing of images like this - Pentecost and fire and Holy Spirit and Mary and the angel - may seem strange to us, but it was not strange at all to the early mothers and fathers of the church. Holy imagination came easily to them. They heard the promise to Mary, that she would conceive a child by the Holy Spirit, and they not only thought forward to Pentecost and to fire, they also thought backward, to another holy fire: Moses and the burning bush.

The burning bush: the presence of God; holy ground; and the bush burned but it was not consumed. In the view of the early church, Mary, also, held the presence of God - the Spirit came upon her, that image of fire - and yet she was not consumed. She beheld and held the holy, as a child in her ams, and lived. Mary as the burning bush.

And we think back to that first bush and Moses, and the message he received: freedom for God’s people. And Mary receives in her body the promise of a second exodus: freedom for God’s people.

This second image threatens the suspense of the first image, I think. Where the first image centered around my response to a lonely Christ - leaving us to imagine that it would be possible to simply stand in the silence and leave the door shut - this image reminds us that Christ is not everywhere lonely, that throughout the ages, the saints have said “yes,” like Mary - most especially Mary. And that, because Mary said “yes,” God’s presence is already lit in God’s people; the fire is burning and spreading and lighting hearts with Good News and the glory, the power, of God.

Mary said “yes,” and the Spirit of God came upon her. And she bore a son, even Christ. And Christ’s promised gift as he left to his disciples, to his friends, was to pour out the Spirit that came on Mary on them - the Spirit, like fire. To light them, to fill them, to empower them to live lives whose light would be beacons of power and hope to the powerless and the hopeless. Because she said “yes.”

And so the early church called Mary the burning bush - because she held the holy and was not consumed - and they called the Church the new Mary. The one in whom the fullness of Christ is pleased to dwell. Because the Spirit that came on her now lives in us, too.

And so, with hearts on fire, we sing the song: “Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.”
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Questions for Mediation II: Mary and the New Exodus

“Mary said, ‘Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.’” Luke 1:38

i. How does putting the stories of the burning bush and Pentecost alongside the story of Mary shape or change the way you think about Christmas?

ii. When have you said “yes” to God and felt the power of the Holy Spirit?

iii. In Galatians, Paul says that “the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.” Which of these fruit most resonates with you and your life situation just now? In which would you most like the Spirit to grow?

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Mediation III: And I in Him

So far, we have explored two images of invitation: the first of inviting Jesus into our hearts, as he knocks at the door; the second of Mary’s inviting the Spirit to come upon and overshadow her: it’s the Christmas story of Jesus. The third image is an image that either destroys or completes the first two images, depending how you come at it.

It is an image that suggests that even as I invite Jesus in, even as it is fully true that he takes up a dwelling in me - maybe because it is fully true that he takes up a dwelling in me - I learn that I am the one who finds a new home - a new home in him. I am brought outside of myself and made full friends with God. And not just with God, but with all of God’s friends.

This is the image, the action, of Holy Communion. In Holy Communion, the presence of God enters me in a special way. When I put out my hands to receive the bread, drink the wine, I open the door. In Holy Communion, you give your best “yes” to the Spirit, like Mary. The Spirit indwells you. But in nearly every version of our Eucharistic prayer, you also live in the Spirit. You find a new home in the provision and presence of God.

So, for example, in the first prayer of the Rite I liturgy, we pray that we would be “filled with thy grace and heavenly benediction, and made one body with him, that he may dwell in us, and we in him.”

And again in the second prayer of Rite I: “and also that we and all thy whole church may be made one body with him, that he may dwell in us, and we in him; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord.”

In Rite II, both prayers A and B, the language is different, but the point is the same: “Sanctify us,” we pray - that is, give us your Spirit, like Mary - “...that we may faithfully receive this holy Sacrament and serve you in unity, constancy, and peace; and at the last day bring us with all your saints into the joy of your eternal kingdom.”

And we in him. An eternal kingdom. A new home.
The promise of a new home is Good News. It’s also hard news, because we have learned to feel at home in our homes, even, as we explored in the first image, when they’re painful. A new home is a threat, but an invigorating threat like cold air on a long day’s walk; one that engages you for a journey.

To invite Jesus in is to be invited in turn to step out on a journey of which I am not in control. And a part of me sighs with relief. I am tired of trying to be in control.

The liturgy models this mystery: I receive Communion and then I am sent - to place and people I do not understand. He comes in me, and I go out in the power of God’s Spirit. He comes in, I go out. To love and serve the Lord. To learn the fullness of God’s majesty in the company of the sick and broken and loved by God. And in life and death, too. He comes in, we go out. Are extinguished. Dust to dust. Asked to trust God’s word for each one of us: “Behold, I go to prepare a new place, a new home, for you.” Like Mary again - new life and new birth. A new home. And this home is the mystery of the infinite depth and breadth of love in the life of the triune God.

And truthfully, I suspected this all along. Even at the beginning, that if I opened the door, I would follow him out of it. I would not resist this Jesus. He would dwell in us; and we in him. This is the uncomfortable peace of Advent. This is the peace of his coming.

Finally, then, as we land on peace, I want to close with two hymns that you may already know.

From William Alexander Percy:

They cast their nets in Galilee just off the hills of brown;
such happy, simple fisherfolk before the Lord came down.

Contented, peaceful fishermen, before they ever knew
the peace of God that filled their hearts brimful and broke them too.

Young John who trimmed the flapping sail, homeless, in Patmos died.
Peter, who hauled the teeming net, headdown was crucified.

The peace of God it is not peace, but strife closed in the sod,
Yet let us pray for just one thing--the marvelous peace of God.

And from that great poet WH Auden (my favorite of all time, I think):

He is the Way. Follow Him through the Land of Unlikeness; You will see rare beasts, and have unique adventures.

He is the Truth. Seek Him in the Kingdom of Anxiety; You will come to a great city that has expected your return for years.

He is the Life. Love Him in the World of the Flesh; And at your marriage all its occasions shall dance for joy.

May the peace of the indwelling and unsettling Christ be yours tonight and always. Amen.

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Questions for Mediation III: And I in Him

“...and also that we and all thy whole church may be made one body with him, that he may dwell in us, and we in him; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord.” From the BCP

i. When in your life have you walked out the door? What was it like?

ii. If God intends to send you out to love and serve the Lord, what does the part of you that knows passion and zeal hope that God calls you out and into?

iii. In another hymn: “There’s a wideness in God’s mercy like the wideness of the sea”; if we dwell in the God whose mercy is ocean-depth, what parts of God’s being do you most long to explore?

Speak tenderly to Jerusalem...and me.

2011-12-08T13:53:00.001-08:00

[A sermon for Advent II, Dec 4, 2011]

"Comfort,O comfort my people," says your God. "Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has servedher term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord's handdouble for all her sins."

Thesewords reveal a people burdened and weighed down.

Whether in fact or *only* the collectiveimagination of the people hardly matters. When you believe you are damned, you are damned. When you have given up hope, hope, like freshfruit, can literally rot on the table in front of your eyes before you noticeit.

Suchis the despair of the people called Israel in our reading from Isaiah.

"Comfort,O comfort my people," says your God. "Speak tenderly to Jerusalem."

Youcan recognize a burdened state in your own life retroactively, I think, whenyou look back at those times in which the words of another felt the mosttender. Like they heard you. Tender words because the other person sawyour hurting - he or she really saw you - you were not invisible in yoursuffering.

Speaktenderly to Jerusalem.

WhenIsrael receives the comfort of God, comfort means that God sees the sufferingof the people. The first pain remains,for a short time, anyway. The secondpain of being alone in one's suffering is removed.

Whenhave you heard a tender voice? What arethe regularly tender voices in your life?

Ittakes patience to speak tenderly. God ispatient. In fact, Peter says in theepistle this morning that, exactly when things seem slowest, take the longest,the patience of God is revealed because the Lord does not want any toperish. Therefore, says St Peter,"...regard the patience of our Lord as salvation."

Comfortmy people, says your God.

Andeven though the reading that begin with comfort continues with language thatwe, on the other side of Christ's coming, recognize as pointing to Christ -even though we hear the words about preparing the way of the Lord in thewilderness and we think of John the Baptist and Jesus - even though we hearthese words from the other side of God's comfort, we find that we still have aneed for tender words. Speak tenderly toJerusalem, says the Lord. And, we wouldadd, "speak tenderly to me." Let me be visible, too. Speakcomfort to my Church, says your God.

Now,there's a recurring Charlie Brown bit that makes clear, I think, what tenderwords don't mean, at least in our setting. Charlie Brown, dreaming out loud to Peppermint Patty that he longs for awoman who will kiss him on the forehead and whisper in his ear the words,"Poor, sweet baby." PeppermintPatty is not impressed and walks away. Afew scenes later, it's Snoopy who whispers in soothing tones to Charlie Brownand kisses him on the forehead; Charlie Brown isn't amused - or comforted, forthat matter.

Notthe words of empty, self-serving pity, but words of comfort, true hope. Words that name with honesty and compassion theburdens that we carry. Words that carrythe power of, and potential for, forgiveness.

Becausewhen you believe you are damned, you are damned. When you have given up hope, hope, like freshfruit, can literally rot on the table in front of your eyes before you noticeit.

Apriest friend asked me once, "Jonathan, what do your folks bring with themto church?" "What do youmean?" I asked, before adding, "Coffee, sometimes, but they drink it in the back." "No, that's not what I mean; what arethey carrying, inside?" "Lotsof things," I said. "Do youfind that they carry their fair share of guilt?" "Yeah," I said, "more thantheir share." "Me too,"he said. "I hardly ever work tomake people feel guilty because most of them are already guilty by the time Isay, 'Good morning.' It's built in. No, I think the people have guilt downalready. What they need is God'scomfort. I try to speak comfort."

It'shard to speak comfort. Not just, butespecially for preachers, it's hard to speak comfort. And not just because everybody else goesaround trying to light guilt rockets under other people's behinds - especiallyin churches. Blame is just reflectedguilt.

It'shard to speak comfort. Hard to keep ourcomposure when God looks each of us in the eye and, knowing all that we've doneand all that we've failed to do - all that we are and all that we've failed tobe - speaks tenderly to us.

"Speaktenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has served her term, that herpenalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord's hand double for all hersins."

Herguilt is washed away.

Ithink that the yearning for these words is partly why so many of us, especiallyin previous generations (though I'm not giving up on this one), have found such comfort in the sacramental rite calledthe reconciliation of a penitent, known popularly as confession.

Tohave my sins made visible is to know that God sees my guilt. To know in my head and my heart that I'm notfooling him. Not that I CAN fool him,but sometimes I can fool myself into thinking I can fool him, if you know whatI mean. To unbury the guilts that Icarry and lay them bare and to hear, even then, the comfort of God is ablessing beyond describing. Many whoexperience it describe a literal unlocking in their bodies as they realize,only afterwards, how they had bodily carried their burdens in ways thatdeformed and crippled their souls.

"Cryto her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid."

And so Johnthe Baptist appears to prepare the way of the Lord, and his call isrepentance. Comfort them, says theLord. Make them able to believe my lovefor them when I say that I am coming to dwell with them. Make them able to believe my love for them when I say that I delight in them.

There'sa church outside of Houston with a simple mission statement: "to be aplace of sanctuary." I thought tomyself when I saw it: "Now that's a great mission for a dyingchurch." No language aboutoutreach, no mission imperatives, no grand ideals for the community's impact onother people. It sounded static. Old-fashioned. Passive. So I looked the church up. Three-fifty on Sunday, not counting an evening service packed full withyouth. I was wrong. Nothing static about it. A vibrant community serving others and givingof themselves in the world. Butprincipally centered around the idea that their mission is to be a sanctuary -understood here as a people in whom the fullness of God is pleased to dwell; aplace and people of comfort, safe from guilt, rich in forgiveness and mercy andpeace.

That’s the Gospel, by the way: that while we were warring withGod, one another, and our selves, Christ Jesus came among us and died forus.

Sanctuary. Treaty. Everlasting peace. An end to the war. Peace with God, oneanother, and even our selves.

TheLord God "is speaking peace," says the psalmist, "to his faithful people and to those who turntheir hearts to him." All of thereadings today speak of peace, God's gift for God's people, and repentance isthe pen-knife that opens the gift.

"Comfort,O comfort my people," says your God.

Thegift is for you. Because when you believe youare damned, you are damned; but if you seek - when you seek - the forgiveness of God, you willfind him more than ready with tender words. Andthe fruit called hope still fresh on the table.

Cometo the table. Hope is for you.

Amen.

An Evening of Christmas Music

2011-12-06T13:12:00.001-08:00

Please help us spread the word about this remarkable event at St Christopher's. It's 2 most exciting features are: 1) the ecumenical gathering of churches for praise and singing as we prepare for the celebration of Christmas, and 2) the love offering, which enables Duke Div School seminarians to experience a field education placement in South Sudan.

Can you imagine the perspective for ministry that such a placement would make possible?? And what a gift for ministry to the people of South Sudan. If you can't make the event, but would like to make a donation, email me or send a check payable to St Christopher's by the Sea Episcopal Church (memo: "FIELD ED SUDAN") to PO BOX 386, Portland, TX 78374.

Thanks for you help, and hope you can join us!

A Sharp Elbow to the Ribs (a sermon for Advent I)

2011-11-27T19:38:00.001-08:00

{Sermon preached Advent 1, November 27, 2011, St Christopher's by-the-Sea}

It’s become popular in recent years to complain about how very, very early the various retail stores – presumably fueled by their godless worship and pursuit of the almighty dollar – have begun decorating their stores for Christmas. “But it’s not even Thanksgiving!” we say, with indignity. We roll our eyes at the hedonism of our age.

And then, every year, we come to this Sunday, the one just after Thanksgiving, and in our turkey-drunk stupor we act totally surprised, “What?? You mean it is Advent already? Why didn’t anybody say something? Nobody told ME! You mean it happened again?”

Yes. Yes. And yes. It’s Advent already. It happened again. And a part of me laughs: even godless consumer capitalism saw it coming – even godless consumer capitalism tried to warn us – the very rocks were crying out. Three months ago, while we were still buying swimsuits! We mocked Noah as he built the boat and warned us about the flood. Too much??

Now, I realize there’s a danger in making Black Friday sound semi-pious; I get that in no way does the consumer culture capture the true spirit of the season - it needs the church’s help for that - but it DID try to tell us: Sleeper, awake! 4 AM special! Christmas is coming.

In any case, here we are again, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the first Sunday of Advent, one more time allegedly surprised by the impending coming of our Lord.

Happy Advent.

By the way, no one else is surprised. But we are. The people who proclaim each week, “Christ will come again.” God’s sense of humor: his church.

Christ will come again. The promise of Advent. The promise of the whole Christian life: not that we will go up, says NT Wright, but that Christ will come down, make all things right, restore the whole earth; that heavenly city, the glorious New Jerusalem.

Or, if you prefer the imagery from Isaiah this morning, that God “would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at [God’s] presence.”

Christ will come again.

Ready or not, here he comes.

Good news on this front, by the way. Did you know that because Christmas falls on a Sunday this year, this is the single longest Advent you’ll ever get? We may not have remembered; this Sunday may have surprised us, but there’s still time to prepare. Advent is the season of preparation, and in Advent, as in life, you’ll never have more time to prepare for his coming than you have today.

In Advent, we prepare for Christ’s coming.

Now, if we allow ourselves a moment’s honesty, the fact that we are surprised by Advent every year suggests that preparing for Christ’s coming is not something that comes naturally to us. This could be for any number of reasons:

Maybe we take his coming for granted. Like we’re entitled to glory, the goodness of God. Or, on the other end of things, maybe we’re in denial with respect to God’s glory. We know too much about ourselves to believe that any good could come to Nazareth - or to us. Maybe, somewhere along the spectrum between entitlement and guilt, it’s not that we don’t know it’s coming, but we’re disappointed when it does. Call us the skeptics, but we’ve seen Christmases come and go and things can be good for a season but it’s a pretty big hole that we start from and by January 2nd everybody’s more or less as ordinary as when they started; we quickly forget whatever good came for a season. Entitlement. Guilt. Disappointments of the past. All of these things can make it hard to prepare.

And I don’t know about you, but when I feel guilt or disappointment coming, some days I’m tempted to just stay in bed. Sleep it through. Self-medicate. Disconnect.

If you know what I’m talking about, if you've been there in that feeling, then you hear, maybe, the power of Jesus’ words when he says to friends this morning, “Keep awake.”

Keep awake.

(Quick story: Sometimes it’s too late to keep awake. I remember my own first communion - six years old on Christmas Eve. I took my Advent first communion class, preparing for Christmas. But that was back when midnight masses were still the norm and midnight hit me hard that night and I don’t remember much except an elbow in my side at the altar rail, just in time, as Dad put the host in my hands. Some of us need the kind, strong words of encouragement - stay awake; and others of us need the sharp elbow. Christ is coming!)

The arrival of change, the prospect of new creation, leaves even the most mature among us closing our eyes like small children, wishing the fears, our failures, and the future away.

“Therefore, keep awake,” Jesus says. “For you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly.”

So Christ is coming. Our job is to prepare, and we have time to prepare.

The only other point I want to make this morning is that to prepare for his coming is to commit to the hope that only God can bring.

To prepare for Christ is to prepare for hope of the God-can-bring kind. How does one do that? What does it look like to prepare for the coming of God?

I wonder if you’ve noticed that the entire Christian year is present every time we celebrate the Eucharist. Every season present to the liturgy. Here’s what I mean by that... that on Christmas, the shepherds hear the angels’ song: “Glory to God in the highest, and peace to God’s people on earth.” And at every Sunday’s Eucharist we sing the angels’ song: we sing the Gloria.

Epiphany is the season in which God shows us more clearly who God is, most especially in Christ - that action roughly corresponds to the part of the service in which we read from Holy Scripture. God telling the story again, so that we might know God more nearly.

Lent might be that time in the service wherein we commit ourselves to prayer for ourselves and the world, most especially the confession of our sins. But also talking us all the way to Holy Week, as we gather around the table at the Last Supper: “this is my body, broken for you.” And then, through Good Friday - on the cross, we learn the words that only the cross makes possible when, in the three-day mystery, we call God our Father.

Easter comes just a moment later: “Alleluia! Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us!" That glorious A-word of the Christian faith. Alleluia! "Therefore let us keep the feast!”

Pentecost might come at a couple of times - when we call on the Holy Spirit to bless the bread and wine and us, but also, and maybe most principally at the end of the service - the dismissal, which becomes a kind of paraphrase of the Great Commission: “Go in peace to love and serve that Lord!”, whereby we take on our calling to proclaim the Good News in word and deed by the power of the Holy Spirit.

But where does all that leave Advent? Just before Christmas - the Gloria. I think that makes Advent the short prayer we say before all else, the collect of purity (join me as you find the words familiar): Almighty God, to You all hearts are open, all desires known, and from You no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of Your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love You, and worthily magnify Your holy Name; through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Advent, this season in which we ask God to help us prepare for the rest of what comes; to open our hearts; to cleanse them by the inspiration of God’s Spirit; so that - and this is the best part - we may perfectly love God and - listen to this - worthily magnify God’s holy Name. Worthily magnify. That's the dead give away that this prayer is for Advent. Do those words sound familiar? Mary to her cousin Elizabeth, both of them pregnant, Mary preparing for the coming of Jesus, Mary says this: My soul doth magnify the Lord : and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.

Mary’s calling, made our own, in Advent. Magnify the Lord. This is what we pray for in Advent - to be opened, cleansed, inspired by the Spirit, that we might know the “yes” of Mary to the angel; that we might make room for Mary's yes - magnifying the Lord, rejoicing in God, our Savior. The angel who said to Mary that God sees you, loves you, would like to live in and with you, in order that the world might be saved through God’s Son.

And if that sounds vague to you - if you’re left wondering what that means for you and the next four weeks ahead, preparing this Advent, and if you’re thinking you don’t have any clear steps yet, and all that you know for sure is you’re going to pay more attention to Mary and her “yes” this time around - you’re more than good for the rest of the season, I think.

Happy Advent.

Amen.

A Short Invitation on Consecration Sunday

2011-11-21T13:27:00.001-08:00

Late Monday night, I got back from CREDO (thank you for your prayers, and your card; it made my day) a clergy wellness workshop put on by the larger church. A lot of good learning, sharing, challenging, growing, and one simple thing that is no less important: a lot of traveling. Five flights in all. Corpus Christi to Houston to Atlanta to Asheville. That was on the way out. Asheville to Houston to Corpus Christi coming back. Lots of travel. And not just the flying. During the Health and Wellness portion of the week, we were given complimentary pedometers in order to count our steps each day. The goal is 10,000 steps. One Rector texted her associate, who had stayed back at home: “They gave us pedometers,” she said, “and I got one for you. Oh yeah, and I’m learning to assert my authority. You’re in for it now. Look out!”

Plane flights and counted steps, lots of travel.

St Christopher’s, of course, is the patron saint of travelers. The legend holding that Christopher encountered Christ in his day job helping travelers cross a hazardous river. Oddly, though, it isn’t St Christopher that I think of when I strap in on the runway and say a quick prayer. Instead, I think of St Francis.

Why St Francis? Truthfully, I’ve remembered St Francis so many times as I’ve boarded airplanes and said a quick prayer to God that I sometimes have to remind myself why. St Francis - because the story goes that as he was planting flowers in the monastic courtyard one day, a visitor approached him and asked him what he would do if he knew that God would take his life in the next ten minutes. What would he do - St Francis - knowing that these minutes were his last? St Francis looked up from his work, thoughtful, and said, “I suppose I would finish planting this next row of flowers.”

I know, I know - lots of things more likely to bring about death in this life than airplanes, but maybe because of the vulnerability of sitting in row 14 of that thin metal tube flying through the air, I think of St Francis.

What if you knew that these were your last ten minutes?
What kind of work gives you peace of the St Francis kind?

When you sort out your life into piles - the chores, the delights, the thanksgivings, the regrets - when you think about the distractions and detours and destinations of your life - what are the matters that matter to you, and how do break the pull of the orbit of the mundane and live into the things that matter, daily?

At the end of your mortal life, if this was it, what are the matters that matter to you?

The reading from Zephaniah this morning reminds us that there are lots of matters that don’t matter; mortality can help us identify them. And we need help from time to time letting go of them. Thus the phrase, “You can’t take it with you.” As resurrection people, however, we know that there are also some things you can take with you; they just aren’t the usually things folks tend to hold on to. Love, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, generosity, forgiveness, self-control, joy. The character, the disposition, of the People of God.  These things are not lost in the economy of God's Kingdom.

Today is Consecration Sunday, the day that we collect our pledge cards for 2012 and, as a parish family, ask God to bless them. Our theme these past few weeks has been ‘Growing Generous Hearts’. Our guiding verse has been from Proverbs 11: “One gives freely, yet grows all the richer.” Along the way, we have observed that giving opens us up as people to the movement of God in our lives. We have also observed that generosity itself is a gift of God: we can give because God has given us everything, even his Son. To say that we open ourselves to the Spirit in giving and that God is a giving God is to say that generosity is part of the image of God planted in each one of us. It’s what we were made for.

It’s a matter that matters.

This morning we’ll be rearranging some things in our worship to give each of us time to reflect and respond. There will be no confession, no creed, this morning. In a moment, the lay reader will lead us in some reflective prayers to open a short time of quiet. This is a chance to respond, to fill out your pledge card, if you haven’t already. You have a pledge card in your bulletin. A

If I were to brave some unsolicited counsel, it would be this: Relax. Take time to breathe. Reflect on where God has been moving in your spiritual life. Where are your blessings? Reflect also on what you hope God might be hoping for you. How is he calling you now?

Lastly, if you’re visiting St Christopher’s this morning - and just lucked out to meet us on Stewardship Sunday (and the day the A/C is out) - or if you’re not ready to call St Christopher’s home in the form of a pledge - feel no pressure. Don’t fill out a card. But take the time to reflect. It’s a gift meant for you. A gift born of the conviction that God has made each of us in his image, and that the image of God is generous, giving, kind. We believe in the call of a generous God because he feeds us here. The call if for all of us. The time is for you.

Of Saints and Holy Laughter

2011-11-21T13:21:00.001-08:00

Funeral homily preached at the Burial Office of Evelyn Lawrence, November 11, 2011.

I remember an Easter Vigil service at which the bishop was visiting this church in North Carolina. It was his custom to mention the clergy by name and to thank them for their ministry. This could not help but sound route at times: Thank you, Father Soandso; Bless you, Mother Soandso. But when he came to one rector, the usual politeness gave way to a much, much richer moment. Instinctively, the people knew that polite words would not be enough for this priest. The bishop sensed it, too. He smiled broadly. “And Timothy,” he said, “What shall we say of Saint Timothy?” The people erupted with the laughter that happens when truth has been spoken.

That image and that instinct have been recurring in my soul the past few days. Though Evelyn would be the first to roll her eyes at her being called a saint, the people know better. Evelyn Lawrence had the quality of cloth soaked in holy oil. Not on account of any perfection, but precisely because she knew her flaws; the humility with which she shared them. Not on account of her having it all put together, but precisely because she knew and lived into her deep, abiding need of God.

What shall we say of Saint Evelyn?

Now, her grandchildren tell me Evelyn wasn’t always this way. That’s not a dig on Miss Evelyn, either. It’s a point the family wanted very clearly to make: that the St Christopher’s family because the place where, for the last thirty years of her life, Evelyn found room to live the life of faith. Not just words on her lips, but in deeds, in her life.

Even two days ago, when we spoke, Jennifer and Natalie wondered out loud if the St Christopher’s family knew the full extent to which Evelyn loved, valued, and was grateful for the holy friends this place provided. My response was that that was quite a thing to suggest, because Evelyn was so beloved of our parish family. Her pew cushion was revered by all of us, even in her absence. Jennifer and Natalie nodded, but stood by their assertion. I believe it. So those of this parish, please hear it again: Evelyn loved you with a gratitude and love that ran all the way down.

Evelyn’s family remember her adventurous spirit and courage. Her adopting a child even as another was leaving the home. Her immigration from her home in Jamaica, first to the east coast, then to Portland. In these things, Evelyn displayed determination and direction. Indeed, her candor and determination conveyed a strength and made her easily readable to others. If you didn’t like what Evelyn had to say, you at least knew she believed it was the most loving thing that could be said. And if you knew her long enough, you learned to trust that.

My own time with Evelyn is marked in my mind by two things: that she never let me leave without making me promise to “kiss that dear sweet child of yours.” And that as often as I asked her how she was doing, her answer was always: “I am thankful.”

I am thankful. Thankful for the family she had; thankful for the things she enjoyed; thankful for the change to have enjoyed the things she could no longer enjoy.

Today we are thankful that Evelyn enjoys the nearer presence of our Lord; that hers is the company of saints and angels in heavenly realms, and that the resurrection morning broken open by Christ, what we called that first, uncertain Easter in dark predawn hours, now belongs to her as fullness of light. She is found, this morning, completely in Christ’s story. Her joy and our Lord’s are made complete.

We are thankful.

The image of Evelyn’s entering the presence of the Risen Lord makes me smile a little bit, because the story of Evelyn’s entering the presence of this church is so widely known. She had just relocated to Portland. As one raised in the Anglican tradition, she came to this church, but was understandably suspect of how she would be received as a Jamaican woman in deep South Texas. She snuck out early for three weeks, attending service, but leaving before the final prayers. A while later, as she told it, she was at a doctor’s office when the doctor abruptly called out the his wife: “It’s her! This is Evelyn, the woman who keeps running from church.”

Dr. Long catching the one who always snuck out early. Evelyn, afraid she wouldn’t be accepted. She laughed at how wonderfully wrong she turned out to be. St Christopher’s became her home, where she lifted up her song to the Lord, and where she knew and loved many friends.

I smile at her story because there are so many who wonder if they can be accepted by God. Will there be room for me? Is the kindness there real - and for me? Be not afraid! Evelyn - relax! He’s got you. And to you, also, he’s got you. There is plenty of room for God’s People. Plenty of room in the People of God for saints like Evelyn and us:

"Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this? She saith unto him, Yea, Lord: I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world."

And she laughed with the angels, Miss Evelyn did, the laughter that happens when truth has been spoken.

Amen.

The Shepherd and the Lamb: Two Images for Christ the King Sunday

2011-11-21T13:01:00.001-08:00

Sermon preached on Sunday, November 20, St Christopher's by-the-Sea

This past Monday, November 14, the church celebrated the feast day of Samuel Seabury, the first American bishop of the Episcopal Church. Seabury was elected by the American church in...anybody know? 1783 and sent, later that year, to London to be consecrated bishop. The Church there refused to consecrate him because part of the vows required of bishops in the Church of England included an oath of allegiance to the King. In 1783 that was still something of a sore spot, as you can imagine. Even though Seabury was a loyalist at the time of the American Revolution, he found himself unable to take the oath. After being refused in England, he sailed on to Scotland, where a worthy occasion to stick it to King George was warmly welcomed by the people. Seabury was consecrated in Aberdeen on November 14, 1784.

We Americans have never felt quite at home with kings. Mixed emotions, clear allegiances, and an indomitable spirit of independence that springs from the day that declaration was first signed.

Today is Christ the King Sunday. This morning I want to ask the question: “What does it mean to call Christ King?” - even for Americans.

Now, someone might say, "no problem, Jonathan, no worries. Christ isn’t a king like King George or even Hussein. This is different." Maybe so. That, to me, only highlights the question more clearly: how ARE we thinking about Christ’s kingship? Of his kingdom? Is it poetic license? Pretty words that no one really means to take literally or all that seriously? That seems too harsh. Is it a kind of spiritual metaphor, the kingship of Jesus? That is, do we at the same time call Christ our King and insist that that kingdom not touch our politics on the ground? And on what grounds do we do that?

One of you told me that Smokey made the simple but poignant point on All Saints’ Sunday that to walk with the Spirit is to be out of step with the world. That’s the area we’re exploring this morning - the land between kingdoms.

No agenda at this point, just unfolding the question: “What does it mean to call Christ your King?"

Because Americans, as we know, have never felt quite at home around kings.

Specifically, this morning I want to suggest that our Scripture lessons focus our attention on two things that Christ’s being King means for us. And the two things that Christ’s being King means for us are lifted up in two images: that of shepherd and that of lamb. The first image, shepherd, speaks to the question: “Is God able?” The second question, lamb, speaks to the question: “How will this be?”

We’ll start with shepherd. In the reading from Ezekiel, God presents himself as the shepherd of God’s people. And of course this is the image that Jesus takes for himself most especially in John’s gospel when he says, “I am the good shepherd.” It’s a comforting image; read most recently in this space at the Burial Office for Evelyn Lawrence - and read frequently at funerals: God as the one who finds good pasture for God’s people; God as the one who seeks and cares for God’s sheep, especially the lost and strayed and weak; God as the one who brings sheep - er, people - from all countries together - hints here of the new Jerusalem, that glorious heavenly city of Revelation, wherein every people from every tribe and tongue and nation are gathered as one people in praise. Hints, therefore, that American, British, or even Texan might not be the most important thing someone can say about a person if God means to make a people out of all these disparate people: behold, a new Kingdom.

Lots of comfort in the image of God as shepherd, as provider. It’s meant to bring us comfort. But not only comfort. That God will take care of God’s Kingdom is a promise to those who need care and a warning to those who don’t trust God to do it. Indeed, much of the work that we’re told God will do for God’s people is undoing the damage of those who have failed to trust the provision of God. See, for example, our reading from Ezekiel: "Because you pushed with flank and shoulder, and butted at all the weak animals with your horns until you scattered them far and wide, I will save my flock, and they shall no longer be ravaged."

And this is important to name, I think: that even (or especially) for people who desire to trust God, there are lots of tempting reasons to doubt God’s provision. Lots of anxieties, worries, burdens that we carry: what about my church and its long-term wellbeing? Yes, my local church, but are those whispers about the decline of Christianity true? What about our children and the future of the faith? What about the moral direction of our country? (And here, depending on your leaning, you could point with equal sincerity in either direction.) What about my life - my retirement “number” (if you've seen the commercial, my financial pressure, and always, always, my persistently present fear of loneliness?

These are true worries. At its (dubious) best, worry can be a way of expressing compassion and concern; but worry can also become a deep chasm of doubt. Doubt that God is capable and determined to shepherd God’s people, and/or you. Like when the disciples panic when they find Jesus asleep in the boat. Maybe we better do it ourselves, you know, without him, if we have to.

Of course, failing to trust God is not something we necessarily set out to do. Sometimes it just happens. We just forget. I remember the confirmation class that was asked on its final exam who was the head of the Episcopal Church in America:

the Pope
the Archbishop of Canterbury
the Presiding Bishop
the local bishop
the local priest
either the biggest giver or the longest tenured member
other

The answer was g, but more important, g stood for Jesus.

Jesus is the head of even the Episcopal Church. He’s in charge. The upside of remembering this simple truth is tremendous. When we remember that God will deliver what God has promised, we are able to say the prayer Bishop Frey taught me: “Lord, it’s your church, I’m going to bed.”

[Those of you who know Bishop Frey know that his prayer was not license for irresponsibility or sloth. But he preached and preaches the Living God who has acted, is acting, and will continue to act for God’s People.]

The God who delivered Israel from slavery and broke death’s back and the tomb’s hard rock, acting now for God’s People, acting now for you: Christ as shepherd, provider, and King. “Fear not, little flock, it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the Kingdom.”

Christ the King is our Shepherd, the leader we follow, whose arm is strong, whose voice calls your name.

The second image of Christ the King is the lamb. And where the shepherd image means to remind us that Christ is able, the lamb is God’s answer for how this will be.

We turn to our gospel where the king will come to his throne and set all things right. ("All things" - that wonderful chorus throughout our readings this morning.) And he’ll start by surprising people with invitations to the kingdom on account of the way they treated the sick and the naked and hungry and thirsty and the prisoners. Because, in his words, “in so much as you did if for one of the least of these members of my family, you did it to me.” And this would be tempting to read as hyperbole, the king simply wanting to get the thrust of his point across, but we who hear these words as Christians cannot help but think that Christ DID come naked, and, on the cross, we found him thirsty, that he was killed as a prisoner. It’s not JUST that Christ cares for the least of these (though he certainly does that); by the world’s standards, he came as one, too.

Jesus as the lamb who on the cross was slain for us. The powers of the world - the old kingdoms - defeated by the one who would not accept their power; instead, exposing them for the charades of fear that they are.

But to take the gospel’s connection seriously, we must back up and slow down a bit and linger in the words “he was killed as a prisoner.” He didn’t just care for the least; he poured himself out as the least.

Death-row inmate Mumia Abu-Jamal has asked,
“Isn’t it odd that Christendom - that huge body of humankind that claims spiritual descent from the Jewish carpenter of Nazareth - claims to pray to and adore a being who was a prisoner of Roman power, an inmate of the empire’s death row? That the one it considers the personification of the Creator of the Universe was tortured, humiliated, beaten, and crucified on a barren scrap of land on the imperial periphery, at Golgotha, the place of the skull? That the majority of its adherents strenuously support the state’s execution of thousands of imprisoned citizens? That the overwhelming majority of its judges, prosecutors, and lawyers - those who condemn, prosecute and sell out the condemned - claim to be followers of the fettered, spat-upon, naked God?”

Christ comes as Shepherd and as lamb. The strength of God revealed in the weakness of the cross. The provision of God found in the blood that pours from his side.

What does all this mean for us? What's the take-home, preacher?

At the very least, this should make us look twice for God in places and people we don’t think he’d think twice about. In God-forsaken places and people. At the very least, we should look twice for God there. If Christ the crucified lamb is King, we know God IS there.

And at more than the very least, we might wonder what it would mean to risk ourselves being least - to risk rejection at the hands of the world with which Smokey said we’d be out of step - what would it mean to risk being least by the standards of the world? And how would this risk open me to see and understand the new standard - the vibrant, forgiving, merciful life - of the Kingdom with which my world is necessarily out of step?

I don’t know the answer to that last one for sure. But I believe this is what it means to call Christ my King.

Amen.

Show v. Service

2011-10-30T21:39:00.000-07:00

Sermon preached 10/30/11.

Jesus is in a mood this morning. That’s all I can think of. He’s come to Jerusalem and he’s not holding back. Makes me think of the Cardinals’ pitcher who let loose a couple of choice words after inducing a long fly ball out to end the inning in game 5 of the series. What a series. No sound, of course, but you didn’t need it. Lips were easy to read. Was that really called for? Bek asked. And we have the same reaction of Jesus, maybe. Relax, Jesus, they’re on your side; they’re the religious establishment, it’s all good. But it’s not all good. It’s not all good at all. Jesus is calling out the Pharisees and scribes for behavior he sees as nothing less than destructive to the souls of those who would inherit the Kingdom of God.

What’s going on?

It is especially confusing to see Jesus reacting so strongly because I have grown up in an age that preaches tolerance as the ultimate expression of love. Tolerance: live and let live. Not rocking the boat. The opposite of Jesus in the gospel this morning. By confronting the Pharisees so harshly, Jesus challenges what I thought I knew about love. Says one theologian:

“It is often assumed that Jesus’s judgmental tone and his unforgiving judgments are incompatible with the great commandment (love the Lord your God, love your neighbor as yourself), (and) even more at odds with his admonition that we should love our enemies. Yet...the love that Jesus preaches is not incompatible with judgment and, in particular, judgment on hypocrisy. Faithful love, if faithful, is judgment” (Hauerwas 2006, p195)

Specifically, and plainly, Jesus makes clear that the love of Jesus has not erased the Law, God’s standard for God’s people. And this should not surprise us. Jesus himself said that he did not come to abolish the Law, but to fulfill it. That for all its direction, order, and structure, there are things that the Law couldn’t reach, like the inmost motivations of the human heart.

It is possible, after all, Jesus says, to simply go through the motions or, worse, to attempt to turn relationship with God into a position of power over others. The attempt to turn relationship with God into a position of power over others is what has Jesus so upset this morning.

His frustration is that love of God and love of neighbor are being commandeered for personal gain. By crying out against this, Jesus is intentionally locating himself in Israel’s long tradition of prophets: prophets like Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Micah (whom we hear this morning) who called the people again and again to worship of sincerity and truth: justice, and compassion for the least, last, and lost in the People of God.

So Jesus starts talking today, and his original hearers have the bells and whistles of the prophets going off in their heads. We might be less familiar with some of these prophets, but no worries, I have us covered. Jon Foreman, of Switchfoot fame, has written a song, Instead of a Show, which aside from being a pretty good song, is also a pretty good paraphrase of Isaiah 1:11-18. In it, we see something of the beginning of the complaint Jesus picks up for God in the 23rd chapter of Matthew’s gospel.

[Play music]

Instead Of A Show, by Jon Foreman

I hate all your show and pretense
The hypocrisy of your praise
The hypocrisy of your festivals
I hate all your show
Away with your noisy worship
Away with your noisy hymns
I stomp on my ears when you're singing 'em
I hate all your show

Instead let there be a flood of justice
An endless procession of righteous living, living
Instead let there be a flood of justice
Instead of a show

Your eyes are closed when you're praying
You sing right along with the band
You shine up your shoes for services
There's blood on your hands
You turned your back on the homeless
And the ones that don't fit in your plan
Quit playing religion games
There's blood on your hands

Instead let there be a flood of justice
An endless procession of righteous living, living
Instead let there be a flood of justice
Instead of a show
I hate all your show

Let's argue this out
If your sins are blood red
Let's argue this out
You'll be one of the clouds
Let's argue this out
Quit fooling around
Give love to the ones who can't love at all
Give hope to the ones who got no hope at all
Stand up for the ones who can't stand at all, all
I hate all your show
I hate all your show
I hate all your show
I hate all your show

Instead let there be a flood of justice
An endless procession of righteous living, living
Instead let there be a flood of justice
Instead of a show
I hate all your show

I want to suggest this morning that the prophetic tradition of Isaiah, and Jesus, too, puts before us the question of Show versus Service. Show, the putting on of a religious costume for the sake of respect. Service, the endless procession of righteous living, seeking and serving Christ in all persons. The question of Show versus Service has the potential to be uncomfortable for us as Episcopalians because we wear vestments similar to the ones the Pharisees get called out for wearing. Because some of us call priests and parents “Father,” even though Jesus thinks this confuses some people as to who their true Father is. Even so, I think we should be encouraged when we remember that what we do here on the Lord’s Day is not called “The Show,” but the “service.” After all, as one author says, “The externals are not the problem, but they become a problem when they no longer shape the life of prayer.” The life of prayer. This may be an obvious point, but here, our life of prayer is called the Sunday service because, in our Sunday services, we Christians learn what it means to serve. Not a show, but our service.

Here, in the Eucharist, we learn the proper place of power in our lives because we worship a king who climbed on a cross for his people. We learn what it means to serve when Jesus washes our feet.

This understanding of power’s proper place in our lives orders our worship. So, for example, the one we call the priest, the presider over the Assembly shows off his power by what? Bussing the table. By service. And the ones with great wealth, great monetary power, come here and...share their plenty with those people in need. And the ones who have been wronged, and so find themselves in positions of power over others, come here to pour out forgiveness, exchange God’s peace, even with one-time enemies. It is here, at this Table, that we learn to serve one another. Here, that we learn that power is not for privileging ourselves, but for raising up the powerless. That love is not first for the lovely, but for the loveless and unloving. That hope is not first for the hopeful, but for the hopeless and despairing. We learn this here, and only here, because while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Here that we learn that there is no gift under heaven but those that might make us servants one to another. Because he came as our servant.

If this moment and this encounter with God mean to teach you anything for Monday through Saturday, it is how to serve. Go in peace, we say, to love and serve the Lord.

An obvious thing, maybe. But that’s why we’re here. You know, instead of a show.

Amen.

"Happy Are They Who Have Not..." a meditation on psalm 1

2011-10-30T21:29:00.000-07:00

Sermon preached 10/23/11.

This morning begins our new series on the psalms. One psalm each week. For the next 150 weeks, ending about this time in 2014 (a little more if we do 119 any justice)…just kidding. But today's psalm IS number one. And this past week has been for me the rekindling of an old love with the first of the psalms. Psalm number one. The psalm whose quasi-repetition moves from images of walking to images of lingering to images of sitting and invites the hearer to slow down, pay attention, describing the lives of those who walk apart from God, maybe those who have given up, sat down, and also those who remain standing, who dare to move, to keep step, who brave the pilgrim walk with God. These words speak a prophetic healing that my soul knows it needs. To be planted by streams of water.

Happy are they who have not walked in the counsel of the wicked, nor lingered in the way of sinners, nor sat in the seats of the scornful.

Their delight is in the law of the Lord, and they meditate on his law both day and night.

They are like trees planted by streams of water, bearing fruit in due season, with leaves that do not wither; everything they do shall prosper.

It is not so with the wicked; they are like chaff which the wind blows away.

Therefore, the wicked shall not stand upright when judgment comes, nor the sinner in the council of the righteous.

For the Lord knows the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked is doomed.

To be planted by streams of water, bearing fruit in due season, with leaves that do not wither. With leaves that do not wither. South Texans know something about withering leaves, I think. And what are the streams, but the living water of Christ, and what is the fruit but the produce of the Spirit, and what are the leaves but the leaves of Revelation; where the leaves of the tree are for the healing of nations.

To be planted by streams of water.
Their delight is in the law of the Lord.

Does your soul also long for these things?

The promise of being planted by the waters of Christ. The prospect of walking with God in the cool of the shade. The psalmist in consciously alluding to pictures of paradise, images of Eden, illustrations that begin the story in Scripture and images that find their perfection in the Scripture’s last book. The story for beginning to end all the way through of the healing, the reconciling, of all things and everything to God.

The psalmist seems to hold all of these things together, lifts up this hope like strong branches on a wide trunk whose roots quench their thirst with the water of life, running clear as crystal.

So like a lost, treasured gem, I turn these verses over and over again in my hand. Like a choice cut of meat, I savor the hope of this psalm. And like a good book I don’t tire of rereading, revisiting, I discover something new, alive, and fresh each time in the familiarity of the words.

This past week, for example, familiarity allowed a kind of playful irreverence which uncovered in turn an unexpected newness: I started the first verse and stopped half-way through, knowing full well that no self-respecting grammar teacher would approve of separating a helping verb from the verb it helped. So instead of saying ‘Happy are they who have not walked in the counsel of the wicked, nor lingered in the way of sinners, nor sat in the seats of the scornful,’ I simply said, “Happy are they who have not…” Tried it on, to see how it fit.

Happy are they who have not. Huh. And it’s ridiculous, of course, not in keeping with the full context of the psalm. But I wondered if the psalm still spoke its truth, even with one hand tied behind its back like that.

Happy are they who have not. Of course, I thought, poverty should not be romanticized. And yet, stopping there, the words of Matthew’s gospel seemed to audibly echo from the pages of Scripture: Jesus, telling his disciples, “Blessed are the poor in Spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of God.”

Happy are they who have not. Maybe there’s something there after all.

And I thought of the fear that drives so much of the American existence. The fear that I might, in my life, miss out on something. Anything. All manner of even unappealing things that somehow become justifiable - indeed, indispensable! - because, like they say, “you only live once.” Like fried Oreos. Fried Oreos, in a picture someone shared with me from their recent trip to the State Fair of Texas in my beloved hometown. Under normal circumstances, no way, she said. “But then,” she paused. “I got to thinking...why not? At least once?”

In this way, ours has become the day and age of the bucket list. That list of things we’d want to do at least once before we die, even if it’s not something we’d ever do twice, because, for better or worse, who wants to miss out? Because questions of better or worse are no match for the bottom-line threat - the existential dread - of not having had the experience at all.

So a short-run billboard in New York played this fear to its logical extreme; it said: “Life is short, have an affair.” Again, the overwhelming fear of missing out, this time placed squarely within the anxiety of our own mortality, used to justify behavior in opposition to the purposes for our lives that most of us would say we value.

Happy are they who have not.

Maybe so. Even so, the human preoccupation with being left behind, of being left out, of fearing not having, is perhaps nearing a peak unequalled in the history of civilization. So we strap ourselves to networks and text works, the so-called crack-berry that sends us notifications when we are emailed, text messaged, mentioned, tagged, photographed or noticed. We hesitate to commit to social engagements too far ahead because, in a world as connected as this one, what if something better comes along?

But what when the crack-berry’s not ringing? Who are we then?

Along the way, relatively simple decisions like where we will rest our heads and how we will use our hands become opportunities to obsess on our own sense of self-importance and whether or not we are maximizing our opportunities fully. The grass is always greener. That’s not a new notion for humanity. But rarely in human history have we had the luxury of coveting so many distant hills. So many possibilities by which to second-guess our present standing.

Happy are they who have not.

Ironically, some of the distant hills that we covet belong to the ones who have not.

Like the couple who died this past week, married for seventy-two years; they died within an hour of each other, holding the other’s hand. Or the strength of the man who, rising at three-in-the-morning has done 1,000 curls each day for the past fifty years. Or the wisdom of the elder who spends an hour in prayer each morning and radiates holiness, and you figure that you don’t have enough years left in your life to equal her lifelong dedication. Each one a brilliant 'yes' representing a thousand 'no's along the way.

But jealousy of this kind, the coveting of the committed, is a false jealousy because their possession of the thing does not prevent my having it. If I am honest, I may only like the idea of fitness or wisdom, because the way of the thing itself is open to me, too. Happy are they who have not walked on other paths. Happy are they who have not. Can I believe this?

I encountered a woman recently who faulted her daughter for not having fallen into drugs. That her daughter had not fallen into drug use kept her, the mother said, from being able to empathize with her drug using sister. While there may be some truth in the ability of shared experiences to produce empathy between people, I believe the mother’s anger was misdirected insofar as she found herself indirectly wishing that the one daughter had also encountered the hell of drug use.

Happy are they who have not.

No, we will not live forever in this life, but death does not make every experience beneficial, an experience to seek out. We’re not called disciples for nothing.

Disciples, baptized in the death and resurrection of Jesus. Planted by steams of water. Bearing fruit in due season. With leaves that do not wither.

And if we are planted by the waters that connects both shores of paradise, then the threat of not having loses all of its power. If when we die life is not ended but changed, as the Prayer Book teaches, and as the Risen Christ stands even now as the witness, missing out is not a fear that needs to or ought to determine my next move. Rather, as baptized members of a resurrection people, I have been given both a new criterion and the freedom to pursue it. My questions are clear: Does it bring me closer to the Kingdom? Does it bring me nearer to Jesus? Can I see the cross of Christ from where I’m standing?

And can you think of a difficult relationship, encounter, decision, or purchase in the next week for which those questions would not give you direction, instruction, and peace?

Finally, because the freedom to ask these questions comes from my walking with the risen Jesus, I believe these questions are more than mere moralism. That is, they do not become hopeless words for when we inevitably mess up. They are hopeful words because the same God who gives us all the time we need to love God and each other walks with us, forgives us, restores in us the new and unending life of his Son. To learn to be content with this Son is the fullness of joy.

So ends my love song with the first of the psalms. The psalm whose quasi-repetition moves from images of walking to images of lingering to images of sitting and invites the hearer to slow down, pay attention, describing the lives of those who walk apart from God, maybe those who have given up, sat down, and also those who remain standing, who dare to move, to keep step, who brave the pilgrim walk with God. These words that speak a prophetic healing my soul knows that it needs. To be planted by streams of water.

Amen.

Money, Sex, and Gossip

2011-10-18T10:27:00.000-07:00

Money, Sex, and Gossip
(Things that Belong to the Kingdom of God)

Preached October 16, 2011

On the surface, it’s an enticing, exciting, maybe even subversive question:

Do disciples of Jesus have to pay taxes?

The gist of what the leaders are onto when they ask him, "Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor...or not?"

Huh, we think. I hadn’t thought about that. Truthfully, I don't think of these lessons as being that concretely tangible. But now that you mention it, it’s about time this life of faith thing had a material perk. And it makes sense: we’re familiar with conscientious objectors in times of war, people who refrain from a certain military services on the grounds of religious belief. Why not with taxes?

In 1961, the Amish, objecting on religious principle to the concept of commercial insurance, successfully appealed their participation in Social Security, which had been first introduced in 1935. It took twenty-six years to sort out, but the IRS formally recognized the Amish exception in 1961. The Amish stated their religious situation thusly: "We do not want to be burdensome, but we do not want to lose our birthright to everlasting glory, therefore we must do all we can to live our faith!"

And American Christians, we lean in, intrigued, listening for the answer, the tax implications of the Kingdom of God. Are we off the hook? Did I just loophole my way into an extra ten grand a year? Can it be as simple as a self-exemption, a religiously minded civil disobedience that stands to help my cash flow situation?

Unfortunately, the answer is ‘no,’ even the Amish pay taxes. Their exemption is only for Social Security. I know, maybe that still sounds like a deal you want. But the other taxes, they pay - they insist on it - based in part on this morning’s gospel: Jesus’s answer to the question about tax evasion.

Still, the Amish instinct to see in the question put before Jesus this morning a pull between kingdoms - the government of the day on the one hand and the Kingdom of God on the other - is spot on. The tension between the kingdom of the day and the Kingdom of God is woven into the original context, the Herodians talking to Jesus.

Full disclosure: these Herodians are Pharisees who have pledged allegiance to Herod, the puppet-king of the Roman empire. They were testing Jesus because to not pay taxes would be treason against the occupying government, Rome. But to pay taxes might been seen as subordinating the Kingdom of God under the kingdom of Rome, which no self-respecting Messiah would ever do. Their question for Jesus has a kind of “put-up or shut-up” design, intended to force Jesus to declare his hand, and, either way, to end his ministry.

Instead, he asks for the coin used for the tax.

And nothing he says after this is as crucial to our understanding his response as his asking for the coin. We cannot miss this. He asks them for the coin used to pay the tax. And they have one to give.

Big deal, you say. And truthfully, not a big deal, maybe, for you or for me, except that no one these days carries coins in our pockets, but he asks them for the coin, and it is a big deal. Because they have one to give. Because for all their unsavory relationships with Rome, they’re still Jewish, and a metal coin with a graven image is still distasteful to them. Because the 2nd of the 10 commandments is one they take seriously, the one about other gods, idols, and their not having them. Because the Jewish understanding of that commandment dramatically shaped the limits of Jewish art clear through the 18th century - we're talking thousands of years. Because the coin in their hand convicts them of the compromise of their faith and signals in them their own participation in idolatry, even if it had started reluctantly.

He asks for the coin, and they have one to give. They're not proud of that.

The Pharisees try to trap Jesus. To peg him as a radical. To push him to the margins. To expose him. But they give Jesus the coin and the old quote is proved true: “...the line separating good and evil passes not through states, not between classes, nor between political parties, but through every human heart.”

The coin is in their pockets. Jesus doesn’t blame them; but he exposes their blaming. Another quote from my favorite movie - free points if you can name it after the service - "The world is made for people who aren't cursed with self-awareness." They aren't such a people. They are aware. Like us, they find themselves caught between kingdoms - more than they know because Jesus is breaking the true Kingdom in - and the only proper response to their knowledge of their selves is grief and repentance.

Their grief and repentance, their sadness, if it should come, isn’t all bad - it’s different from shame - because it names somewhere deep in them their buried longing for their birthright. This is the effect of Jesus’s coming as Kingdom. "We do not want to be burdensome,” the Amish had said, “but we do not want to lose our birthright to everlasting glory, therefore we must do all we can to live our faith!"

So the question for us this morning is one of birthright and idolatry. Birthright, the Kingdom we were made for; idolatry, all the others that we fall for. More often than not, we’re not looking to trap Jesus, I think, (I'm not that clever) only to excuse ourselves from those parts of the life of faith we find unappealing. To justify our small flirtations in other kingdoms.

Like stewardship. Where the competition of the kingdoms is raw. Don’t worry, we’ve hit stewardship pretty hard the last two weeks, I won’t hit it the same way today. A week off. But if we’re talking parts of the life of faith that we’d rather excuse ourselves from, stewardship is up there on the list for most Christians, if we're honest. And not just stewardship, of course. Our worlds are built such that the so-called private realm might keep God's claims on portions of our lives at bay. Sex and gossip come to mind. (Side note: you should have seen the heads pop up just now!) Anything for which our first instinct is the words, "none of your business" - whether to each other or to God.

Another example.

A clergy friend of mine was sharing with me that his church unanimously agreed at a recent meeting that the standard for their congregation’s participation in Sunday worship should be 75%. 100% of them coming 75% of the time. Three out of four Sundays. That’s the goal they would like for themselves. A subsequent study of the church revealed that 17% of their congregation is living into that goal.

My friend did not point any fingers. Like Jesus before the Herodians, he didn’t have to. The fact that the congregation could name a common goal he counted as a good thing. A part of them still remembered their birthright, what they were made for.

So if birthright is what we were made for and idolatry is those things that we fall for, the question that marks the difference between where you hope to be and where you are is not unlike Jesus’s question to the Pharisees: (But instead of asking for the coin - because no one carries coins these days -) We might paraphrase it like this: “What’s in your wallet?” Have you heard that before? In your best Capital One Viking voice, turn to your neighbor and ask her, “What’s in your wallet?”

And I hope it’s clear at this point, but we’re not just talking money, though it may involve money. Our spiritual pockets are a bit like Mary Poppins’ fabled handbag, remarkably able to carry lots of big things. So many things that compete as would-be kingdoms against the Kingdom.

And this is the best of what Christian accountability can mean, I think: when we can turn to our neighbor and ask each other about God’s dreams for us and where we are now and what the difference between them is; when we can help one another empty our pockets of any and all idols we carry.

If you have trouble along the way identifying anything in your pockets that would lighten your load significantly, consider one author who says that all idolatry is the quest for certainty. That seems to fit. When one knows one carries the birthright of the Kingdom, the best distractions are often false appeals to certainty. Because the road is long and we walk by faith, certainty is the first temptation. Like Esau, Jacob's brother, in his hunger, selling his birthright to his brother for the certainty of a hot meal. But does that mean - does it follow - then that the Kingdom of God is uncertain, unpredictable, unstable, unexpected?

God, I hope so.

C.S. Lewis wrote of Aslan the lion in the Chronicles of Narnia - who was for Lewis a symbol for God: “He’s not a tame lion.”

And so with visions of the empty tomb, and soldiers made like dead men, and women running wildly with fear and great, great joy, I close my eyes in sleep at night, breathe out, and say a prayer, that I would be held in waking and sleeping, in living and dying, in rising, in serving, in the life of the Kingdom by nothing and no one else but the uncertain, unpredictable, unstable, unexpected God who raised Jesus Christ from the dead.

Amen.

Fastball Jesus

2011-10-17T20:23:00.000-07:00

Two songs, in their own ways beautiful, that have been taking turns in my head the past day and a half. The first was blaring at HEB just past Baldwin on 286, where I stopped to pick up some goat milk for Annie. The second was one I woke up with on Sunday, a nudge of the Spirit, albeit out of liturgical season. Anyway, I have been struck especially by the first song's recurring line: "...but where were they going without even knowing the way?" It strikes me as an apt descriptor for 90% of what we do as church, sometimes (myself, of course, included). And of course, as church, we know that Jesus is the way for which we're groping. That's where the gentleness of the second song comes in. The longing is strong, for sure, but the posture of a strong longing made patient and met by a coming Savior stands in stark contrast to the mindless drive of the first song's pursuit. Like I said, the two songs have been taking turns in my head all week. And probably in other parts of me for much much longer than that.

PS Form is content: I love the setting for the 2nd video.

Six Word Follow-Up

2011-10-11T13:32:00.000-07:00

A while back, in a sermon I can't find, I asked members of the congregation if they could shorthand their hopes for the life of faith in just six-words, a kind of uber-tweet. The idea was that these six words could aid in a kind of personal spiritual check-in throughout the day. Six words. Am I on them? Yes, good. No, OK. The following is my own brainstorm for six-words that might shape the life of a congregation like ours.

The Garment is Christ

2011-10-10T15:15:00.000-07:00

The blog's 100th post! Preached at St Christopher's, October 9, 2011.

When was the last time you attended a party for which you had to decipher the dress code printed in small, black, italic letters on the invitation?

If you're like me, it's been a while. I have to look up the different definitions.

Dress casual. Party casual. Black tie. Ladies, do you keep a formal dress ready at home? Men, let me ask you: do you keep a tux handy?

This morning’s gospel is about just such a party, and invitations go out to the people who should expect to be invited to nice parties like this one. The frat house princes. The queens and the debutantes. Their parents. The rich and well to do. The preppies. The politicians. The players. The ones that, if it were your party, you wouldn’t want to leave out. The ones who maybe stand to reward you in terms of social capital, if you are a person in the market for that sort of thing. In middle school we called them the cool kids. The top of the popular pyramid. The main attractions.

So there’s a big party out, a really big party, a who’s who of coolness, but the cool kids say no. They don’t come. And you can say no when you’re cool because everyone knows that you could go to the party if you really wanted to. If it was cool enough for you. Sometimes it makes you cooler not to go. Not only are you in the in-crowd, you are the in-crowd, you define it. You put the so-called in-crowd on your wait-list. Leave them wanting more. It’s enough to know that you could go if you wanted to go. Because you’re somebody.

And the king in Jesus’s story this morning is disgusted. He gets word that the cool kids have disrespected the ones who delivered the invitations. Put them on hold. Even hurt them. Rumor that one hazing incident has gotten out of hand. Said somebody died. That they literally killed the messenger.

The king says forget ‘em.

The king says he’s got a party to throw, a Son to celebrate, and he doesn’t have any patience for the folks who think that if they’re good enough to be invited then they’re certainly good enough not to come if they’re busy. No, he doesn’t have patience. This isn’t about their being cool, their flaunting their stuff, what they did to deserve the invitation. This is about his Son. And the party he wants to have. With as many people as will come.

So he does the unthinkable. He invites the riffraff. The losers. The outcasts. Says, ‘bring ‘em in, let’s go!’ And because he’s inviting the riffraff, at least one Anglican commentary suggests that it's reasonable to imagine that he pulls out his own clothes and hands them out at the door: ‘Here, put this on, it’s on me, just for fun.’ Let’s live it up. Tonight will be special. And over there, try the wine, it’s vintage. The very best.

The cool kids said no. The story, for them was about them; no room for a party. If they thought of coming at all, it was only as a favor to the king. The cool kids imagined themselves as gifts to the One who wanted to give them the world. Gracing grace with their presence.

So the riffraff show up and most put on the clothes. They put on the good garments per the king’s request. But one scrub gets caught. He likes his own clothes. His style isn’t fancy, but it is his style, he wants to leave his own distinctive mark on the gala. It’s the same reason the schools these days are leaning toward the uniforms. Drawing attention to one’s self can make a distraction. So like the folks who didn’t come, this man's first concern is himself, not primarily the celebrating of the Son the king adores.

It's a tragic comedy or comic tragedy, depending on how you come at it. The king has a party that he wants everyone to attend. The only qualifier for entrance is that no one is qualified. It’s the king who gives the invitation and hands out his own clothes. It’s only a problem for the ones who make an appeal of themselves. The ones who make idols out of things like their status, their busyness, their wealth, their power, and their individual preferences.

Jesus says that distinctions like these are not the basis for this party, for this Kingdom. And trying to make them so is to miss everything. It’s a gift.

So when the king gets fed up and finally tells them they can all go to hell, it’s clear that it’s not because that’s the desire of the king, but because the presumption of their hearts prevents their accepting the invitation to the feast for which they were made. The feast for which he alone can make them worthy. And he promises that he will.

A story:

When I was Assistant to the Rector at St Helena’s, Boerne, Father David and I hosted a four week October series on Wednesday nights, covering the basics of the Bible: eighty-five of us, coming together, each Wednesday night, discussing holy Scripture and how to approach it. A kind of Bible for beginners. We had skits and everything. It was fun. At the end of one session, after folks had broken up to go home, a member of the church confronted the two of us over what the man said was Father David’s bad habit of not preaching the “whole gospel.” “There is such a thing as hell,” the man said. “It’s real. You should preach it.”

I remember Father David’s answer, something more pastoral, but generally to the effect of, “Yes, there is such a thing as hell; and Jesus promises it most regularly, if not exclusively, to the folks who try to justify themselves, hold up their achievements, their fine clothes, and impress the living God apart from accepting the mercies of Jesus." A pause before he summarized: "Yes, there is a hell in Scripture, and it's mostly for the religious.”

Yikes. If it doesn’t, it should sting. It stung the Pharisees, too. They didn’t kill Jesus for being polite.

The Gospel is a party, and the party is grace - the free gift of God - and grace means letting go of all the cool points we thought we were saving for God. Get over yourself, come on in.

So, it’s still stewardship season, week two - remember, I won’t glaze over if you won’t glaze over, hang with me here - and let me say a quick thing about what I think I’m about to say: my job as preacher during stewardship season isn’t to trot out old statistics or talk about the financial needs of the parish or lock the doors behind you. You’ve got a Vestry for that. (Only kidding, Larry!) When the preacher stands before you in stewardship season, his or her job is to speak the Word that we gather around, even and especially when that Word makes the compelling case that generous giving increases your awareness and responsiveness to the love of God in your life.

So it’s the season of financial stewardship - you and me, gathering, listening around the Word he would have us proclaim, you and me remembering that stewardship is about more than just money, but never less than money, that God has an interest in all that we do with all that we have and all that we are. We’re talking financial stewardship when we encounter this gospel about self-justifying one’s existence, one’s entrance, into the Kingdom of God - you know, the cool points - and we’d be remiss not to observe at this point that money can be a fast track to cool points in lots of places:

In local and national politics, in social clubs, even prisons, bars, casinos, even dinner at the in-laws.

But not here.

Not the Church. Because we don’t sell tickets. Because you can’t buy the only grounds for your being here: here, where the only qualifier for you is receiving Jesus, putting on the garment of Christ.

You know this already: you’re not giving to get. You’re giving because he’s already invited you in, you said yes. You’ve found your place at the table. You’re giving because he’s already given you all that you need to enjoy the party of his Son forever.

At the early service, we remind ourselves of the overwhelming generosity of God at the Offertory. Instead of singing the Doxology, we say: All things come of thee, O Lord, and of thine own have we given thee.

And because the thee can be confusing, we might say instead: “Lord, you give everything to us; even what we give to you comes from what you’ve given us.”

We’re not winning cool points; we’re becoming honest about ourselves, the world, and who we are. So we empty ourselves of all the things we’re not in order to receive the most important thing we are: we are children gifted by God, even with our lives, and most especially in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.

We give back to God what is already God’s so that we might speak truthfully about who and whose we are, how it is we came to have things to give in the first place, and to empty ourselves of the rest. All things come of thee, and of thine own have we given thee.

And so when Rebekah and I talk about giving each year, we don’t talk about what others give or about our having given enough. It’s all his. The question for us is always how we can give in ways that make our lives more truthful: in ways that name that we are not self-made, but are utterly at the mercy of the living God who loves us with his whole self. In ways that make it easier to remember to forgive. In ways that can echo, feebly, the generosity of God.

In a sense, stewardship for Rebekah and me is a kind of spiritual house-cleaning: when we toss out the trash, the light comes in in ways that leave us wondering why we didn’t do it so much sooner.

So give. But not because it makes you cooler or more important. Give because it stands to make you more truthful about yourself. Give because it stands to let the light of the Gospel in all the way. Give because you need the reminding, and the party is now. Give because as much as you liked your old clothes, the garment before you is Christ.

The table is ready; the feast is for you. Come receive Jesus, and receiving him, put him on.

Amen.

Defining Institution in Church: a 1 Question Survey

2011-10-10T14:59:00.000-07:00

After an instructive phone convo with a friend about this post on institutions, he and I agreed that understanding what was meant my institutions might help the Church recognize what it means to be institutional, and most especially to better keep institutions in service to the Gospel imperative ("Go! Tell my disciples that I'm risen from the dead!"), as opposed to something else.

Thus this quick survey:

When you think of the church as institution, are you MOST referring to the:

a) structure, order, and protocol of your home church congregation
b) larger, diocesan network of which your home church is a part
c) membership of your local church in a national/international communion
d) financial obligations of your church (local, diocesan, national, or otherwise)
e) other (please explain)

Thanks for your help!

Jonathan+

When Kingdoms Collide

2011-10-10T14:40:00.000-07:00

Came across this stewardship sermon (on this Sunday's Propers) preached a few years ago at St. Helena's, Boerne. My first sermon during a stewardship season. Now in season #4, it's fun and instructive to look back.

+++

Some IRS agents come looking for Jesus: “Teacher,” they say, “Mmm, we don’t know quite how to put this, this may come out awkward, so we’ll just put it out there: are your boys gonna pay taxes come April or not?”

“Excuse me?”

But with a tax book in one hand, they hold out the Scriptures, “Tell us,” they say, “just point out the relevant verses, but what are the fiscal implications, exactly, as you understand them, of your being Messiah and the Kingdom you preach?”

Their questions are real, but they aren’t sincere. The questioners, predictably, are Pharisees, but also Herodians, and Herodians are the ones who pledge allegiance to Herod, the puppet king aligned with Rome and the emperor. Put another away, they talk nice and all, but these aren’t the folks looking to turn in their pledge cards, to give for God’s Kingdom. These folks are federal. These folks are fishing for treason. “Just say it, rabbi--we dare you to say it: tell us your Kingdom can disregard Caesar.”

But that’s just one side of well, the coin, the other side says that if Jesus doesn’t bite at the bait, if he doesn’t even hint that the Kingdom of God might mean the end of Caesar as king and the subsequent oppression of Jews at the hands of the Romans, then the questioners will have exposed Jesus for the same impotent man in an occupied land that they know themselves too well to be. Messiah, indeed.

Meanwhile, the crowds hear the question, come in close, gather around. Perched on their seats and in pin-drop silence, their eyes plead with their Savior: they hang on his word. How will he answer?

The Herodians grow impatient: “C’mon, God’s King, we can’t wait long. We need to know just what your intentions are. Is it lawful to pay tax to the emperor--or not?”

Jesus asks for the coin, the denar, used for the tax.

At this point, it may or may not be assuring, to you, to know that the coin he received looked a lot like our own. Pull one out if you have it. Go ahead, I don’t mind, fish for a coin. Share with a friend. Hold it up when you’ve got it. What does it look like? How does it feel?

“Forgive me,” Jesus says, “I don’t have a coin on me. Maybe you can show me yours. Thanks,” he says.

“Now,” he goes on, “whose face, whose head, whose graven image, is inscribed on your coin?” Look at them close.

Like our own coins, the Roman coin used for the tax had the face of a ruler inscribed on it. This was a serious problem for Jews, who believed that the depiction of any face on coin, in rock, or otherwise was strictly prohibited by the third of the ten commandments. So when Jesus asks for the coin, he’s intentionally and painfully making his questioners squirm. For a good Jew, and a Pharisee no less, it is not without embarrassment--perhaps some shame--that they pull out and hand to Jesus the newly minted idols that they carry. The very presence of the Roman coin in their very Jewish hands, in their purses, it is an acquiescence to an unwanted, a foreign, power that occupies and oppresses them, even on and up to the level of their faith, and its compromise. In an instant, the question once intended to trap Jesus has become the conviction of the ones who asked it. Because they held the coin.

Jesus takes the coin.

Now, what happens next is interesting. Jesus doesn’t read them the coin; the folks around him undoubtedly know the words by heart; and so I wonder, without looking at your coin, without peeking, what are the words on it? Do you know them by heart? If you do, what are they? Call them out!

The words around the money held in Jesus’ hand were equally well known, but in case your familiarity with 1st century Roman coins is even half as bad as mine, let me read it for you: written around the head inscribed on the coin handed to Jesus were these words: “Son of God...high priest”; not words of faith in Israel’s God, mind you, but words announcing the title of the emperor and the authority of another would-be god. It seems their idol has a name.

Now before we go on, let us be clear: in the gospel this morning, Jesus addressing the Jews, the point for both sides is not money--this is far more than financial. No, but balanced on the face of the coin in their hands is a social and political, religious, philosophical, Law of God tug-of-war for the worshipping heart of the Jew. So Jesus’ message isn’t anti-capitalist; the admonition is not to tax evasion. But only fools can hold the coins and not see the claims their idols make upon them.

But back to your coin. I wonder: when we read, “In God we trust,” like “Son of God,” are we proclaiming the God of our faith, or are we announcing as god-like the authority of the one whose silver image stares at you from one side of the coin? Does the coin you hold symbolize for you or call to mind the presence of a ruling power, one that occupies, consumes, even oppresses you--to the level of your faith, and its comprise?

You would like me to believe, no doubt, that, in your life, the power is yours, that you are in control, that your debts are your own to choose; but the coin in your hand, it betrays you--you are not the all-powerful, even in your own life. But who is? Whose image lies on your coin?

“Jonathan! Hold up! Time out. You’re going too far--I’m stoppin’ you short. Rambling on about idols and coins, all the while our holding coins in our hand; did you really think we wouldn’t have the indignant courage to be insulted? To call your slight of hand? But look here, not one of us would say that George Bush--or George Washington for that matter--is the Son of God. I hate to disappoint you, but belief in Roman deities died a long time ago indeed. Images and idols and enemies of God--good Lord, it’s just spare change. And just where did you hope this connection might lead us?

Fair enough. But before you write off this morning’s Gospel as out of touch, as not worth your hearing, as beneath your new coins, let me paraphrase a modern question all too commonplace this time of year:

“Good priests of the church, godly teachers, we understand that stewardship is important--did I mention I really liked last Sunday’s sermon on that very topic? Really, David, you outdid yourself. No, we understand stewardship, that God asks us to give, but still, we’re a little confused; when God asks for ten percent of what we earn, tell me, is that net or gross--you know, before or after taxes?”

Mmm. Nevermind that the ones who ask the question seldom give ten percent off net OR gross, but do you see the competition of the gods?

Do you feel the echo of Jesus’ words: “You cannot serve both God and Mammon”?

Sitting where you are, in your pew, on this Sunday, where does your worshipping heart finds its place in the tug of war of gods and idols?

When Jesus says, “Give to Caesar that which is Caesar’s; give to God that which is God’s,” you begin to get the feeling that Jesus isn’t talking equal shares and dual loyalties; but that he’s pushing us to a nearly impossible choice: to choose his Kingdom above all the others.

But does this renegade King understand what he’s asking? It’s a more than fair question.
To choose his Kingdom over our political allegiances, personal privileges, and financial gains, surely, this choosing will cost us;

to choose the one Kingdom that will not bring us more than what we have, but that demands we share our lives with others, this kind of choosing will utterly undo us.

but to choose the only Kingdom whose blessing is gift, this choosing alone will redeem and transform us.

Make no mistake, to choose this strange Kingdom will cost you the life you would have otherwise had. Let no one be fooled: to give to this God will be a lousy investment; there are no returns, because there is no greater call; or to what would you turn after beholding the King? The whole world made yours, God’s life opened to you, what prize would you covet still?

And sisters and brothers, the Good News of His Kingdom is that you are an heir--not later, but now--that you and I are living heirs made one with the risen Christ. His Kingdom is our calling.

So when giving to God the things that are God’s, we invoke a treason of sorts; we hold out for that which is our gift born of God; in a world of too many idols to count, we pray for their ending, we cry out, “Thy Kingdom come”; and so giving to God the things that are God’s we give like we can nowhere else: without expectation; without manipulation; without pride or self-absorbed satisfaction. In short, we can give with a naked thanksgiving: you and I found alive in God’s Kingdom, lost to the abundance of Christ’s love for us.

Amen.

Institutions: the Church's Cutting Edge

2011-10-05T15:31:00.000-07:00

If you've got a little time, check out Chris Yaw's fascinating interview with Jorge Acevedo on multi-campus churches. If you don't have as much time, click the same link and just read the synopsis. Two big thoughts come out of this for me:

1) The content itself is good, and worth digesting.

2) The interview is an example of 1 of 2 trends shaping the form of mainline evangelical churches today: a move toward institutionalization. Or as one clergy friend said when I shared the story, "They're making old-school dioceses."

Incidentally, the other half of the trend is a move toward the ancient rhythms of the liturgy. Both trends are interesting, and essential, I think, for Episcopalians to consider. Vibrant, growing churches are availing themselves of aspects of the Christian tradition that have long been central to Episcopal life and worship.

With so many Episcopalians feeling the need to apologize for the institution and liturgy, what would it mean in our current contexts to play to our strengths? How can these aspects of the Episcopal character be re-imagined to bring out the best of these strengths for God's Church?

God is Generous

2011-10-05T15:13:00.000-07:00

I remember landing my first job after high school. Money. Freedom. Just me and myself and my Subaru wagon, no more attachments, but true independence, well, and Mom and Dad to cover the insurance and, you know, the occasional tank of gas. It was only reasonable to expect. No, I wasn’t independent at all, but a step in that direction. And I remember my dad being proud of me in an “it’s about time” kind of way. But I do think he was proud. Minimum wage, maybe more if I did well, working at the neighborhood True Value Hardware store. My buddy worked there, too; he was the one who told me about the job opening.

I applied, interviewed, got the job. I think I was a little surprised to get it. Maybe a part of me was disappointed, wasn’t ready to move on. But I would have never said that then.

No more summer misadventures. I got up one morning, and it was the working world now: eight or nine hour days. Wearing the blue knit polo with the red letters in script, assembling propane gas grills, moving palates of mulch on the fork-lift, in time, graduating to the rental department where I checked in paint sprayers and rototillers and drove a huge truck downtown a couple of times. Even started doing on-site work with overwhelmed husbands who meant well but rented equipment they didn’t quite know how to use.

Not bad for a boy who not two months before still took an the extra second and a half to tell a flat head from a Philips with any confidence.

I remember telling Dad about the job, his being glad, and the silent pause as he thought it over for a second. Then he gave me advice that I remembered for its strangeness at the time. He said, “Don’t talk about the money with the guys you’re working with; I know some of them are real good friends. Don’t ask how much they make.”

Not a big deal, I thought. Sure. And it wasn’t a big deal. I never asked. Never thought to ask. Left it alone. And so I still don’t remember how one day I found out that my best friend was making fifteen cents an hour better than me, but I did.

And it made sense: he had worked there for over a year and a half, I was just starting. He was more knowledgeable than me: they let him ‘work the floor.’ And more than that, he was getting what the boss had hired him for. So was I. Permanent worker versus summer help. It made perfect sense. Perfect sense. So why couldn’t I not care?

Adding insult to injury, gospels like this morning's read the injustice of my situation backwards, imagining my story about me and my friend from my friend’s perspective: him, discovering that I’m making only fifteen cents an hour less than him. The indignity! The clowns who showed up late get paid the same as the long-time loyalists. What’s with that? Like the kid who couldn’t tell the flat head from the Philips is even in my league? Outrage. Suddenly this one-time happy situation has become unacceptable to us both.

So when the vineyard owner asks us: “Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me?...are you envious because I am generous?” his anger fits me and my friend equally well. Ironically, that we are both envious only proves that God has been generous with us both. But sometimes it’s easier to see the richness in the other person’s hands.

This past week I discovered that this dynamic, the trade-off between envy and generosity, is not just true of first time job holders fresh out of high school at the local True Value. I read an article the other day with this headline: "Facebook Makes Us All Sad Because Everyone is Happy But Us."

The article tells about a study out of Stanford that observed that people who used Facebook “noticed that they seemed to feel particularly crummy about themselves after logging onto the site and scrolling through others' attractive photos, accomplished bios, and chipper status updates. ‘They were convinced that everyone else was leading a perfect life.’”

This would have been bad enough by itself, but as it turns out envy has implications. Says the article: “...believing that others are happier with their choices than they actually are is likely to increase your own sense of inadequacy.”

What to do. The answer isn’t simply getting off Facebook, either. The article quotes Montesquieu - from the 16 and 1700s - who says, "If we only wanted to be happy it would be easy; but we want to be happier than other people, which is almost always difficult, since we think them happier than they are."

Grumbling about my circumstance. The grass is always greener... And God, somewhere in the mess of it all.

All of this got me thinking. If you set your mind to it, if you really wanted to, you could become richer than others are. Maybe have more friends. Nicer cars. Better homes and gardens. Better jobs or education. But you can never be more loved by God than others are. You just can’t do it. And if being loved by God is the most important thing that is true about you (and I happen to believe that it is), then this means that Stephen Colbert was right when he told a bunch of college graduates:

“You cannot win your life.”

You can’t win it. Because unlike cars and jobs and cash, love is not a commodity to be collected, hoarded, or valued at the expense of another. It’s not a zero-sum game. Love doesn’t play by the standard economic rules that say that the less of something there is the more that it’s worth. No, love’s value derives from the one who gives it: from God himself; the love that made the heavens and the earth, moved the mountains, sent his Son, and smiled a beautiful one smile one day and knit you in your mother’s womb. God is generous and love abounds.

So the first rule of God, and also of love, is that there is always enough. More than enough. If you’re looking to win it, forget it. But you can still join God in the game of loving others as much as God loves you. There’s more than enough for that.

But suppose you don’t like that game. You don’t want to join it. Fair is fair and hard work will get you where hard work will get you. I hear you. And you have some company this morning. Jonah. Look out for the fish!

When Jonah explains why he ran away from the people God wanted Jonah to warn, Jonah quotes the Good News as if it is very, very bad news. He says that he knew that if he warned the people, and the people asked God’s forgiveness, God would forgive, because “the Lord is gracious and full of compassion...” The same verse that’s the crown jewel of the Psalm this morning gets quoted with a repulsion on Jonah’s lips, as if the smell of it all makes him sick. The promise of God become a revulsion. Envy turns blessing into ugly words. Or tries to. It makes me wonder how many of my own ugly words stand to be turned over by love, restored to the praises of God, like gemstones mistook for ordinary gravel?

But thank God for Jonah. Would we otherwise have the courage to say how badly we wanted to win this life in the first place and how disappointing the goodness of God can be?

What if, like Israel, I was supposed to be God’s favorite? But what if, like Israel, the favor of God means becoming a blessing for the rest of the other people God loves? What, when I remember that at least once upon a time, I was “just” one of the other people God loves?

Who am I to presume on the goodness of God?

So forgive us, Lord, when we make idols out of how long we’ve worked the fields, or how long we’ve been here, or how much we give, or that we started that ministry, or God knows what else. And forgive us, especially, when our idols make us love one another less.

Let’s end with prayer. This prayer is based on an optional prayer of the Rite I liturgy, prayed at the moment just before the Assembly approaches the altar to receive the sacramental body and blood of Jesus. Let us pray.

O merciful Lord, we do not presume to come to this thy Table, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord, whose property is always to have mercy: Grant us therefore, gracious Lord, so to eat the flesh of thy dear Son Jesus Christ, and to drink his blood, that we may evermore dwell in him, and he in us.

Amen.

Pointing the Presence of God

2011-10-05T15:06:00.000-07:00

[Sermon I didn't preach on September 25, because my wife was in labor. My deep thanks to the lay readers who stepped in and preached this sermon for me.]

My dad used had a sign out front of his old church in South Bend, Indiana. The sign wasn’t particularly special: the name - St Michael and All Angels’ Episcopal Church - and service times, but then - this is what excited my dad - three blank lines that he could fill in with whatever he thought a passerby driving down Ironwood Road at fifty-plus miles an hour on her way to somewhere else might find interesting or uplifting or even mildly distracting, such that the next time said woman was firing down that direction, she might think for a second about pulling off for a pit stop with Jesus.

It was a challenge he relished. A fun game on the side. One week, though, in the winter, it was too cold with a couple of feet of snow piled up outside, so Dad sent my brother and me to put the white letters trapped in their clear plastic squares up on the sign. We tromped off in the snow. Problem. The squares already on the sign, the ones we needed to take down, were frozen on good, so we had to put some elbow into it, and when they finally came loose, they had some momentum, if you know what I mean, and they shot off like rockets, a good fifteen yards, and cut through the snow like a hot knife through butter. And more snow falling fast. We didn’t find those letters again until spring.

You’ve seen these signs. You can even generate your own online for kicks. Three lines. And I’ve seen folks go for broke in any and all directions: the crass, the corny, the well-intentioned. Some feel like gimmicks. But a good process to take because for better or worse, signs make you think about what it is you have to share.

And once the car has pulled off Ironwood, that is, the interested or distracted individual is now on your campus, church signs don’t become less important. A kind of essential hospitality, pointing you to where the action is. I once circled a church building twice on foot before I found an unlocked door with any kind of indication as to where it went or what I’d find there. I felt a little bit like Joshua at Jericho. Let’s just circle ‘round a few more times, I thought, and blow some trumpets. Just get on with it.

And while these signs, hospitality signs, don’t bear the creative pressure of the roadside street signs - they’re just pointers, arrows - they still make you think about what it is you have to share.

For this reason, the most memorable signs I’ve seen in churches aren’t for the new folks. They are reminders to the folks who already attended. Not because anyone was forgetting where the restrooms were, but these were signs that kept the people thinking about, kept calling the people back to, what it was they had to share.

So one church I visited had a sign as you left the parking lot. Not for the ones coming in, but for the people going out. “You are now entering the mission field.” A reminder that on Sunday they received food for the journey, and that Monday through Saturday was the journey. The wandering, the purposing, the serving, the loving, the being, the growing, the real task of discipleship.

Another church had a reminder sign placed just about the doorway as you entered the worship space: “Expect a miracle,” it said. Expect a miracle. And I knew a priest who inherited that sign. He was tempted to change it: “Lower your expectations,” he wanted to say. But he knew that the sign wasn’t about him.

Expect a miracle. Not of your pastor. Not of yourself. But of God. I like the sign because signs are reminders of what you think you have to share. And this sign was a pointer to God.

It may sound too simple, but I think that sometimes the best way to point to God is simply to expect him. Expect a miracle. Expect God’s presence. To behave in ways that only make sense if God has shown up, too.

Like bowing as you come up to the altar. A simple example. A good thing to do, reverencing the presence of God. But only if God is present. Otherwise it’s a superstitious twitch. Other things that only make sense if God is present, I think: mercy and generosity. That is, giving and forgiving. These are actions that allude to a deeper story, the story of Christ crucified and risen; lives that have felt and received the immeasurable goodness of God.

Sometimes the best way to point to God is simply to expect him. To behave in ways that only make sense if God has shown up, too.

I like to imagine our lives as little signs on the edge of the street whose actions point to the mystery and reality of the living God at work in our lives and in the world.

Of course, if my life can be a sign that points to God, it goes without saying that the sign becomes secondary to the thing it points to, the presence of God. In business they have a saying, “Don’t love your product, love what your product does.” So what I love about bowing is not the angle of my head relative to the altar, but the presence of the One my bowing acknowledges. What I love about forgiveness is that it points to the presence of the God who has forgiven me.

Anyway...

In the gospel this morning, the religious leaders get stumped by Jesus when Jesus asks them about John the Baptist. Who sent him? Jesus asks. John. If the leaders say, “eh, he’s just another guy,” the people who mob them in their anger. If the leaders say, “God sent him,” they know that Jesus will ask why they didn’t follow him. Jesus exposes them: the religious leaders don’t actually believe that God is sending anyone these days. They’ve gotten so good at waiting, they’ve stopped ever looking for God to show up. They are signs without a point.

And Jesus comes singing, “The Kingdom of God is come near,” and this is Good News for the folks who don’t know better, who are expecting a miracle, who are reaching out for the Kingdom, but the ones who do know better are left with the sheer duty of it all, trying to keep the promises that it seems God won’t, or maybe can’t, keep.

It’s a kind of unholy religion the religious folks in the gospel are maintaining: trying to cover for the God who appears to be shirking his responsibilities. With no expectation that things will change. Keeping a polished front, without connecting, like the tax collectors and the prostitutes, to the one who now says he is the Messiah. Like the spouse of the alcoholic parent, the chief priests keep the house clean and make excuses for God - he’s probably working late, I don’t know why he missed your game - covering, protecting, enabling an absentee god that’s really an idol of their own making. Nobody is expecting a miracle. Nobody thinks God will show up. They don’t have eyes to see or ears to hear.

And I wonder if that ever still happens.

If keeping the signs ever becomes more important than the One the signs were made to point to.

Cursillo groupies ask a question of each other each time they get together: when, in the past week, did you feel closest to Christ?

That’s their way of trying to keep the signs of their lives oriented to the One they were made to point to.

But even with questions like this, we sometimes get turned around.

Like the child who came to church every single Sunday - a streak of more than two years - with a determination that would rival Cal Ripken Jr.’s, and every time he thought about how this made him better than the ones who didn’t come quite as often. Or the man who didn’t come as often because he was convinced that this showed how he wasn’t caught up in the self-righteous games of the uber-religious. He’s not an institutional sell-out like the rest of ‘em. Or the acolyte who studied the way to light the candles without messing it up but didn’t even try to forgive his younger brother for his pounding him last weekend. Or the member whose tithe had become a badge of honor such that she could keep herself certain that no one was as invested in the life of her church or the Kingdom of God as she was. Or the priest who had decided that self-help psychology was probably of more use than the Gospel because, while psychology was of less long-term benefit, at least it didn’t always require his embarrassing God to show up.

All of them, in their strange ways, keeping the signs, but not pointing in clear ways to anything of lasting value.

So here’s the question for us, for you: what in your life is of lasting value? What in your life is of lasting value that does not depend on your self and your relative accomplishments - that is, your being better than others at something - and your needing to keep up a good front? This is the place of forgiveness and mercy, receiving the kindness of God.

Rebekah shared with me that a Catholic friend once said to his Episcopal friend that he thought it was interesting that Episcopalians take Communion while Catholics receive it. I hope not, but that’s the question:

In what ways are you pointing to God, not by your merit, not polished, not fixed, but broken, simply by expecting to meet him? Receiving the gift that is God.

We religious folks are the quickest to miss it - that’s what Jesus tells us. But it’s not too late. He’s still here. Not going anywhere. Ours is an open invitation to join the tax collectors and prostitutes - if they’ll have us - the ones who are enjoying their inside joke with Jesus: that sins are forgiven, that lives are made new, that fear and control are being replaced by God’s kindness and grace, the joy of the Kingdom. That in the Kingdom of God, all signs point to ‘yes!’

That’s the best thing about signs. Signs call you back to the thing you have to share. O! to be made a pointer to the presence, the Kingdom, of God.

Amen.

A Seed Worth Planting

2011-10-05T14:53:00.000-07:00

Preached on Sept 24, 2011, on the occasion of Jessica Flores' Quinceanera.

Happy birthday, young lady. Today we’re celebrating the birthday of a gifted, intelligent, musical, beautiful, funny, and spiritually committed young lady.

Jessica Flores, who in addition to all of these things also happens to be a world-class duct-tape fashionista.

Speaking of, Jessica, I have an early present for you. (pull out tape with pictures of Jesus on it - ask David Read) It’s Jesus tape! From a friend of a friend.
I’m not going to talk long, but I do hope a little bit of what I stay will, well, stick.
When I sat down with Jessica, the image from Scripture that she gave to me for this day was the gospel we just heard, and it’s about growing. (It’s also this year’s diocesan theme, but I don’t think you were brown-nosing, Jessica.) The sower scatters seeds and Jessica told me that most days she feels a little bit like a seed, and sometimes the ground is thorny. It’s not always comfortable.
Sometimes thorns mean you don’t get to determine the pace or the shape of your growing. But Jessica remembers the One who planted her, and as much as any of us here, she has a strong desire to plant roots in rich soul and continue to flourish.
Jessica, when I asked you for three words that got at what spiritual maturity means for you, you told me strength, trust, and love. You spoke about knowing your strong foundation; in yours words, knowing what he’s there for. You spoke of maturity in Christ Jesus as returning his love with your heart.

You’re a good seed, Jessica. And your prayer to return his love with your heart is our prayer for you tonight, too.

Seeds become plants. They mature and they grow. Of course, ‘plant’ is a noun and also a verb, and even the nouns get to do the verb, that is, good plants plant. Scripture will talk about this in terms of bearing good fruit. It’s an image as simple as an oak tree raining acorns on your lawn. Good plants grow for sure, and one of the things that it means to grow is that they also drop seeds. Good plants plant.

When he was talking to us churches at diocesan council, Bishop Reed told us something about planting that I think applies here:

The seeds we’ve been given to scatter are “the word of the Kingdom.” We may fling the seeds of service and personality and hospitality. We might scatter seeds of relevance, of market branding, of that perfect blend of traditional and contemporary, of that perfect blend of coffee... but after awhile, after we’ve thrown everything else we can think of, we will reach in our seed bags, and find one little seed caught in the lining, and it’s the word that says, “We preach Christ, and him crucified...” And unless we can throw that out into the field, too, everything else we do becomes nothing more than, “We preach ourselves, a little bit improved.” To tell of Christ crucified is bold talk, maybe, in a distracted, disinterested world, but it’s the word that’s planted in us to offer others.

Jessica, the bishop was talking to churches, but I think he wouldn’t mind being counted as talking to you. You have so many gifts, and stand to bless even more of us than you already have with your life and witness.

Remember, hold onto, that one, small seed caught in the lining - we preach Christ, and him crucified. It’s a seed for every season and every day of your journey. It’s the seed that doesn’t ask you to keep it all together. It’s the seed that’s still there when it feels like nothing else is. It’s a seed you can scatter even on thorny days. God knows he knows something about thorns. It’s the seed that says you serve because Christ first served you, you love because he first loves you, you forgive because he has forgiven you.

Jessica, plant this seed as often as you think to. And let it be the seed that flowers in your heart.

Amen.

A Fragrant Offering

2011-10-04T12:04:00.000-07:00

I'm behind on the posts here. My wife gave birth to our second child on 9/25 and we're delighted. The blog will catch up in time. :)

Sermon preached 10/2/2011, on the occasion of Mae Genevieve's baptism, and one week after Jude Robert's birth.

I’m hoping just now that I don’t become an experiment measuring the effects of sleep depravity on public speaking. Bear with me this morning. It’s been a big week. And it’s not just me, either, you, too - we Church - have had a wonderfully full week; full to overflowing:

The Quinceanera last Saturday - Jessica was beautiful - Jude Robert’s birth then on Sunday(!!), and those of you who graciously stepped up for me at just a couple of contractions’ notice, to lead our Sunday worship. (Bek and baby are well; we felt every one of your prayers.) On Thursday, a return to normalcy: a Vestry meeting. And then, on Saturday, a funeral for a man to this point unknown to our parish. We, Church, welcomed his family into our doors and joined our prayers to their own as, in the sure and certain hope of resurrection, we commended his soul to God. And, then, this morning, in just a few minutes, a baptism. Praise God! Mae Genevieve. You, Church, again, lifting her up. Promising to uphold her in her life in Christ. And then, also today, we Church begin our October conversation about financial stewardship. What we do as Church, as Christians, with our money.

It’s been a full week. On the surface, too much to do justice to any of it. Too much to be present to. But beneath the surface, a perfectly perfect week being the Church, the people of God bearing God’s fruit in this world. Bearing the fruits of the kingdom.

From our gospel this morning: Jesus says, “...the Kingdom of God will be...given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom.”

Jesus was talking to the religious leaders of Israel. Israel, the people that God had set apart to be a light for all the nations. Israel, the people to whom God sent the prophets to encourage them in their faithfulness. Israel, the people to whom in the fullness of time God sent his only Son.

And this is the unedited version of the words Jesus tells them, “The Kingdom of God, Jesus tells them, will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom.”

We could guess from this passage at the reasons that lead Jesus to say that Israel had forsaken its calling, but what we need not guess is what the calling had been, is, and will continue to be for God’s People: Bear fruit. “...the Kingdom of God will be...given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom.” That’s us. Grafted into the people called Israel. To bear fruits of the Kingdom. That’s our call.

The call to be fruitful is what allows a week of expected and unexpected events in the life of St Christopher’s - or your own life, for that matter - to be more than mere busyness, random interruptions bordering on chaos. Have you ever had a week of random interruptions, bordering on chaos, I wonder? Rather, the fruit of the kingdom is what we bear of our faith in our lives as we live them. We’re bearing fruit, good or bad, all the time. Discipleship, the way of the cross, means the disciplines, the internal order, necessary to flourish, grow good fruit, in the way of Jesus.

So in life and, as we remembered yesterday, in death we walk with one another following in Jesus’s steps, with the help of the Spirit. For all its unexpected interruptions, this past week at St Christopher’s carried the unmistakable scent, the aroma, of good fruit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

Because the life of the Spirit isn’t predictable, but it does adhere to a certain shape. Which is to say that faithfulness doesn’t depend on our being in control. That’s good news. You can do it anywhere!

So I was talking with Chelsea, Asher, and Blu, who will present Mae Genevieve for baptism today. We were going over the service. I said that I would ask them - and you - if you believed in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I explained that you would use lots of words, but that basically your answer is ‘yes.’ And I was telling them that I like to ask children if they know what that yes means for the way they will live their lives. I like to ask children because they are honest enough to say ‘no.’ They’ll say, ‘no, it’s not all that clear, you’ve still got some explaining to do,’ and they’re right.

I told Chelsea, Asher, and Blu the same thing I tell the children with the honesty to say they don’t know, and that is that, at a baptismal service, after we ask the ones about to be baptized if they believe in the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, we ask them another five questions. And these five questions describe the life of someone who has said ‘yes’ to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. What it looks like. These are questions that enflesh our theology. These are questions of Christian fruitfulness.

Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?

Will you persevere in resisting evil, and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?

Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?

Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?

Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?

These questions, with the help of the Spirit, and the Church’s profession of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit give you all of the resources necessary for fruitfulness. And fruitfulness of this kind, fruit of the kind that smells like it was picked from the tree of Jesus, is the only real job of the Church.

Now, do you remember when I said at the beginning that we would be talking some this morning about financial stewardship? We’re going to start now, (fight the urge to glaze over!) but there’s a catch - we’re going to start talking financial stewardship, but we’re not going to stop talking about bearing fruit. We’re going to keep talking as if growing generous hearts (our giving) was part and parcel of the fruit we’re called to bear. This is also to say - and I want to say this clearly - that financial giving is not an objective that has any worth for Christians apart from our faithful embodiment, the living out, of the Gospel, being fruitful.

A practical example of how fruitfulness might reframe our conversations about stewardship:
Lots of people in lots of places from lots of churches are ready to tell you (if they haven't already) that churches need new people in order to meet their financial obligations. For many, this information is simply a given. It's how the church is going to 'work'. The starting place for what we do. So church growth, which of itself might have been a good - and really exciting - thing ("Go! Tell my disciples that I'm risen from the dead!") instead becomes code for maintaining - or finding - financial solvency.

*sigh*

I've never seen this mindset work, because it all but destroys the church's ability to value the next visitor through the doors as a person beloved of God (as our baptismal vows suggest, as opposed to a pledge).

Still, some folks dismiss the beloved-of-God argument, reminding me and my ilk that the church, in the end, is a business (a statement I might want to nuance, but probably can't talk the other person out of).

*double sigh*

Even so (and this is the point that connects to the fruit), the person who insists on the church as a business in search of new blood, new money, is not off the hook yet, I think, because by her own pragmatic standard she must still answer the question: 'What if the newcomers give as generously as you give? Is that good news or bad news for the Church?' (It's an honest question only made potentially uncomfortable by the conscience of the hearer.)

We are (and I am) never not called to view my stewardship, my discipleship, my lived response to Jesus, as priority number one. It’s not about my changing them out there, but God changing me, in here. Growing the fruit of a generous heart.

So growing on the outside (the good kind that sticks) requires growing on the inside. But growing on the inside might become so fruitful that we lose our financial motivation for outward growth altogether. That is, we might become so generous, we won’t need the other people’s money. What a problem. What then? What if we wake up one day and all we're left with is the awkward and embarrassing command he left us with: "Go! Tell my disciples that I'm risen from the dead!"?

That’s fruitfulness.

One last thought: “The Kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom.” That’s us. But fruit is not the new people. Fruit is what the Spirit grows in the ones who follow Christ. Still, new people are very important, because fruit is what new people eat in order to live. You and me, like grapes from the vineyard, mixed up with Christ, made like the wine, the blood, of salvation. You and me, receiving the Body of Christ. You and me, praying to be made the Body of Christ for others. That’s pretty cool.

Here’s the take-home: In what ways are you taking seriously the call to fruitfulness, bearing Christ, in your life? In what ways are you taking playfully the call to fruitfulness in your life? He’s not asking you to control what you can’t; only to be faithful in the day to day walk with him. Fruitful living.
Kermit the frog said once, “Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.” Fruitfulness is bearing your fruit such that the fragrance is beautiful. Your aroma, like Christ’s. Not only can you do it, after a week like this past one, I’d be remiss not to tell you, “You’re doing it already.”

And so my prayer for Mae, whom we’ll baptize in a minute, is also for us: May the one who has begun this good work in you bring it to completion.

Amen.

Finding Faith in Finances: an out-loud self-examination

2011-09-13T11:30:00.000-07:00

Lots of people in lots of places from lots of churches are ready to tell you (if they haven't already) that churches need new people in order to meet their financial obligations. For many, this information is simply a given. It's how the church is going to 'work'. The starting place for what we do. So church growth, which of itself might have been a good - and really exciting - thing ("Go! Tell my disciples that I'm risen from the dead!") instead becomes code for financial solvency.

*sigh*

I've never seen this mindset work, because it all but destroys the church's ability to value the next visitor through the doors as a person beloved of God (as opposed to a pledge). Still, some folks dismiss the beloved-of-God argument, reminding me and my ilk that the church, in the end, is a business (a statement I might want to nuance, but probably can't talk the other person out of).

*sigh*

Even so (and this is my point in writing), my interlocutor is not off the hook, I think, because by her own pragmatic standard she must still answer the question: 'What if the newcomers give as generously as you give? Is that good or bad news for the Church?' (It's an honest question only made potentially insulting by the conscience of the hearer.)

We are (and I am) never not called to stewardship, discipleship, our lived response to Jesus, as priority number one.

Growing on the outside (the good kind that sticks) requires growing on the inside. But growing on the inside might become so fruitful that we lose our financial motivation for outward growth altogether. What then? What if we wake up one day and all we're left with is the that awkward and embarrassing command he left us with: "Go! Tell my disciples that I'm risen from the dead!"?

Forgiveness, the Future, and the Freedom of God

2011-09-12T10:00:00.000-07:00

*Sermon on the 13th Sunday after Pentecost, 9/11/2011 at St Christopher's, Portland, TX.*

Jesus tells Peter to forgive seventy-seven times. And if you grew up on the King James Version (God’s own translation, some folks will tell me) it’s even more, seventy-times-seven, or 490 times. The word order in the original language is what makes the confusion. Did Jesus say ‘seventy times and seven’ - you know, like four-and-twenty blackbirds? Or was he testing the disciples’ knowledge of their multiplication tables? That’s the question in the translation. That's why the difference. But you know what? Something tells me it doesn’t matter. That, either way, Jesus doesn’t expect Peter to keep track. Do you get that sense, too?

Seventy-seven times.

Ask me to do something three times, or even seven times – like Peter suggests – and each time will feel like the first. I’ll stop. I'll take a step back. I’ll think through it. I’ll start with step one and move on to step two. I’ll remember step one and step two after the fact. Ask me to do something seventy-seven - or 490 times - and at some point, if I make it all the way to the end, not only will I not be able to remember each step, at some point, in a real sense, I will have stopped doing the task; I’ll have simply become it.

And so I wonder if that's what Jesus wants for Peter, to become forgiveness. I wonder what it means to become forgiveness. Like a cloth soaked through with holy oil, drenched with forgiveness, such that forgiveness is the fragrance others smell on me. We’ve all known people whose perfume has a way of announcing, “I may have left the room an hour ago, but don’t dare forget I was here!” Aunt Mildred. Would that forgiveness would be such a scent on me! Is that what it means to become forgiveness, I wonder?

On most days, I can’t imagine becoming forgiveness, what it would look like, but I still believe that it is theoretically possible, even for me. I’ve simply encountered too many living cloths soaked through with holy oil to dismiss the possibility out of hand.

One such holy cloth in my life is Mark. Mark was a paraplegic young man at the summer camp for the physically and mentally challenged where I was a rookie counselor after my junior year of college. Mark had attended Michigan State, and though he couldn’t speak, he finished two years there. He was a remarkable man with a soft spot for Dr. Pepper and the Chicago Cubs. My first interactions with Mark were unbelievably awkward. I didn’t know how to start. I was nineteen and had never helped a grown man use the restroom or spoon fed the same man apple sauce. My awkwardness melted quickly, however, because Mark was a holy cloth drenched in forgiveness. His eyes spoke compassion, and his sound board emitted the absolution that his mouth couldn’t speak. He found something in even my broken efforts to love. Mark’s patient forgiveness of me opened a friendship more real than any I had imagined was possible on this earth.

Another holy cloth in my life is Father Tony. I'll be honest, I don’t know Father Tony well, but once a year, every year, he’s there, a retired clergyman hunched over and reading the lessons as we travel through the church of the Holy Family at a midweek Eucharist on our way to the beach. And he reads the Scriptures so slowly and tenderly it’s like he’s speaking them back to God as a love song. As if he’s singing a beautful descant in harmony with the written words and the descant says, “Look! Look! My forgiveness and the whole love of God are here in these words and if it’s all the same to you I’m going to linger in these words and stay awhile.”

I wonder what it means to become forgiveness.

Ten years now after the first 9/11. And I am still wondering what it means to become forgiveness.

Whatever it means to become forgiveness, I believe that it at least means being dipped in the holy oil of this morning’s gospel.

I love and hate this morning’s gospel. Like a mirror that magnifies your image too much and the zits and warts show up. I always catch myself, for example, at the words: “and seizing him by the throat, he said, ‘Pay what you owe.’” Seizing him by the throat. I know that emotion. I’ve felt it rush through my neck like hot blood. Seizing him by the throat. The very opposite of forgiveness. (If you don’t know forgiveness, there’s still a good chance you can pick out its opposite.) The erosion of the soul. The first hint that I have forgotten the Good News that changes everything.

This morning’s gospel reminds me that my judgment of you leaves me forgetting that, once, a very long time ago, he died for me, too. Because I also had a very large debt. Much larger than the one you owe me. And it’s not that the line of credit has been perpetually extended. He didn't raise my debt ceiling. It is not that I’ve refinanced divine favor at a lower, more advantageous, rate of interest. That’s not Good News; that’s a noose. No, the Good News is that the debt itself has been forgiven. Every last red cent. It’s gone. I’m free.

Once upon a time, the promise of this freedom was wasted on me, because I had always assumed I was already free. But then I learned that there’s a real difference between the freedom of an un-captured man on the run and the freedom which tells a man he doesn't have to run anymore. My freedom had been a kind of running away, a hiding. But he tells me I’m free, no more running. “You’re free. Stop your panting.” It is a wonderful thing to be that kind of free.

So I come up for air, dripping with oil after being dipped in this gospel. And maybe you owe me a debt. Whatever you owe me, I no longer need it, because the debt for which I was pinching my pennies, the debt for which I was saving, is gone. I am free.

I have noticed some things that people drenched in forgiveness seem to have in common: for starters, they aren’t afraid to fail. Good Lord, can you imagine what a life delivered from the fear of failure might feel like? A friend on my twitter feed posted this week: “Today’s challenge: fail early and often!” That's a friend of forgiveness.

Another thing I’ve noticed about people drenched in forgiveness: they take time to love. They seldom seem rushed. Like the old priest and his love song. They talk with you as if you are worth the time it takes to visit. They don’t give many answers, but they take time and listen with a purpose. They tell you when they don’t understand. Because more than appearing to hear you, they really want to hear you.

A last thing that I’ve noticed about people drenched in forgiveness: they laugh a lot. At themselves. With others. It doesn’t matter. Not the cynic’s laugh you learn from TV, but the laugh of one whose joy is not dependent on her standing. The joy that receives the present moment and the universe, the whole cosmos, as if it were a gift from God himself to share. Because they understand that it is.

Do you know what I enjoy most about people drenched in forgiveness? They open the future. They walk in a future wide enough for both of us. That can imagine us together. Forgiveness is what makes a Sunday marking the 10 year anniversary of 9/11 wide enough to also hold a barbecue luncheon at a small Texas church and the vision we have gathered to share. Forgiveness makes it possible to celebrate the future without betraying the pain of the past.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu once wrote a book called, “No Future without Forgiveness.” We have received forgiveness - we receive it as often as we gather and drink the cup of this table - and so the future is open to us. Standing on the edge of that future this morning, can I make a request? Let’s make our way boldly, leaning full-weight on the forgiveness of Jesus. Let’s not hold back. Let's need him all the way. Let’s make our way joyfully, remembering the true freedom made open to us. Let'ss make the way generously – giving of the forgiveness that has been given to us. Freely you have received, says St Paul, freely give. Forgiving into a future wide enough to share, because God is Christ Jesus is sharing his future with us.

Jesus tells Peter to forgive seventy-seven times - or seventy times seven if you're old school and prefer the King James. The word order in the original language is what makes the confusion. But you know what? Something tells me he doesn’t expect Peter to keep track.

Amen.

Reclaiming the Mystery

2011-09-08T15:44:00.000-07:00

**From the Fall 2011 Newsletter at St Christopher's.**

___________________________________________________________

“Stay loose, learn to watch snails, plant impossible gardens, make friends with freedom and uncertainty, look forward to dreams.”

Motivational sign on a children’s classroom wall

I have the highest admiration for teachers. Teachers talk a lot about summer breaks and how much they look forward to times of escape from the classroom, but the twinkle in their eyes this time of year betrays how much they also look forward to children and stories and class pets and the lessons that together they’ll learn with their students over these next nine or so months. It’s that twinkle in their eyes this time of year that I admire.

To commit oneself to another’s understanding, to display the kind of patience that leaves a student believing she is loved, these are remarkable qualities. I often wonder what it is that inspires certain individuals to offer themselves in this way.

Recently, I read a reflection from a career educator who was grousing about standardized testing and the government jargon that comes with it: language like “meta-concepts” and “the implementation of outcome-based instruction,” for example. The teacher observed that, in all of the official standardized instructions he had read, “I never come on words such as ‘delight’ or ‘joy’ or ‘curiosity’ or, for that matter, ‘kindness,’ ‘empathy’, ‘compassion for another child.’ Nothing, in short, that would probably come first for almost any teacher working with young children.”

What inspires some people to become teachers? Not government jargon. No, the words that make teachers are the words of children.

I believe that the same dynamic is true in the Church. That is, necessary words like “church growth” and “building committee” and “capital campaign” sometimes jostle over and against the childlike words of faith you knew when God first found you. I still marvel at the clarity and wonder with which Annie simply says, “mercy.” I wonder: what are the words that you knew when God first found you?

Here are mine: Christ. Light. Beauty. Love. Mystery.

I want to encourage anybody with a desire to rediscover your first words of faith with the news that your leadership at St. Christopher’s is committed to that journey.

This fall, no fewer than four new discipleship groups are gathering at church and in homes to share meals, stories, and life with one other along the pilgrim walk of faith. Others are working on your behalf to feed the poor, tutor children, lead our worship. A vibrant core of leaders is committed to opening and sharing the opportunity to grow closer to Jesus and become more like him.

As your Rector, and working alongside these leaders, it is my strong conviction that the present opportunity before our parish is Jesus and the unending life that he brings, and that if we take hold of this opportunity with both hands, the rest of what matters will come.

So Rally Day is around the corner – September 11! – and I really hope you’ll come, but here’s a fair-warning disclaimer: the call that you’ll find there is not cutting-edge. The gimmicks have all been shelved. The call is ancient; the faith is as true as the words of children; and it is the Savior who calls you to reclaim the words that first met you on that slightly strange day you first looked up and all at once knew that God loved you.

Wonderful mystery: he’s calling you still.

    Faithfully yours in Christ,
    Father Jonathan+

Friendship, Confrontation, and the Kingdom of God

2011-09-06T15:33:00.000-07:00

Sermon from 9.4.11, St Christopher's by the Sea

If I asked you to summarize the gospel we heard just now with just one word, I wonder if that word would be “friendship.” Somehow, I doubt it.

Matthew’s gospel this morning is about confrontation. Truth-telling. The one-on-one airing of grievances. Maybe most generously, it’s about ‘speaking the truth in love.’ And I suppose how you feel about speaking the truth in love depends on which word you accent the loudest. Truth or love. But then, a part of us wonders: is it always, or even rightly, a tradeoff?

Holy counsel for how to approach someone you believe has sinned against you. What to do next. Not asking forgiveness this time, but asking to be asked for forgiveness. Because you have been hurt.

And a part of us gets queasy at the thought of confrontation like this. It’s not easy to admit you’ve been hurt. It takes courage to name hurt to the very same person who, knowingly or unknowingly, inflicted it. Confrontation like this makes most of us queasy, and the rare people who enjoy confrontation like this are by and large the reasons that the rest of us don’t like confrontation like this. Because some of us feast on being wronged and banging truth on another’s head like a hammer. And others of us avoid conflict at any cost in order to avoid our being feasted on. And on our bad days we call this mix of tolerance and evasion “love.”

You know, on second thought, maybe we should just skip this one. Turn the page and move on. You didn't ask for this. Come back next week. I’m sure there’s a happier gospel coming.

(That’s a joke. It’s not how we roll, and besides, I think there’s more here than just that.)

Jesus said, "If another members of the church sins against you..."

No question, this passage is about how to approach someone you believe has sinned against you, has wronged you. Step by step. But this passage is not about getting even. Jesus makes clear from the get-go that the goal of these steps is to “regain the one”, to be reconciled, to let love move. So not only is the process not about getting even, the process is not even really mostly about you or me. It’s least of all about standing up for yourself and your rights. No, this passage is about how you know what a real friend is, and how you can be a holy friend worth having.

How can I be a holy friend worth having?

If I asked you to summarize this gospel with only one word, I wonder if that word would be “friendship.” That’s the case I believe these scriptures are making.

Because confronting is something we only do for those we really love.
Because confronting is one way of saying: “I refuse to give up on you.”

Not long after the events of 9/11, the theologian Stanley Hauerwas found himself on a panel at the University of Virginia discussing America’s response to the murderous events of that day. He closed with a prayer, asking God for the grace to make us people capable of breaking the chain of violence. To break the chain of violence, he said, would require that we remember that God is God and we are not. He then prayed that we would be given instead to small gestures of beauty and tenderness. Stanley was rejecting war as a Christian response to the terrorist attacks of 9/11.

A fellow theologian and good friend, Robert Wilkens, was incensed at the perspective presented in Stanley’s talk. Stanley tells the story: “I did not want to lose Robert as a friend, but our differences were deep. Robert wrote soon after the event, asking me if I disdained all “natural loyalties.” He argued that our lives are interwoven with the lives of others whom we rightly use force to protect. We are a better people, he said, because of the sacrifices made in World War II. He was angry that I failed to acknowledge the ways in which our relationships with others bind us to protect them. He was angry that I seemed to be forsaking all forms of patriotism. That Robert wrote to challenge me I regard as a profound act of friendship.”

I share that exchange in part because of our nearness to the tenth anniversary of 9/11, but mostly because of that last sentence: "That Robert wrote to challenge me I regard as a profound act of friendship.”

Neither of them changed the other’s mind, by the way.

But later, Stanley writes, “Robert and I remain friends.” The unity that transcends their differences, they both realize, is in their love for Christ and his church.

“If the member listens to you, you have regained that one.”

Stanley Hauerwas reflects of another time in which he was confronted by a friend. (Stanley has a knack for finding confrontation, I suppose.) He says, “That he came to me directly to call me to task indicated that he thought it still possible I was capable of recognizing the truth.”

I laughed when I saw that one. Do we sometimes hide the truth from each other because we think the other person isn’t smart enough to understand? That is, is our silence a kind of put-down?

Because confronting is something we only do for those we really love.
Because confronting is one way of saying to another person: “I refuse to give up on you.”

It’s not that we’ll talk them out of it. It’s not even that we’re always in the right. It’s just that talking about someone - no matter how many times we say, “Bless his heart” - is not as blessed as the occasion we pull him aside or put our arm around her and say the three words that open up everything: “Can we talk?”

Can we talk?

Can we talk? I don’t know if you know this, but it really hurt me when you did that. Can we talk? It grieves me to see you treat yourself that way. Can we talk? I believe God has more in mind for you than that. Can we talk? You may think that your behavior is not a big deal, but I believe you might be harming your soul. Can we talk?

Because, if your concern that a sister or brother is on the wrong path does not bring you to your sister or brother, then your concern is only in your head. It’s not physical. It’s like love without arms or faith without works. More often than not, it’s worse than dead, it’s gossip.

We might paraphrase Ezekiel along the lines of today’s conversation this way: the wherewithal to see sin without the courage to name it to the person involved is its own kind of sin. It is evil.

A preacher's disclaimer: I’m not speaking just now with a particular person in mind. Except maybe myself. Truly. But if you’re hearing a voice that feels like it’s speaking to you, don’t blow it off. It’s a true voice: the Spirit of God in conversation with your conscience. The Spirit alive in your conscience, your very soul. Listen to it.

How many times have we heard or said something to the effect of: “I could never say that to her face; I love her too much.” But indeed, if you did love her, you could not but say that to her face. Or would you hide the truth, salvation, from the one you claim to love?

Learning to be a holy friend worth having, in whom Christ is present, has everything to do with these words.

One last thought on that note - a thought that makes this whole business so much more than mere moralism:

As he dies for us on the cross, Christ himself confronts the sinful powers of the world; it is, in a sense, the ultimate confrontation. Christ is killed because Jesus’s refusal to join the madness of the world convicts the world, and us, of madness. Because he is who he is, we see ourselves as we are. We don’t like it. But also, in that same moment, in that same breath, the tenderest instruction at the place of confrontation: for there, on the cross, he whispers, “Father, forgive them, they don’t know what they are doing.”

“Greater love has no one than this, than that he lay down his life for his friends,” Jesus says. On difficult days, when you are unsure of what it means to call Jesus your friend, remember that it surely means at least this much: that he had the courage to confront us on the cross with the unyielding love of God.

Such a friend we have in Jesus.
Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Connecting Places: the Church Visible

2011-09-06T13:07:00.001-07:00

The Church is people. That's a reality we can't remind ourselves of too much, I think. Part of how we live into that at St. C's is in getting outside of ourselves on a regular basis. Each week, I'll post a few out-of-the-building meet ups. I'd love you to join us at any of these. Or invite us to where you are! We travel well.

September 6
9:00-11:30 a.m. Food Pantry Distribution Day at St C's

September 7
10:00 a.m. at Texas A&M Corpus Christi

September 8
2:00 p.m. Bell/Whittington Public Library

September 12
10:00 a.m. Starbucks

September 14
6:30 p.m. ALPHA at Dairy Queen

a few jarred frogs (sermon for Pentecost 11)

2011-08-29T13:00:00.000-07:00

It’s good to be home. Really good to be home.

I know, I know...I started last week’s sermon that way, too. But then it occurred to me that some of you weren’t here last week, and maybe you’re thinking I’m just back from vacation and that I look especially good this week, especially rested from my two weeks ago two weeks vacation, and far be it from me to turn down a well-intentioned compliment. And besides, it’s still true:

It is good to be home. You’re looking good, too. Not quite so dry as last week. And that’s a good thing.

I want to tell you about a harrowing social experiment: a two-year old’s birthday party. This past Friday morning, Rebekah and Annie and I celebrated Annie’s birthday with an invitation-only front yard, Walmart-special, blue plastic pool, swim and picnic party. It was fantastic. We like to party, to celebrate one other, but Rebekah and I are old-school in this respect: the rule is one invitation per year being celebrated. So two friends this year: Lilly and Mateo.

To some parents (but mostly to people who haven’t yet become parents) this rule sounds severe: only two friends?? Isn’t that a lame party? But we didn’t make the rule up, we only decided that the books we read and the parents we talked to were on to something: namely, that the one-invitation-per-year-being-celebrated guideline has an uncanny ability to track with children’s natural social development.

After all, Annie and Lilly and Mateo sat in the same pool, but they didn’t really play with each other, so much as they played alongside one another. They aren’t there yet. Parallel play, because concepts that we take for granted like sharing and turn-taking and kindness, much less higher forms of social etiquette, well, they’re still working on those.

It’s not that the children can’t - to borrow Paul’s phrase from Romans - live peaceably with one another. It’s just that they’re on some of the more modest, beginning steps of what that peace is, what it looks like, and where it might one day lead them. One day, I can imagine Annie and Lilly and Mateo serving their communities as agents for peace, champions of love, leaders who remind people that the world has been reconciled by Christ and that the victory is God’s; that is, one day, I hope the party gets bigger. But it’s important to remember, I think, that the small steps are more connected to those latter steps than sometimes we give them credit for. Sometimes you can’t get there if you don’t start here. Sometimes it’s enough just to get in the pool with two friends.

I share this because I think that sometimes the Scriptures we read here on Sunday can be so lofty in their vision and so demanding of their hearers that instead of imagining the more modest, beginning steps, we become either easily discouraged or entirely dismissive of the call that has been placed before us.

That would be a mistake.

So, for example, Peter tells Jesus that he doesn’t want him to die, because Peter understands that if Jesus is called to die, Peter might also be called to die, and Peter’s not ready for that. We hear that, and it’s not just that we are like Peter and don’t want to die for our faith; no, more than that, we can’t imagine what that would possibly mean. The message, on the surface, simply doesn’t have any practical overlap with the lives that we live as lower to upper middle class Americans. Now maybe we shouldn’t give up on our being able to imagine what it would mean to give our lives for our faith, but the fact that we can’t imagine it now is a bit of a barrier to even putting our toe in the water.

You see the problem: the higher the calling, the less it seems to apply to us. But we need a high calling. What’s more, in Christ Jesus, we have received a high calling.

But where would I start?

So, just for fun, let’s pull out the reading from Romans, because it’s a very high calling we find there. Lots of short, imperative sentences. Do this and do that. The good news is that, as Paul goes, the sentences are easy to understand. The bad news is that, the sentences are easy to understand, and they’re straight to the point with difficult things. Most of us will have trouble figuring out how to start.

Some examples: “Let love be genuine; hold fast to the good; love one another; be ardent in spirit; serve the Lord.”

“Rejoice in hope; be patient in suffering; keep praying.”

“Give what you have to the saints and welcome the strangers.” (That’s stewardship right there; he’s talking money.)

“Bless those who persecute you; rejoice with the rejoicing and weep with the weeping; hang out with the poor folks” (paraphrase)

“Don’t have a big head.” “Feed your enemies.” “Don’t repay evil with evil, but take thought of what is noble in the sight of all.” And then the kicker, “so far as it depends on you, live peaceable with all.”

Oy.

Now, a part of us loves these words. They ring true to our souls. But it’s such a very, very high calling. Maybe for someone else.

So here’s what I did. Do you remember how in science class the teacher would announce that the coming Friday would not be a lecture, but a lab instead? Your chance to dissect a frog or fight with your lab partner over the chance to jab at a rat with a dull and very used knife? Well, rather than try to explain Paul’s sentences that really don’t seem to need much explaining, I found some jarred frogs in some of the writings of the Christian tradition to share with you this morning. They don’t talk about Romans 12; they embody it. They won’t quote Paul, but they will ask you to remember him. They are examples of beginning steps - what the pursuit of Christian holiness might look like from a blue plastic pool at a front yard party.

Call them attempts at application.

The first frog comes from the book called “Common Prayer for Ordinary Radicals,” and it’s called Offering a Sacrifice of Praise:

'There is an old saying many Christian use: “Offer the Lord a sacrifice of praise,” referring to Hebrews 13:15. In many circles this notion of a “sacrifice of praise” almost becomes a cliche. (Perhaps because worship does not often come at much cost, especially compared with the sacrifices of saints who’ve gone before us.) But when we worship with folks from various traditions, there are times when we may hear a prayer that uses language we might not naturally use or sing a song that isn’t really our style. That is part of what it means to be a member of a community as diverse as the church is. And perhaps that also helps shed some light on why it might require some sacrifice for us to give up ourselves.

'When a song isn’t working for you, consider praising God, because that probably means it is working for someone else who is very different from you. Offer your worship as a sacrifice rather than requiring others to sacrifice for your pleasure or contentment. There is something to the notion of becoming one as God is one; it doesn’t mean that we are the same; it just means that we united by one Spirit. After all, we can become one only if there are many of us to begin with. Liturgy puts a brake on narcissism. Certainly, there is something beautiful about contemporary worship, where we can take old things and add a little spice to them, like singing hymns to rock tunes or reciting creeds as spoken word rhymes. But liturgy protects us from simply making worship into a self-pleasing act. So if a song or prayer doesn’t quite work for you, be thankful that it is probably really resonating with someone who is different from you, and offer a sacrifice of praise.'

What do you think? It kind of smells of chloroform. Maybe we should put it back in the jar. An application of love that we already practice, by virtue of Sunday worship. With room for you and me to embrace it more deeply. Not that it’s too hard, only that it’s so close. So simple. So true.

One toe in the water.

Are you game for another jarred frog?

From the same book, a few smelly embodiments of the life we pray God has given us; that is, some things we might try:

1. Join a Bible study led by someone with less formal education than yourself.
2. Visit a worship service in which you will be a minority. Invite someone to
a meal after the service.
3. Attempt to repair something that is broken. Appreciate the people who
repair things for you on a regular basis.
4. Go to a city council meeting. Pray. Speak as the Spirit leads.
5. Keep the Sabbath holy. Rest one day a week this year - don’t answer the
phone or the door, and don’t use the internet. Do something that brings you
life that day.

Nothing fancy. The calling is high, but it’s not fancy. It’s ordinary days – your ordinary days - touched by an extraordinary Savior.

Some church traditions imagine the sanctuary, this space, and this moment, the Eucharist, as the doorway, the gateway to heaven. The place where heaven kisses earth. The calling is high, but it’s not out of reach because God in Christ Jesus has reached down to us.

For you and for me, the high calling starts here in this encounter with Jesus, and the love of the high calling kind continues out from this place with the next, earthy, dirty, God-loved person you see, the next one you come across. And continues with the one after that. And the one after that. And the one after that. And the one after that. Let love be genuine.

A high calling, for sure, but not out of reach. Difficult, but not complicated. Never more complicated than how love finds us: Christ alive to us in the simplicity of water, oil, and bread and wine.

Love one another, and when it feels hard, don’t be discouraged. When it feels lofty, don’t be dismissive; don’t blow this off. Seek Christ in your day to day encounters. The very, very small things. It’s important to remember that the small steps are more connected to those latter steps than sometimes we give them credit for. Because sometimes you can’t there if you don’t start here. And sometimes it’s enough just to get in the pool with two friends.

Let love be genuine. Seek Christ, and find him. Let the Great Pool, even the waters of your baptism, relieve your trepidation, awaken and encourage your soul; may they always sustain you, and from time to time re-start you in this very great adventure called the Kingdom of God.

Amen.

a quick thought from a young priest

2011-08-26T12:32:00.000-07:00

Some folks razz me and my colleagues for being such young clerics. The eerie thing? With nearly 4 years in the priesthood, I have 27 more to go before I reach the age of the average Episcopalian. Help me get (relatively) older! Share your faith with a child.

Why I pray that personal does not mean individual in your relationship with God.

2011-08-23T07:21:00.000-07:00

A sermon preached at St Christopher's on August 21, Pentecost 10.

Let us pray.

Grant, O merciful God, that your Church, being gathered together in unity by your Holy Spirit, may show forth your power among all peoples, to the glory of your Name; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

It’s good to be home. Really good to be home.

The last four days or so, I have mostly resisted the temptation to say that it’s good to be back, because, well, if the two weeks’ vacation were what I hoped they’d be and if the two weeks away were what you prayed they’d be for me and my family - that is, if those days have given me a renewed sense of calling and energy, purpose and presence - then going back wouldn’t make much sense. But saying that it’s good to be forward doesn’t make much sense, either. You just get strange looks. And I don’t even know what Smokey did to you; he said something about scorch marks. I hope you’re forward, too. Two weeks forward, farther along the pilgrim road we walk together. It is good to be home.

I was in a weekly Bible study once as a kid. It was good, it wasn’t heady, but there was background reading assigned each week, one or two chapters, five or six pages, which none of us ever did. We’d show up and hope that our leader was feeling especially talkative that day. Don’t ask us questions, we’d think. But we had our bibles open to the passage and so he did ask us questions. It was Old Testament stuff about which king this and which king that, and none of us had a clue, really. But he didn’t let us off the hook. After he asked a question, he was especially good at providing those long, uncomfortable silences that if they had words might say something like, “I’m sorry, I know what you’re hoping for, but it’s not going to happen. I’m not answering this question for you. I’m not giving up on you.”

Long, awkward silences and holes stared through the table.
(Some of you getting ready for school tomorrow know exactly what I’m talking about.)

A few years later, I was confirmed, declared spiritually mature at all of twelve years of age. And the priest, my dad, warned our class. When the bishop comes, he said, the bishop has the right to ask you questions. To quiz you, see what you know. Well, I was a really good student and had absolutely nothing to fear, but if you’ve ever been a really good student, you know that not having anything to fear doesn’t always keep the fears at bay. My being a really good student only primed my imagination to fear the worst: imagine, for example, the depths of the humiliation I’d feel being denied the sacrament of Confirmation in front of the Assembly when I fumbled the final phrase of the Athanasian Creed. (The fact that you’re not laughing only proves the point.) Thankfully, (most) bishops aren’t nearly as cruel as a child’s imagination.

Some people like it, being put on the spot, having the congregation’s attention, all eyes are on you. Some of us don’t. Which is why effective group leaders often have us answer easier questions at the beginning. Get us comfortable. Build up our confidence. Questions of observation. This is something of what Jesus is doing when he asks his disciples: “What are they saying out there about me?”

Just a kind of repetition, really. Repeat what you’ve heard. Tell me what they’re saying. No right or wrong answer, but the beginning of wondering about who Jesus is. As it turns out, the answers out there aren’t right about Jesus – Jesus is not Elijah, or Jeremiah, or John the Baptist – but they’re still true answers. They’re true because his question was a reporter’s question. Just tell me what you see. Tell me what you’re hearing.

His next question comes in much closer. “Who do you say that I am?”

A good question. A true question.

And I wonder how long they took to answer this question. Did they stare holes in the table and think they’d out wait him? Did he give them one of those long, uncomfortable silences that says something like, “I’m sorry, I know what you’re hoping for, but it’s not going to happen. I won’t answer it for you. I’m not giving up on you.”

Peter finally answers. It would be Peter. He’s not the one you want to trust a silence to. He finally talks. But that question, and its silence, was meant for every one of them. And eventually it finds every one of us also.

“Who do you say that I am?”

This question and Peter’s answer is very close to what the evangelical tradition has rightly cherished as the believer’s profession of faith. The beginning of a personal relationship with Jesus. These are the words necessary to live the life of grace.

So in some churches, the sermon’s next step would be obvious to everyone: tell a few stories, and make an altar call. That is, if you haven’t had a chance to own these words, to answer this question for yourself, now is a good time, they’d say. And they’d be right, it is a good time. “Who do you say that I am?” What words does your own heart use to paraphrase Peter: “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.”

This answer is important because it’s true.
In these words, in your answer, a statement of fact becomes a commitment of heart. Moreover, this answer, your answer, it is the beating heart of the whole Church, the whole Christian faith. For this is the moment you unlock your whole self - body, soul, mind, and strength - and make room for the Lord who loves you, directs you, redeems and sustains you. Peter’s answer and yours is the heart of the story. But, and I say this carefully, it’s not the whole story. That is, I think we miss out on what a personal relationship with Jesus really means if we don’t read this story through to the end.

So what happens next?

Jesus calls Peter blessed – even though he didn’t come up with it on his own, indeed, especially because he didn’t – Peter is blessed. Jesus says that God has given him eyes to see and ears to hear and that his words about Jesus are true. And then Jesus gives Peter three things that are really one thing: 1) he gives Peter his name, calls him the rock of the church, 2) he gives Peter the keys of the kingdom, which is why doctors and lawyers having been meeting St Pete at the pearly gates in really bad jokes ever sense, and 3) he gives Peter, the Church, the power to bind and loose, or more straightforwardly, the power to forgive.

And these three things are really one thing because the forgiveness of Christ is what simultaneously makes the Church possible, unlocks the kingdom, and allows someone like Peter to be called the rock of the Church.

And the most important thing for us to see about these three gifts that are one gift this morning is that Jesus gives them to Peter in response to Peter’s response, or “personal profession of faith.”

Peter says “YES” to Jesus, and Jesus gives him the ministry of reconciliation and forgiveness with others, too.

But I wonder if Peter wanted the ministry of reconciliation and forgiveness with others.

And not just Peter. A man took me to breakfast once to introduce himself and give us a chance to get to know one another better, and at the end he looked me in the eye and said, “Father, I don’t know if this jives with what the church says, but for me, at the end of the day, it’s me and my God. No more, no less. I don’t need the others to live the life of faith.” I wonder if you’ve ever heard something like that.

You’ll notice my friend’s not-really-a-question question: “I don’t know if this jives with what the church says, but...” Sneaky when people don’t ask questions like that.

Lest there be any doubt, today’s gospel makes clear – NO! – that’s not at all what the Church says. Couldn’t be farther from the mystery of God. The holy mystery of the Trinity that says that divine love doesn’t happen a vacuum, in the company of one; but love shares, love binds, love heals, love stoops down, love reaches out across the divide.

You want Jesus? Jesus asks Peter. You got me, and with me the call to join me in the reconciliation of the world to God.

Because your faith is not for you alone. But the Kingdom hangs together. And your faith is a gift in God’s Kingdom.

I hope you have a personal relationship with Jesus. I also pray that personal does not mean individual for you. But that personal can apply to the urine-soaked homeless man as much as it can to God. Put your arm around him. Because God is personally present to you both. Because, there, Christ is present. I pray that personal can apply to the person you’ve learned to despise - he’s the wrong color, she’s too old or too young, maybe he’s even genuinely wronged you. Because Christ is present there, too. I pray that personal does not mean individual in your relationship with God. I pray that when God unlocks the life of grace in you, for you, you remember that you are not unlocked to God alone, but that you are now an agent of unlocking in a world locked shut and in need of love, the opening forgiveness of God.

One last story. There’s a picture of the heavenly feast that the early church liked to use. They used this picture whenever people asked what happened to the saints who had died. Where did they go? What were they doing now? And the picture that they used was a familiar one: the heavenly banquet feast. “Only, they’re not feasting yet,” the Christians would say. “Why not?” came the obvious question. After all, these were people whose professions of faith, like Peter’s, could only be admired as the highest and God-given response to the Christ, the Son of the Living God. “Why aren’t they eating?” “They are, but only appetizers.” Smart alecks. “Why on earth aren’t they feasting?” they asked. “Because, they’re waiting for you.”

They’re waiting for us. Having attained the prize, they haven’t forsaken the love God gave them, the way that it’s shaped them. Love waits for us.

Can we also love, forgive, reach out to the people who don’t yet know the answer - as an embodiment of the faith we profess? Can your life unlock the witness that the gospel is not information for your head but a way of life and action for your heart? Can we commit our lives in such a way? Will you?

And somewhere, softly, we hear him whisper, “I’m sorry, I know what you’re hoping for, but it’s not going to happen. I won’t answer it for you. I’m not giving up on you.”
Amen.

"Jesus is a peanut vendor" a sermon for July 31, 7th Sun after Pentecost

2011-07-31T13:45:00.000-07:00

Ho! Peanuts, popcorn, cold beer! Ho! Peanuts, popcorn, cold beer! Ho!

(Hang with me a second.)

‘Ho!’ is the first word of our Old Testament Reading. You can look it up. See it? ‘Ho!’ Like Santa. Ho, ho, ho. The problem with this word is that nobody not dressed like a giant elf with reindeer ever says that anymore. It’s archaic. Old-fashioned. To put it bluntly, it’s lame. Ho. Who says that?

So one commentary recommends that we translate it, ‘Hey you!’, only remember that the you is plural, 'cuz he’s talking to a crowd, so in Texas, maybe we’d say, ‘Hey y’all!’, but even then we’re losing something of the context: remember, this is a vendor hawking wares, a guy who is selling stuff – he doesn’t have a natural audience; he's not preaching from a pulpit; people aren’t lined up to listen – by definition, he’s interrupting. He’s hawking wares on people busy with other things, people whose attention must be claimed.

And then I’m sitting there Tuesday night at the ballgame the Presbyterians us to and the peanut guy walks by and it hits me. That’s it! That’s the single, best translation I’ve heard all week. The single best way to say that strange two-letter word ‘ho’. “Ho! Peanuts. Popcorn.” You get it.

The reading this morning is trying to make a sound like that. An enthusiastic alarm. Truthfully, he’s trying to get your attention - trying to sell you on something. Trying to interrupt you, to persuade you to reconsider your plans. “Listen up, there’s a good thing going, and let me tell you…” He knows you have other plans. He knows you’re busy. But hang on, listen quick. He thinks it’s worth hearing anyway. He thinks that what he has to give is something you don’t have that you might like to have.

He starts off with water. Free water. And the Americans roll their eyes because unlike places in the two-thirds word we can get that on tap, big deal, so he mentions the food – all for free – the milk and the wine, and don’t worry if you don’t have money. It doesn’t matter. (Though the vendor does rhetorically ask his audience why they continue to spend their money on things that don’t satisfy. And isn’t that the definition of most things we purchase, that once the buyer’s buzz wears off, they seldom really satisfy.) No matter. No money? Just come. Come and be filled.

And then the vendor breaks character and does a strange thing: he invites his listeners to sit down and listen. Before he was interrupting, now he presumes a conversation. He says, “I want to feed you because I want you to live. You may not believe it, but I want the best for you. And living, I want to make my covenant with you. I want people to look at you and think ‘glory’, the goodness of the Holy One, the abundance of the blessing of God.

This is so strange that it’s worth some ridiculous examples. Here are two: It’s like going to a baseball game to watch other people play, killing time as pastimes do, buying a hot dog with all the fixings from the guy who’s shouting ‘ho!’, and discovering that the vendor is really your childhood hero, and that he’s got an extra mitt, and he’d love a game of catch.

It’s like staring at the television, watching the bachelor or bachelorette, killing time as pastimes do, and a knock at the door, and it’s your own true love, though you’ve never met, and he wonders if he might take you out to dinner. And maybe you’ve already eaten, but instinctively you know in that moment that this story is not even mostly about the food.

I want people to look at you, he says, and think ‘glory’, the goodness of the Holy One, the abundance of the blessing of God.

Surprise and new life. Life of the kind you had stopped hoping for.

Another story about food that’s not really about food. Jesus and the feeding of the five thousand men. Probably a lot more if you counted the women and kids. We’ve heard it so many times. And sometimes we gloss over it, and sometimes we just acknowledge it, and I’ve heard preachers talk about it in order to inspire hospitality meals, potlucks, and food pantry work. You can feed the people, too, he’ll say. Indeed, isn’t that what Jesus says? He tells the disciples, “You give them something to eat.” And so we scramble to feed each other. And it’s not all bad. But there’s a detail in the story that we sometimes miss, I think, I know I’ve missed it - do you know what it is? The detail is that these people don’t really need food.

Think about it – the disciples tell Jesus to send the people away, so that they can go buy some grub. Grab some dinner. They’ve got money. Presumably, no one had promised them a catered dinner on the lawn in any case. So they’ve got money AND they expected to spend it that night. They’re not vagabonds. This is not a matter of would they eat, but where would they eat. So this story is not the story of the homeless being fed. Instead, it’s the story of being made able to stay near Jesus. It’s the story of being given permission to listen a while longer to Jesus even when it starts to change their other plans.

And now the two stories are becoming one story: Jesus is the peanut vendor, asking the people to sit down and to listen. And he’s giving them everything they need in order to close to him.

“Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and all of these things will be added to you as well.”

So this is the story of the single mother who gives of her time and her treasure to the Lord and wonders how it’s all going to balance out. This is the story of the couple that leaves home for a strange town where they will be strangers and they leave because they heard God call them, and they wonder if God will leave them like orphans. This is the story of any and every person, every people, who has ever stepped out in faith because they knew that their need to stay near to Jesus was every bit as real a need as the bread and milk they ate.

Because instinctively they knew that the story and their hunger was not even mostly about the food.

Can I ask you a personal question?

How are you feeding on Jesus? In what ways are you intentional about staying near him?

Are you finding friends with whom to regularly gather, to pray? Not just on Sundays. How is your spiritual hunger touched and filled by the bread and the wine, the Body and Blood, that you receive here? What parts of your life are being touched by this blessing? What part of your life might you still stand to hand over to him?

How is God calling you to partner with him in ways that allow God to touch the hidden parts, the hunger, of other people’s lives? The parts they’ve stopped hoping might get better. Lives they no longer, in the truest sense, enjoy.

I know, that’s too many questions. I hope some of them hit the mark, but it’s more than you have pockets for this morning. Let me share a story, then, and leave you with just one question that I hope will help to carry all the others.

So I’m at the library, picking out books to take to the beach next week, and after a few minutes of digging through the shelves I take my find to the desk and wait in line. I notice I’m a little anxious. Guilty conscience leftover from my childhood. ‘Any late fees?’ I ask the grey-bearded librarian. He checks my card. ‘No,' he says. I am relieved. ‘In fact,’ he says, ‘no check outs for the last year, actually.’ If that’s not a picture of guilt and its effects I don’t know what is. He slides my book over and checks it out on the computer. Hands it back to me. With a smile that we’d call modest on anyone other a librarian he hands it to me, and he says in a way only librarians can, ‘Enjoy.’

Enjoy. Librarians can be so presumptuous. He hadn’t even read the book! I pray to become so presumptuous. “Here, the Body of Christ," I would tell you. "Enjoy!” That’s all this Gospel is saying, and it’s plenty.

So, the five-cent recap: Jesus multiplies the food not because the people don’t have other means for food. He multiplies the food so that he can buy more time with them. You know, for as fancy a reason as he he enjoys them. Enjoys their company. Enjoys who they are. And because they enjoy him; they don’t want to go, either. I remember a prayer service at the monastic community in Taize, France, and the leaders, the monks, had all gone home, but the youth who had gathered from all over the world could not go home. They could, but they didn't. They enjoyed it too much. They wanted to stay with their Savior. So they did. They sang hymns long into the early morning hours.

This, then, is the question that I promised you a minute ago, the one that carries all the others anyway: “Did you know he enjoys you and that his delight is to be enjoyed by you?”

Come, this is the feast of the Living God and Christ himself is the Lamb. This is the invitation to a new way of life - a new life - and so, yes, it interrupts your other plans. All good love stories do. But look on the hill where he feeds them and see that they’re not thinking about the microwave dinners they left in the fridge. No, this is the feast of victory for our God. And Christ is the Lamb whose blood has set us free to be people of God. Children of God. Praise God!

And one last thing: enjoy.

Amen.

and the pearl is Christ (sermon on the 6th Sunday after Pentecost)

2011-07-24T20:04:00.000-07:00

1 Kings 3:5-12
Psalm 119:129-136

Romans 8:26-39
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

The Kingdom of heaven is like this.

Like a mustard seed, like a sower, a farmer, like a pearl and the merchant who wants it, sells all he has in order to own it, like a net full of fish, like a bird on a branch, like yeast mixed with flour, like finally arriving at a far, strange shore that nobody has to tell you is home after a long, dark night spent at sea.

Like angels sorting baskets.

The Kingdom of heaven is like these.

I wonder if we wonder enough about what the Kingdom of God is like.

I don’t mean that as a put-down. I wonder, can we ever wonder enough about what the Kingdom of God is like? The Kingdom which is that kingdom for which you were made.

The Kingdom is like... What is it like? How do you describe it? When have you seen it? What was it like the last time you encountered it?

The Kingdom of heaven is like an old, weathered woman, her name was Teresa, she lived with the poor, because she saw the pearl of Christ in them. The Kingdom is like the pre-med student who disappointed his parents when he abruptly stopped his schooling and became a monk, moved to the country in France, because, he said, he had found the pearl worth selling all for. The Kingdom is like the young woman student who likewise disappointed her parents, but this time when she enrolled in pre-med, because, as a doctor, she would be able to tend the fish in the net, she said. Especially the fish, the people, she explained, in the poorest corners of rural Africa. Like the teacher whose name you don’t even remember – only that she loved you with a smile that made you believe that you were God’s pearl. Planting the seed of the Kingdom of God. Sprinkling the yeast of love on which God’s Kingdom stands.

The Kingdom of heaven is like these. Like treasure. Like selling.

Like a woman, come in early on Saturday’s morning to set the altar, fill the cruets, trim the candles, saying prayers as she does so for the congregation that will meet the next day, praying by name, as she looks out on their customary spots in the pews. Like a man who bravely picks up the strange book before the Sunday Assembly and at the end of the reading calls out, “The Word of the Lord,” hiding a slight tremble stemming from the mystery that these words have touched his lips. He remembers the first time, as a youth, he was invited to read; he felt a joy as if the Lord himself had called him; like Peter. The Kingdom is like the youth who is not ashamed of her age but stands before the children and leads them in songs of raucous praise for a week at church camp. Like the anonymous one whose action is unseen to the church and the world, as she sits in quiet at the bedside of the home-bound, praying, holding hands, holding the silence over which the Spirit alone presides.

The Kingdom of heaven is like these. Like sharing. Like leading. Like self-giving.

Like a wedding banquet and no one came, so the host opened the doors to the streets. Like a movie shown in evening light, strangers collected under a bell tower, neighbors from the streets stopping to drink in the occasion. Like a tiny group of holy friends meeting every week, midweek; over breakfast, sharing stories of God at work in their lives. Like the accidental meeting of friends between aisles nine and ten, just before the produce section. Like two or three gathered in His Name.

The Kingdom of heaven is like breaking bread. Like drinking peace. Like forgiveness. Like new life. Like challenge. Like rest. The Kingdom of heaven is like these.

The Kingdom of heaven is like the small gift that no one thought mattered. But it did matter. Like stories we remember as children: like the boy David, made King. Too small to be noticed. Like Mary, still a girl. Not married. Small things don’t always stay small. But they almost always start small.

Like the first light that speaks dawn in the darkness.

The Kingdom of heaven is like life we did not expect.

A boy once marveled to his mother on his way home from church, in the car, he marveled to his mother his amazement that his God was big enough to become small enough to live inside of him.

For all of these reasons, the Kingdom resists being measured in numbers; the Kingdom’s only visible measure is love lived in motion. Small things with great love. The Jews in Jesus’s day wanted a military of thousands. Large numbers and power. Instead, they got Mary. But Mary said, “yes,” with love, and the powers of this world were unmasked with a baby’s birth. Because big things without love are like no things at all in this Kingdom, but no thing is too small with the love of this Kingdom.

The Kingdom of heaven is like saying ‘Yes’ to God, with love. Like love with arms in motion.

The Kingdom of heaven is like pursuit of the pearl. Like giving up wealth and becoming truly rich. Like buying the pearl. And the pearl is Christ.

And Christ is not glamorous. Christ is not pretty. But this is not the story of things glamorous and pretty things, is it? This is the story of small, unnoticed things, but small things filled with unspeakable love. Not big, pretty things, but the truly beautiful things. And should you look around you in the course of a day, in an unhurried way, you will notice that we are surrounded by truly beautiful things.

The poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote: “Earth’s crammed with heaven,/ And every common bush afire with God,/ But only he who sees, takes off his shoes; / The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.”

(Had Browning lived to see them, she might have added iPhones and smart phones to Blackberries on the list of things we use to distract ourselves from the truly beautiful.)

The Kingdom of heaven has a well-established habit of speaking in the silence, inhabiting the poor, appearing in the unlikely places. And all places become unlikely when we grow too big for love.

“Love is patient; love is kind,” writes St Paul. “Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant 5or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; 6it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. 7It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.”

 We know these things about love, because we have seen these things in Christ.

The Kingdom of heaven is like God’s Son on a cross. The King of kings on a tree. “Greater love has no man than this,” Jesus says, “than that he lay down his life for his friends.”
And elsewhere, “...unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. 25Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.”

And so Christ Jesus,
6 ...though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be exploited,
7 but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
8 he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross.

The Kingdom of heaven is like this.

Amen.

weeds, wheat, and willie mays (a sermon for the 5th Sunday after Pentecost)

2011-07-18T11:37:00.000-07:00

Isaiah 44:6-8
Psalm 86:11-17
Romans 8:12-25
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

It starts out simple: Jesus asks his disciples to let God be the judge of the bad seed in the field. Never mind those rough seeds, he says, I’ve got ‘em. I’ll take care of ‘em. Like an All-Star center fielder calling for the ball with confidence, “I got it,” he says. He says it in a way you believe him. “You just rest easy. You just watch me. You just keep going. You just never mind ‘em.”

Let the weeds go. Leave ‘em alone. Like a simple word that changes everything - everything you thought you knew about weeds. Because up until now, weeds were considered very bad things, which is why your grandma paid you a penny a plant to pull them - or more, if you were lucky. Used to be that weeds spelled the end of the crop. Doomsday for the flowers. Death for the daffodils. Common sense, not just for farmers, but for ordinary men and women, too: everyone knows that you can’t grow things with weeds.

Like the battles my grandfather waged with the squirrels and the rabbits. Building moats around the garden (not really). Setting traps late at night. Because one bad apple can spoil the bunch the thinking went, and that meant get on yours knees in the heat of the day and earn your pennies one weed at a time. Keep the field clean.

That was the old way. Today, Jesus says God has another way in mind, and it’s simple: Don’t pull ‘em. I got ‘em. As cool as Willie Mays.

But if it’s as simple as that - if it’s all just that cool - why is leaving weeds alone also so very darn hard?

At least, the characters in the story, they think it is.

For starters, there’s the problem of where the weeds come from. Like the mystery of mosquitoes. Seemingly unnecessary evil, say the help. Why these obstacles to a happy life? they ask. Why these thorns in the flesh. How can a good farmer (or a good God, for that matter) permit the growth of bad seed? Seed that chokes growth in others. And we’ve heard this problem before. And we’ve more than heard it. When we lost the loved one to the unnecessary tragedy, the drunken driver or the abusive parent, the recurring cancer, we felt that problem like a knife to the heart.

The farmer’s answer is short, but true: an enemy did this. The field isn’t lost, but these things were not the design. The plan was good, and the plan is still on, but the farmer didn’t plant these seeds of suffering. They are the work of an another.

For the characters in the story, this answer makes the next problem worse: Well...
If the bad seed is the work of an enemy, why not undo it? Pull ‘em all out. Heck, we’ll help you do it. We won’t even charge pennies, they say. We just want to see the crop do well. Tell you what farmer, it’s nearly the end of the day anyway, it’ll just take us an hour, maybe two, a few beers, and a half a can of gasoline.

Yikes. The farmer cringes.

“Why don’t you boys have a seat for a second. Pull up a tree stump.”

Number one, yes, the field has bad seed in it, but number two, the plants look very much alike - and what if you hack down some good seed along the way, what then? - and number three, trust me, he says, leave it to me to sort out the field -not now - but when the harvest comes.

“But Lord,” they say, “just to clarify, just so we’re on the same page - won’t they get in the way--the weeds?” “Yes, they will.”

“But Lord, wouldn’t the wheat have an easier go overall if they weren’t fighting the weeds for their lives?” “Yes,” says the farmer, “they would.”

The help stares back, perplexed.
“So really, you’re not going to fix this?”

“No,” sighs the farmer. “And I don’t want you fixing it, either - destroying on my behalf the weeds that destroy the good plants. After all, and to put it blunt, you, Joe, you can’t tell a tulip from a turnip; you go around burning up wheat in my name, well that would be just altogether weed-like, wouldn’t it? And God knows that evil doesn’t need that kind of help.”

“But boss,” they say, “an enemy did this--it’s a declaration of war! How can you ask us to just stand idly by and watch the whole thing go down like this? What kind of farmer works like that anyway?”

A long pause follows.

The farmer finally clears his throat. “The field is mine. The field belong to me. The field will be fine. I won’t lose one of them. But we’ll wait. We’ll wait. My death will be your patience; my life will be your glory.”

Confusion. Awkwardness. And you can imagine the disappointment of the first disciples at a story that ends like this.

All of this is what makes this simple story hard. The farmer is talking weeds, seeds, and wheat, and Jesus is talking suffering, patience, and forgiveness - all against the backdrop of the cross. And these are not easy things.

And because we’ve been talking in pictures this morning, let me give you a real life example. Up until the 1990s, apartheid in South Africa was a political program of systemic racism by which an elite white minority relegated black South Africans to the margins of power. Apartheid left blacks in poverty, cyclical illiteracy, chronic voicelessness, and facing unjust laws and frequent imprisonment, torture, and sometimes murder. Because the perpetrators of these crimes worked for the government, they almost always got away with it, like the weeds in the farmer’s field.

While many black South Africans resisted peacefully, others resisted violently. With car bombs, kidnappings. Terrorist-like activities. Years later, Methodist Bishop Peter Storey of South Africa was able to remark about the irony of these things:

“The primary cancer may be, and was, and will always be, the apartheid oppression, but secondary infections have touched many of apartheid’s opponents and eroded their knowledge of good and evil. One of the tragedies of life, sir, is it is possible to become like that which we hate most, and I have a feeling that this drama is an example of that.”

Seeing the evil will not keep us from aiding - even becoming - the evil. That’s what the farmer is on to when he asks them to sit. Be still. When he says, “I’ve got it.”

As it turns out, when God says, “I’ve got it,” God also means “you don’t.” We don’t. It’s not just that Jesus says “wait,” it is also that by asking the disciples to wait, he commands them to put down the pitchforks and extinguish the torches. No bounty hunter justice or lingering embers of resentment kept here. To each her due process, and the process belongs to God. Thank God.

As it turns out, to let God be the judge means that the disciples will have to learn patience for those plants (and those people) that they don’t understand. The ones who don’t look exactly like them. The ones who look too much like them. You know, like an unflattering mirror that highlights the zits, they hit a nerve for some reason.

What a bummer. When the judgment of God means fire for others, it’s easier to get excited about it. When the judgment of God means deferring the act of judgment to God, there’s a lot less to talk about. The plots and schemes and secret conversations and sleepless nights give way to what? If you don’t have other things to do, the judgment of God can leave you all dressed up on a Saturday night empty, with cancelled party plans.

Quick aside that’s worth saying: the disappointment, the impatience, that the disciples feel when Jesus asks them to be patient with others shows just how much they stand to gain if they can ever learn to be patient with themselves. Because to be patient with yourself solely because God says you’re worth being patient with is the beginning of grace.

Weeds and wheat. Together. One field. (For the time being.) One Lord. (Always.) One hope. And this hope has the power to transform.

So here’s the dime store recap, plus one more story.

The judgment of God means patience for us. Even suffering patience. Even patience when it hurts. A prayerful patience that looks at the weeds and slowly learns to pray that maybe she’s wrong. Maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe there’s wheat there I don’t see. A person told me once that her spiritual director had suggested that she pray for a particular weed in her life, ask God to bless this weed with the best God had for the weed. “But I won’t mean it,” she said. “Why should I pray it?” The spiritual director smiled. “Then say that. Start your prayer that way: ‘Lord, you know I don’t mean it, but bless this weed in my life with the best you have for her.’ And Lord, help me to mean it.” The woman reported that she prayed this way for two and a half weeks until one day she forgot to tell God she didn’t mean it. Pray for the weeds.

It may not be good farming practice, but it’s the heart of Good Gospel practice: if the best you can say about him is that he’s an enemy, you know for sure what to do with him: love him. Love your enemies, Jesus says. Pray for those who persecute you. In so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with everyone, says St. Paul.

Let the weeds go. Forgive them. Leave ‘em alone. But keep growing. Like a simple word that changes everything - everything you ever knew about weeds. Because up until now, weeds were considered very bad things, which is why your grandma paid you a penny a plant to pull them - a penny a plant, or more, if you were lucky. Used to be that weeds spelled the end of the crop. Doomsday for the flowers. Death for the daffodils.

But, look! Death has been defeated, sing the angels. The risen Lord smiles with wounded, healing hands. It seems that weeds don’t hold the future hostage quite like they used to.

No, that was the old way. Today, Jesus says God has another way in mind, and it’s simple: Don’t pull ‘em. Forgive them. Pray for them. “I got ‘em,” he says, “I got ‘em!” As cool as Willie Mays.

Amen.

the summer of lovingkindness

2011-06-29T14:50:00.000-07:00

So I've been reflecting this summer on that compound-ular word found all throughout the Scriptures (or at least after Myles Coverdale coined the word in 1535): lovingkindness. And not just because the player formerly known as Ron Artest is now Metta World Peace. Love and kindness are two words whose marriage is not obvious, and that the fact that they can be married has everything to do with the Gospel, that's been the thought. Love, which is assumed to be an inward disposition, such that one person can assure another of her love, even while they're far apart and love has nothing to "show for it"; kindness, which in practice is an explicitly outward behavior, such that one can be accused of being kind "even when you didn't mean it." But put the words together and you have a meeting of the inward disposition and the outward expression. Love that acts, and acts that love. Faith, that is, belief with intention, and action. Jesus, being and living out of his being God's Love for the world. And how can it be otherwise? On second thought, maybe it is obvious, this marriage of love and kindness. The confusion would be how we came to imagine one without the other in the first place.

Pentecost t-shirt follow-up

2011-06-29T14:46:00.000-07:00

Group pics didn't happen, but the shirts came in and added a uniquely uplifting element to our Pentecost worship. What a generous and creative gift!

Follow-up to 'Witness'

2011-06-08T13:39:00.000-07:00

The day after the Witness sermon was preached, a parishioner stepped forward with an anonymous $500 gift to provide 80 Pentecost-red t-shirts for the following Sunday (this coming June 12th). What an amazing act of creativity and generosity. Pics will follow. Grateful for your prayers in the meanwhile: Come, Holy Spirit!

Can I Get a Witness? (sermon June 5, 2011)

2011-06-08T13:16:00.000-07:00

Let us pray.

Gracious God, heavenly Father, we thank you for this good, new day, and for gathering us together around your Word. Pour your Spirit on us that we have may ears to hear and eyes to see when Jesus says to us, “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth." We ask this in His Name.

Amen.

In game 7 of the NBA’s Western Conference semi-finals, the Oklahoma City Thunder staged a promotion called a ‘blue-out’, the goal of which was to put the sellout crowd - all 18,203 fans - in new, blue Thunder t-shirts, thereby creating a sense of camaraderie among the fans and also, the thinking went, an overwhelming home-team advantage for the Oklahoma City Thunder. It worked.

Promotions like these are relatively new to professional basketball - the last few years or so - but not to other sports. The Aggies of Aggieland, for example, have been staging maroon-outs for years, only they haven’t had to coordinate it. The youthful exuberance of college athletics somehow results in 80,000 fans spontaneously showing up on game day, one place, one time, wearing just the one color. I’d be remiss not to also mention here Duke’s all-blue Cameron Crazies. The greatest fans on earth.

The pros want the same effect, and, the thinking goes, if they have to give the t-shirts out free, you know, to grease the wheels a bit, in order to tap into the hidden college madness within, they will. The professionals are eager for ways to engage the fans with all the enthusiasm of college, and it’s working.

This got me thinking. If it can work for college, and for the NBA, why not for the church? I mean, what church couldn’t use an infusion of university gumption, get-go, and excitement?

The only question: what to put on the shirt?

Now, when you see a promotional t-shirt, you see the best summary of what the group thinks it is about. Get to the point. Nobody wants to have to read your shirt like a book. They’re not getting too close to you or staring you down. Print it big and keep it short. When Christians think of the ‘get to the point’ of the Christian faith, we frequently remember the Great Commission of Matthew’s gospel: go and make disciples of all people. But today’s reading from the book of Acts, Jesus’s last words before his ascension, is no less a good summary or ‘get to the point’ of the Christian faith. Jesus said, “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth."

I know, I know, still too long for a short, but something we could work with?

Hmm.

We are all witnesses. That Nike slogan resulted in this abbreviated version on a t-shirt.

And at least in Cleveland, it remains as popular now for burning as it was once upon a time for wearing.

We are witnesses. If you wonder what you are, what we’re about, that’s it. I like that. Now, good news and bad news. Good News, just like the NBA arenas, you’ve got a little something waiting for you under your seat. Bad news, we can’t afford t-shirts.

Pull it out. Fish around if you have to. Hold it up.

[For those reading this online, printed pages reading "We are witnesses" with a cross had been taped under the pews - over 100 of them, with the generous help of the youth.]

Take a look at it. You will receive power, the Holy Spirit, says the Lord, and you will be my witnesses to all people.

What do you think? What does that mean? Witness as bystander? Witness as passive observer? Witness as one with a story to tell? Lots of good questions to ask.

We are witnesses.

For the next couple of minutes, I want to explore these three words as clues to what it means to be the church.

Let’s take the first two words first: we are.

This is the heart of why they give out the shirts: to form a we. You and I form a we every time we gather around the Gospel to share the bread and the wine, as we receive and become the Body of Christ.

The words we are are the answer to the question: what is church?
We are.

Not the priest, or the ones with robes, or the highest giver, or whomever else: all of us, together. The people is the church of God.
Who is the church: we are!
We are witnesses.

This is why we don’t talk about going to church. You are the church. It’s not semantics, it’s the truth! Church is the People. And the People is Church. It’s why when someone asks you to share a prayer request with the church, they already have! You might choose to share it with the church office, or the church’s prayer team, but there is no more real a representative for the whole church together than you. You matter. You count. You stand for us. And we are God’s witness. You are the real Church. And all of us who are Church are partners with God.
There is a story told about what happened in heaven when Jesus returned from his earthly ministry. Jesus returns in glory to heaven. All the angels gather round to give the Son of God a high five and a pat on the back. Everyone is pretty fired up at first. As the excitement dies down a bit, the archangel Gabriel, who was so involved in announcing Jesus’ birth, speaks up.

“So what happens next?” Gabriel asks. "What's the plan?"

Jesus explains, “My disciples take over now. They’ll spread the Good News to the whole earth so that everyone will come to know that God loves them and wants a relationship with them.”

“You mean those fisherman, that tax collector, and the scruffy bunch at St. Christopher’s that you’ve been walking around with?” Gabriel asked with more than a little concern creeping into his voice.

“Yeah, those guys,” Jesus answered. “They’ll take over now. The Holy Spirit is with them. They’ll do great.”
There was a long pause. Then Gabriel asked tentatively, “What’s the backup plan?”
Jesus looked Gabriel in the eye with compassion and confidence and said, “There is no backup plan.”

So one of you shared with me the other day your joy in your deeper understanding that this is your church. Not just where you go, but really yours. Belonging to you. Absolutely true, and a great joy to know. And I told you that my next prayer for you and, here, I mean all of us, will be for you to hear God as he points to you, to us, and say with just as much joy, “And that is my church.” You are God’s church. Together, we are witnesses to the Good News of salvation in Christ Jesus.

So the first two words call us all to the action, and the action is this: to be Jesus’ witnesses.

Let me ask you: what does that mean? How and when do you do it? When are you witnesses?

You are witnesses when you gather on the Lord’s Day, in holy worship, the breaking of bread and the prayers, not neglecting to meet, but by your presence and practice encouraging one another.

You are witnesses when you notice and speak to the ones that most folks don’t notice or speak to, whether it’s someone absent from our assembly or the waitress at the restaurant or the clerk who checks your groceries.

You are witnesses when you say “I’ll pray for you,” and then, because most Christians know that that is really code for “we’re done talking,” ask if you might pray for them then, there, now.

You are witnesses when you work together, even with Presbyterians.

You are witnesses when you stand with those who suffer, the poor and friendless, even when you can’t do anything to change the suffering. When all the cozy words have left.

You are witnesses when you forgive one another, and ask for forgiveness. You are witnesses when you celebrate one another’s gifts, ask for each other’s help, and thank God out loud for the gift of this fellowship.

You are God’s witnesses in all of these things, and you are doing all of these things. We are witnesses. (How I wish I had t-shirts.) We are God’s witnesses. Do not forget this, and do not be discouraged. It’s the greatest job on earth, and, what’s more, you have help, even the Holy Spirit of God. And the Spirit, the power, of God is God’s Love given to you, working in and through you.

Amen.

Partners in Love: a homily/conversation with Debra Dean Murphy

2011-06-08T13:01:00.000-07:00

“Any idiot can face a crisis - it’s day to day living that wears you out.” Anton Chekov

One of those statements that you don’t think much about until you hear it. When you hear it, it rings true. So true, you don’t hear it so much as you feel it.

Any idiot can face a crisis. It’s day to day living that wears you out.

The saying is true of all life, and the Christian life is no exception.

When we were children, maybe, we had dreams of a singular cataclysmic moment that would put us to the test, when we would be pushed against the ropes, a clear moment in time when we’d know that all of life was meant for ‘now’. This moment. And after that moment, if we survived it, we’d go back to life as usual. The moment of a super-boost of sorts, like when the hero finds her loved one trapped under the car and summons an other worldly strength to free him. Or when the soldier enters the climactic fight for which all his other days have been mere training and draws the sword.

No doubting that God meets heroes in these moments, but then, the moment’s gone: the battle passes, the car is lifted, a new day dawns. The foxhole may be a good place to find faith, but where do you keep it when the foxhole clears? After the war? What need for God now? And there’s laundry left unfolded on the couch. And you’re there, all alone in the room. Or a baby pulling urgently at your pant leg.

Crises will happen, but what of the life lived day to day? Can the Gospel equip us, equip you, with the strength to persevere in those times when it doesn’t look like anything much is going on? And if there isn’t much going on, in what are we to persevere? And behind all these questions, I suppose, this one: does God keep a real, living, interest in our ordinary days? These are the questions of our readings this morning. They’re my questions, too.

As is our custom from time to time, I’m inviting a guest into the pulpit this morning, a fresh set of eyes with which to approach the gospel and these questions. Debra Dean Murphy is an Assistant Professor of Religion and Christian Education at West Virginia Wesleyan College. She likes books, movies, music, art, and politics, and she likes to think and write about how religion intersects all of these arenas - thus her interest in speaking just now. Her work is a contemporary one, written in the shadow of the moment that didn’t happen - the end of the world that was prophesied a week ago Saturday. She writes today about how we are to understand and respond to the closeness of God on days the world doesn’t end.

Her reflection is on this Sunday’s readings and is entitled: The Close-at-Hand God.

[You can read Debra Dean Murphy's excellent piece here.]

Some summary thoughts:

God is close at hand, the Kingdom of God is at hand; that’s the Gospel of Jesus; and the task of the followers of Jesus is to bear witness to the love that has been in their midst. We bear witness to God's love, staying near to the world in love, because the Spirit stays close to us.

We started with questions, I end with just a few more:

What does it mean to be a partner in love?

How does God's love shape how you know what love is?

How does God's love, the presence of the Spirit, strengthen your love for others?

We are called not to withdrawal from the world, but to be an active love for the world. What is the world in which you live? Who are the main players? Your family? Your coworkers? The folks you don't know well but you usually run into? Is there one place in your world that you can imagine expanding in love this week?

the Sr Warden sings!

2011-05-23T20:38:00.000-07:00

sitting on toilets: a sermon about fear and good and unexpected gifts

2011-05-22T18:34:00.000-07:00

If you ever find yourself afraid of public speaking, like this, the proverbial ‘they’ say that one simple step will alleviate your fear: picture your listeners sitting on toilets. That’s what they say. And truthfully, I always wondered why you made those strange faces. But really, that’s the advice that they give you, the one with a fear of public speaking: picture your listeners sitting on toilets.

Now, that’s not an honest fear for me, but it’s good advice to keep, you know, in case that fear ever finds me. And isn’t it the way of fears - that they just seem to catch you, they pursue you, one day they find you? And isn’t that also our posture with respect to our fears - one of looking over the shoulder, having to always hide from them?

I wonder this morning...what are your fears? If we opened the floor, what would you say? I imagine that someone might start us off by saying unidentified spiders or venomous snakes. Someone else might eventually offer a more vulnerable fear - like not fitting in or saying the wrong thing in a group of peers. Still another might share the recurring dream in which she’s suddenly being given a written exam for which she hasn’t studied; she’s not the least bit prepared. Or the dream in which he walk to the office without first putting on clothes. I confess, I never did understand that fear, or rather, I’ve never understood how someone makes it all the way to the office. What about not having enough to make it to or through retirement - financial fears. Maybe of heights or strangers or change. And just what happens when we die?

The Lord be with you.
And also with you.

Let us pray.

Gracious God, heavenly Father, we give you thanks for bringing us together this morning around your gospel speaking the word we need not be troubled - be not afraid; but we are afraid. Of many things. And before we go on we take this moment in your presence to name our fears to you in the silence of our hearts, because not to name them would continue our hiding, and we don’t want to keep hiding. Lord, here are our fears. Take them. Here are our lives. Take them, too. Bless us to be people capable of naming our fears in your presence, and so also people capable of being healed at your hand in your presence. We love you, and pray this in Jesus’s Name.

Amen.

So Jesus said, "Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.”

And I wonder why the disciples were troubled. What were they afraid of?

A moment’s context: Jesus has just broken bread, shared the cup, with them. He has undressed himself and washed their feet. Peter tried to stop him. Confused, at best. Somewhere in the mix, Judas has slipped out to fetch the soldiers. The end is coming, and they don’t understand it, but they see it. Jesus feels it. He’s leaving them.

Fear of abandonment? Maybe. Fear of the unknown? Almost certainly. Fear that they will not meet the expectations of the coming hour? Perhaps. Fear of success? What if the disciples, the rebels, win the day? What if they become the earthly victors, the rulers? What next? What will it mean to follow Jesus into this moment? What is this moment? Fear that when they decide not to follow Jesus into this moment - the cock crowing three times - they will discover who they are.

A lot to fear. But nothing to fear. “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” he said. “Believe in God, believe also in me.”

I bet you already know that there’s a certain way to avoid any disappointment in life, and it is to never hold a hope or expectation. No sense in being greedy, we say. What will be will be. Don’t dare to dream and you’ll never have to wake up. Don’t ask for the Spirit and he’ll never not show up for you. But we also know that to live such a life is never to have lived.

Jesus was leaving. And he was soon to feel that God was leaving him, too: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Few greater fears than being forsaken by God. Separation. And yet into the chasm, he gives them these words, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.” And then, when the disciples wonder how these words present a concrete way forward, Jesus is firm, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”

God asks a lot of the ones who would follow him. God’s call makes many demands on our lives. Perhaps no part of that call is more demanding than when he asks us to trust his love for us. That he himself will provide the way. That he’s got you; he loves you; will not forget or forsake you. That despite all your misgivings, all will be well in the end. And this is the heart of what it is to believe in God: to let go of those things which God alone can be and do for you and this world.

All of this is why, you’ll most often hear this gospel lesson read at funerals, in the burial office. The prayer book recommends its reading there because death is that moment when any illusion of your being able to do for yourself what God alone can do dies. And yet, in the death of that illusion, the brilliant Good News of the risen Christ: your share, your home, your dwelling place, in the resurrection life of God. Undeserved and unexpected gift.

I want you to think of an unexpected gift. Either you didn’t think you’d get it. Or you hadn’t thought to want it. Those are the best ones, aren’t they? Raise your hand when you’ve got one in your head (don’t worry, nobody has to share theirs).

Alan Jacobs, an Anglican and English professor, writes about receiving unexpected gifts that we could not give ourselves, and how they change us. He says that when unexpected gifts come each of us is led to admit that, on any given day, “I don’t really know where I am going, even if I like to think I do, or think Google does; that if I know what I am looking for, I do not therefore know what I need; that I am not master of my destiny and captain of my fate; (and) that it is probably a very good thing that I am not master of my destiny and captain of my fate.”

Unexpected gifts un-captain us.
Now, in the context in which we first brought it up, naming God as our captain might appear to be something we only need to worry about at the time of death or - wink, wink - the end of the world. Good to keep in mind, but not so much for now.

But then I read this article from a man reflecting on his terminally ill father’s decision not to end his life early by active, artificial means - euthanasia. The adult son writes that

‘Death with dignity’ seems to offer not only an escape from pain and humiliation but a rational and apparently noble way to leave this life. You look death in the eye and show him that you, not he, are in control. All ‘dying with dignity’ requires is that you declare yourself God. Make yourself the lord of your life and death, and you can do what you want. All you have to do, as a last, definitive act, is to do what you’ve been doing all your life: Declare yourself, on the matter at hand, the final authority, the last judge, the one vote that counts.’

“All you have to do...is to do what you’ve been doing all your life: Declare yourself the...judge...the one vote that counts.”

And in these words I saw that the opportunity to defer to the judgment and mercy of God - to receive the unexpected gift - is an opportunity that could change my life well before my death, if I let it. If I could trust it. In these words I saw that I sometimes don’t trust it. “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” he said. “Believe in God, believe also in me.”

The promise of Christ as he leaves his disciples, even to death, is that God does for them and for us infinitely more than we can ask or imagine. And so, as Dame Julian of Norwich once famously said, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” And living in this conviction can change everything for the good.

I want to offer, as a kind of closing prayer, a song that takes these words to heart, by the Gabe Dixon Band. It’s called ‘All Will Be Well,’ and it’s the promise of the living God to us.

All will be well by the Gabe Dixon Band

The new day dawns,
And I am practicing my purpose once again.
It is fresh and it is fruitful if I win but if I lose,
Oooooo I don't know.
I will be tired but I will turn and I will go,
Only guessing til I get there then I'll know,
Oh oh oh I will know.

All the children walking home past the factories
Could see the light that's shining in my window as I write this song to you.
All the cars running fast along the interstate
Can feel the love that radiates
Illuminating what I know is true,
All will be well.
Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself,
All will be well.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.

The winter's cold,
But the snow still lightly settles on the trees.
And a mess is still a moment I can seize until I know,
That all will be well.
Even though sometimes this is hard to tell,
And the fight is just as frustrating as hell
All will be well.

All the children walking home past the factories,
Could see the light that's shining in my window as I write this song to you.
All the cars running fast along the interstate
Can feel the love that radiates
Illuminating what I know is true
All will be well.
Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself
All will be well.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.

Keep it up and don't give up
And chase your dreams and you will find
All in time.

All the children walking home past the factories
Could see the light that's shining in my window as I write this song to you.
All the cars running fast along the interstate
Can feel the love that radiates
Illuminating what I know is true,
All will be well.
Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself,
All will be well.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.

All will be well.
Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself,
All will be well.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.