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Sermon – Matthew 4.12-23, Isaiah 9.1-4, Psalm 27.1, EP3, YA, January 22, 2017

25 Wednesday Jan 2017

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Our family loves maps.  Of course, Scott and I grew up in a time when paper maps were the only kind of maps.  Since I moved around a lot and he traveled a lot, we both learned to pour over maps.  As a couple, we had road atlases for every major city in which we lived.  Looking over maps helps us understand where we are going, how different areas connect, and what the big picture is.

What you do not get from maps are the stories behind the lines.  When I lived and worked in Durham, NC, working among the hungry and poor, I soon learned more about the roads I had seen on the map.  You see, a highway cuts through Durham and was put there many years ago.  Before the highway came, there was a thriving African American community, with many small businesses.  The highway cut through the neighborhoods and businesses, dividing people from one another socially, displacing longtime community leaders, and devastating many small businesses.  The highway was essentially like tossing a small bomb into the neighborhood – without ever letting the neighborhood rebuild.  But you do not learn that kind of information from the thick blue line that conveniently cuts through town and gets you from point A to point B much faster.

Our gospel lesson today tries to give us that same kind of insight.  What sounds like a basic cartography lesson quickly becomes a socio-political lesson.  Matthew tells us, “When Jesus heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew to Galilee.  He left Nazareth and made his home in Capernaum by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali…”  Most of us hear all those town and territory names and tune out.  We keep racing forward, looking for the action in the story.  Now the map lovers among us might pull out one of those bibles with a map and pinpoint Galilee, Nazareth, and Capernaum.  We probably won’t find the territories of Zebulun and Naphtali on the same map, but we figure we at least have a mental picture of the setting.

In this case, skimming means we miss Matthew’s subtlety.  You see, we could certainly find Galilee, Nazareth, and Capernaum on a map relative to Jesus’ day.  But the reason we don’t see the territories of Zebulun and Naphtali is because that is the land of Abraham’s sons – over 700 years prior to the time Jesus lived.  The land of Zebulun and Naphtali represent a land that was once promised land, but for centuries has been a land of unfulfilled promise.[i]  The Assyrians were the first to conquer the land.  But they were followed by Babylon, the Persians, the Greeks, and eventually the Romans.  That kind of perpetual occupation and oppression does something to your psyche.  Generations upon generations have lived under the shadow of a dream deferred.  They have lived in darkness.

Long before Jesus, Isaiah prophesied that things would change.  We hear in Isaiah speaking that very promise today.  “There will be no gloom for those who were in anguish,” Isaiah says.  “In the former time he brought into contempt the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the latter time he will make glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations.  The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness–on them light has shined.”  To this place – this place where grandparent after grandparent promised their grandchildren that we would know a brighter future – to this place of darkness, Jesus goes to start his ministry.  What seems like a superfluous geographical information is actually of singular importance in understanding what Jesus is about.  The particularity of his ministry matters.  Where he goes as God made manifest says something about the kind of kingdom that is inbreaking.  His location – a land of longstanding darkness – will become a land of great light.  His location will be the place where the people of God can actually pray the psalm we prayed today, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?  The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid?”

This week has been a loaded week.  We started off by honoring the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., whose passionate pleas for justice for all inspired a nation.  Dr. King understood how much location mattered.  His march from Selma to Montgomery meant something to the people who lived in Alabama at the time.  His references to freedom ringing from the mountains of New York, the Alleghenies of Pennsylvania, the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado, the curvaceous slopes of California highlighted how different regions of our country experienced racism.[ii]  He understood the value of geography when he gave his “I have a dream” speech in front of the Lincoln Memorial – a president who presided at the time of the Civil War.  And his famous speech there inspired thousands of men and women to walk yesterday in the same location – because they knew that in order to talk about injustice, you go to the most famous place where speeches about injustice have been offered.  Even the inauguration this week in front of the Capitol Building in DC signified something – that no matter how we felt about this presidential election, the new president would do what every president has done – be sworn in just like all the others.  The location mattered.

I highlight all of this because I know many of us read these texts today and are feeling like we are in a place of darkness.  Some of us see our new President as bringing in a new era of light.  But others among us see the opposite – some of us here feel like we have welcomed in a new oppressor who will keep us in the darkness.  As I have prayed with you all this week – both in person, in conversation, and in my private prayers, I kept going back to the geographical lesson of Jesus and the beginning of his ministry.  If geography matters, what does that mean for us?  Where do we see the light dawning in our time?

No matter which candidate was yours last year, I keep remembering that no candidate would have been the bearer of the light.  Only Christ does that.  But that does not mean any of us are off the hook.  Democrats or Republicans, Southerners or Non-Southerners, Women or Men – God positions each of us in a particular geography with a particular mission to bring light to where God has planted us.  Whether you are thrilled or devastated by the state of our country’s leadership, God tells us today that our work is not done.[iii]

We often say about Hickory Neck that our mission is to keep burning our light on the hill.  This hill that we are planted on has a history too.  Over 200 years ago, the people who lived and witnessed to Jesus on this hill left.  They sided with the British and the British lost.  Talk about a devastated people!  But the light never went out.  Students came to this hill to learn and grow and play their part in this location’s narrative.  Soldiers and medics came to this hill to tend the sick, mend the wounded, and bury the dead during the Civil War.  When that war was over, students came back, to continue their learning and formation.  And, around 100 years ago, the people of God came back to this hill to start shining Christ’s light again.

Knowing that we have been planted on this hill in this time has given me hope.  No matter how divided we are as a country – no matter how divided we are within these very walls – God has asked us to be light on this hill.  That means that when our neighbors are freezing in the cold nights of winter, we are going to open our doors, cook some meals, pull some all-nighters, and witness Christ’s light and love.  That means when we start developing our vision for Hickory Neck, we are not looking for a vision for St. Swithins of anyplace, USA.[iv]  We are going to be looking at how we can make an impact on Toano, Upper James City County, Williamsburg, and Southern Virginia.  Whether we build that multigenerational day center or we find something else that matters to this particular geography, our location is part and parcel of our work to bring the light of Christ out into the world.

The darkness that many of us feel about our country is not likely to dissipate any time soon.  But that darkness does not eliminate our hope.  Our ancestors walked in the darkness for over seven centuries before the light of Christ came to them.  Our own country – from its treatment of native peoples to enslaved Africans – has been a land of darkness despite the many reminders of the light.  We can become overwhelmed in the vast story of history.  But our hope is in our geography – the current moment and place where God has placed us to beacons of hope and agents of change.  This space, with its many windows that pour in light, is meant to be a place that warms you by Christ’s light every week.  But this place is also a place that needs to shine its light off the hill – to be an agent for change, compassion, and care.   Our invitation this week is to drop our nets, and to take up our work being agents of light on this hill and beyond.  Amen.

[i] Karoline Lewis, “Mapping God’s Promises,” January 15, 2017, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4796 on January 18, 2017.

[ii] Lewis.

[iii] Fritz Wendt, “The Politics of Inauguration and Surrender—Matthew 4:12-23,” January 17, 2017, as found at http://www.politicaltheology.com/blog/the-politics-of-inauguration-and-surrender-matthew-412-23-fritz-wendt/ on January 18, 2017.

[iv] Lewis.

Sermon – John 1.29-42, EP2, YA, January 15, 2017

18 Wednesday Jan 2017

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A little over a year ago, I got an email from the Search Committee at Hickory Neck, asking me to think about submitting my name for consideration as Rector.  They detailed how they obtained my name and several reasons why I should consider applying.  “Oh, and by the way,” they said, “the deadline is in one week.”  I remember experiencing a wave of emotions from that email.  But the first cogent thought I had next was, “Well, I better go and see what they are all about.”  I spent the next twenty-four hours pouring over the available information.  I could not really explain why, but I knew I wanted to know more.

That is how most of the discernment process went.  In various ways, Hickory Neck kept saying to me, “Come and see.”  And I kept saying, “Okay.”  When confidants would ask what I liked about Hickory Neck, I had a hard time explaining my experience.  All I could say was that something about Hickory Neck was very compelling to me.  With every email, phone call, interview, or visit – I wanted to know more, to see more, to connect more.  Each, “Come and see,” had a note of expectancy, hope, and promise.  And every time I came and saw, I wanted to experience more.

The first followers of Jesus are drawn to Jesus in a similar fashion.  In our gospel lesson today, John the Baptist keeps pointing to Jesus, trying to convince those around him that they have got to go check out this Jesus character.[i]  Three times John basically says, “Come and see this Jesus!”  Jesus himself engages others with a similar invitation.  He asks what the seekers are looking for, and when they answer, Jesus says, “Come and see.”  Jesus does not talk about himself at length, or even really answer the questions of John’s disciples.  He simply invites them to “Come and see.”  One of John’s disciples, Andrew, after going and seeing Jesus, turns and does the same thing – he grabs his brother, and says to him, “Come and see.”  He does not give an elaborate explanation.  He brings his brother to Jesus and shows him so that his brother can see too.

We do the same today through the vehicle of our Annual Meeting.  Now, for many people, the Annual Meeting is code for the boring business of church.  The same thing happens every year:  we elect Vestry members, look at the budget, and hear about the state of the church.  Some years we might actually be interested in the reports – certainly last year we were eager to hear news from our Search Committee.  But most years, the Annual Meeting is sounds about as exciting as the title.

Perhaps the problem is simply the title – perhaps we should call today our Annual Celebration or our annual Come-and-See Party.  Because that is what our Annual Meeting really is:  a chance for us to come together and see the good work that Jesus is doing in our midst.  In 2016 alone, Jesus set our hearts on fire.  There were the obvious things:  new leadership being installed and ordained; good friends and leaders being sent off to new adventures; hungry, cold neighbors using these walls for shelter and protection; children, youth, and adults finding new inspiration, learning, and joy in their journey; curious visitors becoming brothers and sisters in our growing community; monies, food, and supplies being raised and collected for our neighbors in need; homebound members being brought into our midst through our Eucharistic Visitors; new worship experiences that touched our hearts and sparked something fresh in us; social media giving us tools to invite, welcome, and connect with seekers in our community; witnesses that inspired us to live generously and dream new dreams; laughter, tears, and songs bouncing off these walls; and all manner of traffic on our grounds – from people with gardening tools, to people with casseroles and Brunswick stew, to people with beloved pets, to brides and babies in white gowns, to old friends in caskets, to blue grass musicians.  And all of those obvious things do not even touch the not so obvious things:  the faithful parishioners who gather weekly in prayer, meditation, and study; the quiet volunteers who send cards, make calls, and visit hospitals; the parishioners who watch small children so their parents can worship; the women who clean the silver, polish the brass, and arrange the flowers; the men who rearrange furniture, hang greens, and cook meals; the children who teach us, inspire us, and lead us in worship; the youth who lead us in song, who ask hard questions, and call us to authenticity; and the brave who keep bugging their neighbors to come and see Christ at Hickory Neck.

This past year has been a year of incredible, rich, life-giving ministry.  We see that renewed spirit in the wonderful growth in our ministry this year.  Much of what happens at our Annual Come-and-See Celebration will give us the opportunity to do just that – come and see the incredible work Jesus is doing in our community.  And the celebration of the good work of 2016 is inspiring work on our growing edges in 2017.  Today, parishioners will receive time and talent forms to prayerfully consider how Jesus is inviting us to give back to this life-giving parish.  As we look at our budget, we can celebrate how generous giving has helped us grow our staff – and how extended giving will allow us to do even more in 2017.  Seeing the many successes of our engagement in social media, we will be looking at even more ways that our online presence allows us to invite more people to come and see Christ at Hickory Neck.  Celebrating our work in feeding, clothing, and giving shelter to our neighbors will help us consider how we might encounter Christ in new and more meaningful ways with our neighbors in Upper James City County.  With the Holy Spirit blowing behind us, we are filled up with Christ’s light and ready to shine our lights even brighter from this holy hill.

But all that we see and hear today is not just for us.  Just like John the Baptist, and Andrew and Simon Peter, when we see all that Christ is and all that Christ is doing, we cannot keep the good news to ourselves.  We do not need some lengthy explanation or some canned evangelism speech.[ii]  We do not even need to worry about what baggage others might be carrying around about Church.  All we need to do is harness those three words, “Come and see.”  Those powerful words are all we need because the light of Christ is already aglow in our faces when we talk about Hickory Neck.  I know that when I was engaged in the discernment process with the Search Committee, with words failing me, I felt that same glow.  The people, the work, the passion, the life present here fills us up with such light that all we need to do is say, “Come and see,” and others will find their way to the same joy we have found in this community.

Like any Sunday, we come together today, especially on this Annual Meeting Sunday to celebrate all that has been, all that is, and all that is yet to come.  We gather together to celebrate both our successes and our growing edges.  We assemble today to remember what about Jesus draws us in, especially in the context of this community of faith, and then to do our parts to be Johns, Andrews, and Simons, pointing the way for others, and with a twinkle in our eyes, saying, “Come, and see!”

[i][i] Rodger Y. Nishioka, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 262.

[ii] David Lose, “Epiphany 2A:  A Question, Invitation, and Promise,” January 9, 2017, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2017/01/epiphany-2-a-a-question-invitation-and-promise/ on January 11, 2017.

Homily – Luke 2.15-21, Holy Name, YA, January 1, 2017

05 Thursday Jan 2017

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Our gospel today picks up where we left off a little over a week ago.  On Christmas Eve, we heard how Mary and Joseph journeyed to Bethlehem to be registered.  We learned of how there was no room for them in the inn, and how they ended up delivering little Jesus, the savior of the world, in a room designated for animals.  Exhausted, they placed him in a manger, in bands of cloth, making the best of an awful situation.  We also learned of some unsuspecting shepherds who experienced an angelic encounter.  An angel appeared to them in the fields and told them of the messiah who had been born, where they could find the messiah, and what they could look for – that manger and those bands of cloth.

Today we pick up where we left off.  The angels leave, and the shepherds decide to check out the story.  They visit with Mary and Joseph, confirm the story, and then share their experience with the tired couple.  We are told Mary treasures the words, but ponders them too.  She is clearly still figuring all this out.  Meanwhile, the shepherds go back to work, praising God.  And Mary and Joseph go back to work too – following the circumcision customs, but perhaps, more importantly, following through with what they were asked to do – naming Jesus as the Angel commanded.[i]

What I love about this story is that no one acts alone.  Mary gets the bizarre news of her pregnancy alone, but then her cousin Elizabeth affirms her and confirms the good news.  Shepherds are minding their business when the angels appear to them.  They could have stayed at home that night, but they go and share the news.  Mary and Joseph go on a scary journey that seems to be making one bad turn after another.  But then shepherds come and give them a good word.  Even the naming of Jesus takes place in community – at least a rabbi or priest comes and performs the naming right, knowingly or not, naming the child the same name the angel gave Mary – Jesus, or “Joshua, meaning salvation”[ii].

Going at things alone is part of our contemporary mindset.  We place a value on people being able to fend for themselves.  The number one goal of parents is to teach their children independence.  And Lord knows we hear a lot of, “I do it by myself!” at our house these days.  In and of itself, independence is not a bad thing.  We have gifts and talents of which God expects us to be good stewards.  But going at life alone can have the opposite effect of what we think.  By glorifying independence we forget the inherent dependence we all have.  If nothing else, we are certainly dependent upon our Lord and Savior, without whom nothing would be possible.  But Jesus teaches us that community is equally important.  Jesus was never a lone ranger in his ministry. He understood the people of faith to be a community – to need each other for learning and understanding.  Unlike what the world might have us believe, life is not all about independence.  Quite the opposite, we need each other in this crazy journey of faith – to learn from each other, to challenge each other, to support each other, and cheer each other on when we get weary.

As our children and I were reading our Advent and Christmas devotional this week, we learned about Simeon and Anna, whose story comes in the verses just following the passage we read today.  If you remember Simeon and Anna are elder members of the faith, living and working in the temple when Jesus is to be presented.  The devotional asked us what elderly people we know and what they teach us.  I was surprised to hear my seven-year old jump in with all sorts of idea about what our elders teach us.  She said that our elders have lived a lot longer and so they have a lot to teach us about the world.  She said they can help teach the children how to live and what they can do in the world.  When I asked the question about what our elders teach us, I had expected the standard, “I don’t know.”  Instead, I got a response that showed a great deal of insight into how much we need each other – young and old, rich and poor, male and female, liberal and conservative – if we are going to survive in this journey of faith and life.

All the parts of our Christmas story are a bit like a puzzle.  Each piece is important in its own right, but once you put the pieces together, the puzzle reveals something much more valuable.  Though the parts we hear about during Christmastide are some of our favorite parts, they are just pieces in the puzzle.  The story of Jesus would not be complete without angelic appearances, shared stories between cousins, and tired, weary people sharing good news together.  Mary would have nothing to treasure and ponder without the ragtag community that has gathered around her.

The same is true for us.  Our Christmas story is a beautiful story.  But unless we share the story in community, unless we share our story in community, we only get a partial glimpse into the good work Christ is doing in our lives.  We need each other to encourage and support each other in the faith journey.  We need each other to interpret God’s movement in our lives, and to teach us wisdom.  We need each other in those moments of treasuring and pondering our own story.  Today we give thanks for the tremendous community of faith who help us in our journeys toward Christ.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

[i] Fred B. Craddock, Luke, Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990), 36-37.

[ii] Craddock, 36.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-14, CE, 8/11 PM, December 24, 2016

04 Wednesday Jan 2017

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In our house, we are still in the stage where Christmas is a big deal.  With a seven- and a two-year old under foot, there are Christmas presents galore.  We try not to go too crazy ourselves, but once you add in faraway grandparents, aunts and uncles, and friends, the tree is bombarded with gifts.  This year I have been staring at that tree and wondering where in the world all that “stuff” is going to go.  The kids already have quite a bit of toys and games.  I look around at our full house and wonder where everything will fit.

That is why I was excited when a friend of mine shared a great new find this year.  Called a “Christmas Sack,” the large cloth bag is meant to filled with toys, games, or clothing the children (and adults!) no longer need and would like to share with someone who does.  They fill up the bag before Christmas, and put the bag by the tree on Christmas Eve.  The next morning, the bag is empty, and in the bag’s place are new things for the kids to enjoy.  The idea was brilliant, and reminded me of an old adage another parent had once given me – for everything that comes in, something must go out.  What I love about the idea of that bag is the bag makes room – makes room for the house to not feel cluttered, makes room for the kids to play and really enjoy their new things, and makes room for whatever might come.  I want our children to grow up in a home where there is that kind of room.

Mary and Joseph run into a similar problem on that fateful night over two thousand years ago.  Their problem is not so much houses overrun with presents.  Their problem is homes and guesthouses overrun with people.  The tyranny of living under the Roman thumb is that the Roman emperor is always looking for ways to squeeze the people – to live in prosperity no matter whether others suffer or not.  In our story tonight, the emperor has gone to extremes – making people return to hometowns to be registered.  He wants to make sure he has not missed any opportunities to tax his people, and so he degradingly corrals people into towns to count them like animals.  By the time Mary and Joseph roll into town, all the homes of their relatives and friends are full – even the guestrooms are full.[i]  There is no room for them.  No space has been left over for hospitality.  No room has been left for whatever might come.

And so, in the midst of a dehumanizing governmental reign, at the tail end of an already scandalous marriage and pregnancy, Mary and Joseph are squeezed into the section of a home that is reserved for animals.  Alone, denigrated, shamed, and weary, they bring into this world a savior for people just like them – a savior for the poor, oppressed, marginalized, dehumanized, and victimized.  In a vulnerable little package arrives the Godhead, in the most vulnerable of situations, to be a light to all who are vulnerable.  What should have been a party of epic proportions becomes a gathering of misfits, who are the only ones who get to see the miracle of Christ’s birth.

As I have been thinking about how there was no room for the Holy Family, I have wondered what it would have been like for someone to make room for this vulnerable family.  Had someone, anyone, said yes to Mary and Joseph, imagine the wonder they could have experienced that night.  Might they have seen something different in this Christ Child?  Might they have been awake when the shepherds came and heard their tale?  Might they have been given first row seats to the most holy of nights?  I wonder if one of the reasons that no one makes room that night is that no one is ready for the Messiah.  In the midst of their own travel and cramped accommodations, the sense of persecution by their government, and perhaps a loss of hope about what could be, no one makes room for the possibility of a Messiah who can make things different.  No one makes room for whatever might come.

Of course, I am not sure any of us is prepared to make room for Jesus tonight either.  I do not know about you, but I have been running to the store all week because my brain is so scattered that I keep forgetting small things like milk, and worrying that we will run out when the stores are closed.  I keep remembering one more person I wanted to send a greeting to or for whom I wanted get a gift.  A week ago, I gave up on getting out my Christmas cards (which I decided could be Epiphany cards to give myself a break).  When you are running at full speed, tending to the mundane of life, professional or familial obligations, and making sure you have laundered enough clothing, we can easily forget to make room for Jesus in our lives.

This week I was reading about a custom in Russia.  On the eve of Christmas, Christians fast all day until the first star appears that night.  Of course, fasting until the first star reminds them of the star that led the magi to Bethlehem.  But the custom is also meant to be a fast for the soul – as one monk puts it, to “abstain from bad or useless thoughts and speech, and await in silence and composure the savior who is coming to us.”[ii]  Truthfully, I cannot imagine anyone fasting and staying silent all day on Christmas Eve, but the idea is certainly intriguing.  The physical fasting alone might make us savor our Christmas meals a bit more.  But the spiritual fasting might be just what we need in these days of noise, suffering, and chaos – a quieting of the soul to make room for the voice of Christ, and whatever else might come.

Now, the first star has most certainly appeared by now.  But you have done an incredible thing by coming here tonight.  In some ways, this service is your mini-fast.  You chose to take a break in the family festivities, the hubbub of preparations, and the noise of life to come to church.  You have gathered with a community of people who have made that same choice.  And we certainly will not be breaking our fast until we eat the holy meal.  I invite you to use this special time that you have chosen to set apart as a time to take in a deep breath, to savor the quiet of this night, and to invite Jesus in – to either help you make room in your heart for him, or to invite Jesus in to the room you have already made.

The gift of this service tonight is to help you create that room and give you eyes to see what God is up to when you create space.  I often find that when I create room for Jesus, I remember how fortunate I am to have family, friends, and food, and then can pray for those who lack those things.  When I create room for Jesus, I can look around my community and see Marys and Josephs all around me who need a little hand – a literal room, or at least my compassion and grace.  When I create room for Jesus, I see all the tiny interruptions in my day not as hurdles to accomplishing tasks, but as moments with Jesus as each person reveals to me a facet of Jesus for which I had not been listening or looking.  I look forward to hearing what you do with the room you create for Jesus tonight and for whatever else might come.

[i] Douglas R.A. Hare, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 121.

[ii][ii] A monk of the Easter Church, “Christmas Eve,” A Christmas Sourcebook, Mary Ann Simcoe, ed. (Chicago:  Liturgy Training Publications, 1984), 13.

Homily – Luke 2.-8-20, Blue Christmas, December 21, 2016

04 Wednesday Jan 2017

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I can still picture the perfect Christmas in my head.  My cousins were all there, along with my aunts, uncles, and grandparents.  The kids’ table was the coveted spot for dinner – even some the adults offered to make the “sacrifice” of not sitting at the adult table in order to join the kids.  After a dinner with the lamb and asparagus casserole my grandfather always cooked, the cousins challenged the aunts and uncles to a football game in the yard.  I scored a touchdown, which if you know me, was a minor miracle.  It was a perfectly beautiful, chilly day, and I remember being happy.

Of course, I was too young to know what was actually happening.  Marriages were hanging on by a string, and only one would survive.  Anxiety was hidden beneath the surface at the kids’ table as one family member barked at us for various offenses.  At least one family member was struggling with her sexuality.  Cousins would later be caught in the middle of nasty divorces, meaning I would not see them for several years.  Jobs would be lost, and identity would be questioned in the midst of unemployment.  American politics would infect family politics.  Even my own immediate family was heading for all sorts of tumult.

For a long time, I mourned the loss of that perfect Christmas.  I saw other families seeming to hold their Christmases together without effort.  I watched commercials that reminded me more of how things used to be rather than how they were.  I would receive annual Christmas cards and letters from seemingly perfect friends that made me feel like I did not measure up.  Even the pictures of the Holy Family seemed to capture a peace and contentment that I would never have.

But slowly, over the years, the old Biblical narrative seemed to unravel.  Knowing how hard marriage is, I could finally imagine how tense things must have been between Joseph and Mary.  Knowing how hard pregnancy is, I could finally imagine how miserable Mary must have been by the time they arrived in Bethlehem.  Knowing how brutal the Roman rulers were, I could imagine how dehumanizing going back to your hometown to be enrolled in the census must have been.  Knowing that not one family member, friend, or business would take in the Holy Family, leaving them in the most humiliating of situations, I could imagine how panicked and lonely the first-time mom, Mary, must have felt, even in her exhaustion.  Knowing how filthy shepherds usually were, and how Mary and Joseph just wanted a little peace, I could imagine how overwhelmed the Holy Family felt.  Though we like nativity sets, cards, and pageants that depict the Holy Family’s experience as heavenly perfection, the scripture tells a different story.

One of my favorite paintings of Mary is a painting that depicts her, just after birth, splayed, half-dressed, on a rustic bed, with women hovering in the dark background, tending to baby Jesus.[i]  There’s something very real and raw about that painting – the animals and baby are all there, but none of it seems perfect.  That’s what I love about this service too.  We too are tired, overwhelmed, and feeling vulnerable.  We too are lost without our loved ones this year.  We too are terrified of the ambiguity of life, and the sense that we are not in control.  But unlike everywhere else we live and work, this gathering tonight says we do not have to hide; we do not have to stuff our vulnerabilities and weaknesses in a box; we do not need to try to find perfection.

Tonight we are simply invited to be real, vulnerable, and honest about the imperfection of our lives, of ourselves, and of this time of year.  And though some artists might want you to believe that the Holy Family puts forth some sort of perfection standard, if anything, the Holy Family is right there with us.  Sitting among smelly animals and shepherds, settling into itchy hay and drafty stables, and wrapping their child in scraps of simple cloths, the Holy Family invites us into an imperfect Christmas.  Only when we enter fully enter into the imperfection of our Christmases are we able to allow the perfection of Christ to light a small flame of hope in our hearts.  May that light be kindled or stoked tonight, and may that light of hope grow ever strong in the days, weeks, and years to come.

[i] Paul Gauguin, “Te Tamari No Atua (Nativity), 1896,” as found at http://www.jesus-story.net/painting_birth_christ.htm on December 20, 2016.

Sermon – Matthew 1.18-25, A4, YA, December 18, 2016

21 Wednesday Dec 2016

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This week, I have been thinking a lot about callings.  Of course, with Charlie’s ordination to the priesthood this weekend, thinking about callings is not unusual.  I have always enjoyed ordinations – and not just because I am a priest.  I remember the first ordination I went to there were six people being ordained.  I only knew one of the six because she was our new assistant at the Cathedral.  But I remember being awed by the service.  The six ordinands seemed set apart.  As they processed down the aisle, wearing their simple albs, I remember wondering how they came to be called as priests, imagining they must have led a special life or be particularly holy.  I remember the swarms of clergy who gathered up front to lay hands on the new priests.  I remember how the new priests somehow seemed bathed in light that day – as if they had some special connection to the holy.

Having been through the ordination process myself, I look at ordinands a little differently today.  Instead of seeing perfectly pious priests processing, I see people who have come through a great ordeal.  I imagine the countless nights of struggling with God about why in the world they should become priests.  I imagine the stressful meetings with bishops, priests, and committees and the ambiguity about what would happen.  I imagine the exams, the sense of failure after messy pastoral visit, and the countless “no”s that come along in the process.  I no longer see perfectly coifed new priests, but instead see the haggard, raw, vulnerable people who have said, “yes,” to what promises to be a life of hard, beautiful, ugly, blessed days.   In that way, I do not see the ordained as all that different from the rest of us – a vulnerable group of people who are trying to figure out what in the world God wants us to do with our lives.

That is why I love that we hear Joseph’s story today.  Most of us think of Joseph as the stable, quiet figure in Jesus’ life.  He is present on the holy night of Jesus’ birth.  He protects Jesus from Herod by fleeing to Egypt.  He teaches Jesus a trade.  He accepts the mighty task of raising a child that is both his own and not his own.  In our minds, he is a righteous, quiet, solid man of faith.

While all of those things may be true, what they miss is the mess of his life behind the scenes. [i]  Joseph is a typical man of faith, righteously living his life, betrothed to a faithful, promising young woman.  He is quietly living his life when his world gets turned upside down.  His betrothed becomes pregnant, which must mean she has been unfaithful, and in Joseph’s time, that means his soon-to-be wife must either be stoned or divorced immediately.[ii]  Trying to overcome this tremendous disgrace and disappointment, Joseph discerns the best, most gracious path forward.  And just when he has settled what is next, God comes along, and flips his world upside-down again.  Now Joseph is supposed to not only believe that Mary is magically pregnant through the Holy Spirit, but he is also to stay with her and take the baby in as his own.  And based on scripture, we know once Jesus hits the teenage years, Joseph’s story disappears altogether.  Even though God calls Joseph to do this tremendous, hard, messy, but beautiful thing, Joseph does not get the spotlight for long.  He goes about his everyday life, living out his calling, relatively unnoticed by the world.

One of the things I have loved about mentoring people over the years is seeing just that same phenomenon.  Throughout our lives we have distinct seasons of discerning call.  Sometimes those moments are obvious:  graduating from school, trying to find a job, figuring out how to spend time in retirement.  The pattern seems to go a little like this:  we hit a point where we need to discern what God is calling us to do; we go through a process of discernment, sometimes formal, but usually informal; we make a decision and take the necessary steps to follow that path; and eventually we look back.  In looking back, we rarely find that the call we heard and answered leads us to where we expected or wanted.  Invariably, there are twists and turns we never could have anticipated.  Invariably, there are failures scattered throughout the successes.  Answering a call is never a simple, clean, or easy process.

Just this week, I was reading about a young man from North Carolina who happened to see a traveling ballet company at his church at age seven.  Four years later, he found himself practicing six days a week.  He eventually joined the New York City Ballet.  He says, “I’ve always seen ballet as my way of serving God.  I think it’s what God has called me to do.”[iii]  What I love about this young man’s story is that whether you are a ballet dancer, cabinet maker, housekeeper, or financial manager, at some point, God has called you to that work for a reason.  The ballet dancer admits he sacrificed a lot to follow his call.  I imagine he failed a lot before he succeeded.  And some day, his body will no longer be able to dance, and he will have to figure out what else God is calling him to do.  His story is the messy, beautiful, challenging story of call we all live.

And if we have never struggled with discerning our professional calling, we have certainly struggled to understand what God is doing in our personal lives.  Though we are approaching a season of joy and merriment, I know there are many of us who are facing medical diagnoses whose purpose we do not understand.  There those among us who are living in relationships – romantic, familial, or otherwise – that are at times loving, hurtful, confusing, and life-giving.  And there are those of us who feel lost, lonely, or restless, even though everything in our lives seems to be moving along well on the outside.  God is in the midst of the personal too – calling us, challenging us, and shaping us.

If we were ever unsure about God’s presence in our messy professional and personal calls, Joseph stands ready to remind us.  He too faces a medical diagnosis that changes his world – a pregnancy that he did not plan, or even participate in, that changes the course of his life forever.  He too faces a relationship that seems broken.  Even when he feels as though he is choosing a kind, compassionate, and righteous decision, God calls him to take another path.  Joseph too understood what feeling lost is like.  Just because an angel tells him to take in Mary and adopt the child as his own, I doubt that things are easy sailing at home, on that journey to Bethlehem, or even after Jesus’ birth.  Though Joseph is listening to God and following God’s call, he is never promised a simple, peaceful, happy life.

So why do we do it?  Why do we listen to God’s call for us if we have no guarantees of a happy, smooth, or peaceful life?  We follow God’s call because we have experienced that sense of dis-ease when we do not follow God’s call – that sense that we are not using all the gifts God has given us, or that discomfort that comes from trying to force what we “should” do in life with what God calls us to do in life.  We follow God’s call because we have experienced the tremendous grace that comes from answering God’s call.  Sure, the road is messy, and hard, and sometimes frustrating.  But the road is also full of beautiful surprises, wonderful accidents, and joyful confirmations that we are right where God wants us.  And we follow God’s call because we are part of a people who have always followed God’s call:  from Abraham, to Moses, to Esther, to Jonah, to Mary, to Joseph.  Our ancestors have taught us that when we say “yes,” God does indeed turn our lives upside down.  But our ancestors have also taught us that in the midst of that topsy-turvy turmoil is where we find out truest selves, where we meet the world’s deepest needs, and where we find ourselves in Christ’s light and love.  So, do not be afraid.  God is with us.  God is with you.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Matthew’s Version of the Incarnation,” December 17, 2013, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=2961 on December 14, 2016.

[ii] Douglas R. A. Hare, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 93.

[iii] Quote and story from Humans of New York, December 12, 2016, at http://www.humansofnewyork.com/post/154395391126/i-was-first-exposed-to-ballet-at-the-age-of-seven, as found on December 14, 2016.  Photo by Brandon Stanton.  Subject unnamed.

Sermon – Isaiah 40.1-11, A2, YA, Advent Lessons and Carols, December 4, 2016

08 Thursday Dec 2016

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The season of Advent and I have not always been friends.  In fact, the first Advent I experienced in the Episcopal Church almost ended my relationship with the Episcopal Church.  You see, I grew up in a Christian tradition that treated Advent as the beginning of the Christmas season.  Starting on Advent One, we were singing Christmas carols, making our way through all the old favorites.  The tradition felt perfect – instead of focusing on a secularized Christmas, the Christmas hymns during Advent reminded us all of the “reason for the season.”  Besides, there are so many familiar Christmas hymns, that there would be no way to enjoy them all during the short two weeks of Christmastide.  Since our tradition also did not have services on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, you had to squeeze in all the “Joy to the Worlds,” “Oh Holy Nights,” and “Away in the Mangers,” that you could before the holiday was over.  In that tradition, Advent felt like a family gathering around a fire, singing songs of familiarity and comfort.

Of course, the Episcopal Church we landed in did nothing of the sort.  The songs I heard during that first Advent were dreadful.  They were slow and full of melancholy.  They sounded as though whomever wrote them was hunkered down, alone, in a room without a fireplace.  They had a hollow, haunted feeling to them, and the tunes were difficult to follow.  I remember that first Advent feeling like all the joy had been taken out of Christmas, and all that was left was a sad sense of unfamiliarity.

So, if that were my first experience of Advent in the Episcopal Church, why in the world would I agree to having not just Lessons and Carols today – but Advent Lessons and Carols?  I not only agreed to, but begged for, Advent Lessons and Carols because this service attempts to capture what the whole season of Advent does in the Episcopal tradition.  Advent is not meant to be four weeks of celebrating the birth of the Christ Child.  Advent is meant to be four weeks of helping us understand the enormity of what happens on the fateful night of Christ’s birth.  And so, like the people of faith always have, we go back and tell the story.  We tell our story.  We set the scene of Jesus’ birth by using our story to understand the context of the monumental event of the nativity.

First, we go all the way back to the garden of Eden.  Then, we remember the words of the prophets who told of a messiah, an anointed one from the house of David – and yet, better than David.  We hear words of comfort, words of preparation, and words of promise.  We hear of a young, inexperienced woman and the announcement that she gets of a coming child.  And we even hear from Jesus himself, who tells us of the call for repentance in the face of fulfilled promise.  All of that – from Eden, to failed kings and judges, to wearied exiled people, to scared, young women, to the message of repentance all are needed to remember why that infant in a humble manger is so important.  His story is bigger.   His story starts long before his own story starts.  His story is our story.

I am especially grateful for the rooting that Advent provides this year because I have been feeling pretty rootless lately.  With all the noise of world news lately, we can easily become lost.  We can get caught up in the heat of politics, pandering, and promises and forget to whom we belong.  We can see destruction all around us and wonder whether hope is lost.  Into the face of that loss, destruction, and longing, Isaiah says today, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.”  At the time of Isaiah’s oracle, the people of God had been in a time of high tensions.  “…The northern kingdom of Israel and the Aramaeans of Damascus tried to force Judah and King Ahaz to join their rebellion against Assyria.  On Isaiah’s advice, Ahaz refused; but then, instead of joining the rebel alliance, he called Assyria to intervene.”[i]  Of course, this led to disaster and eventually the end of the northern kingdom.  You can imagine Isaiah’s frustration with a king who does not trust God, and who only half-way follows God’s instructions.  And with the massive destruction of the northern kingdom, Isaiah could have been tempted to lose hope.  But the text we get today is not a text of damnation or even chastising.  Instead, Isaiah is able to hold on to hope.  In the midst of what feels like total destruction, Isaiah proclaims, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.”

Those of you who read my blog know I am not all that great with plants.  Most plants survive only a few weeks, maybe months if I am lucky.  The running joke is that I pretty much have a brown thumb instead of a green thumb.  The one exception is a little bonsai plant that my husband and I were given as a wedding present.  Somehow, miracle of all miracles, I have managed to keep that plant alive for the fifteen years since our wedding.  I had taken to calling it our “love plant,” because I surmised that only our love was keeping the plant going.  But when we moved to Williamsburg, having the brown thumb that I do, I assumed that the plant would be just fine sitting in my car for a few days.  When we finally moved into our house, I realized something was wrong.  The heat of the day must have scorched the plant, because every leaf was turning brown.  Within a week of moving in, all the leaves had fallen and even those 15-year old branches were looking withered beyond repair.  I was pretty sure the plant was dead, but I couldn’t bear to toss our love plant.  For some odd reason, I kept watering the plant, hoping something would happen.  But even plant-lovers who saw my plant looked at me with pitying eyes when I showed them the plant.  Two months later, I looked over at our sad, presumably dead plant, and at the base of that bonsai plant were two little new shoots of growth.  I couldn’t believe it!  After a period of mourning, new life was emerging.  Hope emerged that our withered love plant might just have a little more life left.

Isaiah’s promise is similarly powerful.  “Out of something that appears finished, lifeless, left behind, comes the sign of new life – a green sprig.”[ii]  As Christians, we certainly understand the green sprig from the stump of Jesse to be Jesus Christ.  He is the only one who can redeem and bring new life.  He is the one who brings us hope.   In a few weeks, we will not just be celebrating the birth of a cute baby.  We will be celebrating the shoot from the stump of Jesse – a branch that will bring new life out of destruction, pain, and suffering.  In our world of destruction, pain, and suffering, I cannot imagine a better message of hope.

Once I understood the significance of Advent in the greater faith narrative, my years-long loathing of Episcopal Advent began to fade.  The more reserved songs of Advent slowly began to feel less like dirges and more like raw, vulnerable songs of hope.  Suddenly the soprano voices singing the high notes of “Jesus Christ, the Apple Tree,” the phrase, “Most highly favored lady,” and the comforting alleluias of “Let all Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,” became welcome, comforting friends, and not the nemeses I once imagined.  Finally, after years of dread, instead, I found Advent in the Episcopal Church to be a gift – a time set apart to gather around with family and tell the old stories – our story, and prepare our hearts for the new shoot from the root of Jesse.

The telling of our story is not just important for understanding who the Christ Child is.  The telling of our story is also important for understanding who we are in relation to the Christ Child and the world.  When we understand ourselves to be redeemed by the shoot of the stump of Jesse, the way we operate in the world changes.  We look at a world of destruction, pain, and suffering through the lens of hope.  And when we look through the lens of hope, we are not a defeated people, but a people who see promise, even when others cannot see that same promise.  We know what the shoot from the stump of Jesse has done, is doing, and will do.  And that means our whole way of being changes.  Our story changes.  Our song changes.  And we change too.  Thanks be to God!

[i] Bruce C. Birch, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 27.

[ii] Stacey Simpson Duke, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 28.

Sermon Luke 21.5-19, Isaiah 65.17-25, P28, YC, November 13, 2016

23 Wednesday Nov 2016

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One of the things you will learn about me as we grow together is that I generally avoid politics in the pulpit.  I avoid talking about politics because one of the blessings of the Episcopal Church is that we represent a wide range of political viewpoints.   Though some would like to categorize our church as liberal because of some of our national Church decisions, our membership is diverse.  Most of the time our diversity is a gift.  Our diversity means that we cannot become an echo chamber, always preaching to the proverbial choir.  We will have differences of opinion, we will argue and debate about how scripture is applied in modern life, and we will be forced to agree to disagree when we come to the table each week.  We are one of the rare denominations who walk that fine line well, and that ability is one of the things I love about the Episcopal Church.

The curse of our diversity means that we will rarely be on the same page about an issue on any given Sunday.  That reality is most glaringly obvious on a Sunday like this one:  the first Sunday after one of the most contentious elections in modern history.  As I step into this pulpit today, I am aware that there are people in this room who feel like we made a good decision on Tuesday – a decisive vote to do business differently on a national level.  I am aware that there are people in this room who are gravely disappointed by the decision we made on Tuesday.  They feel a range of emotions, including sadness, disappointment, hurt, anger, fear, and threat.  I am also aware that there are people in this room who do not put too much credence in what happened Tuesday.  They may have voted, but they did not feel like there were any good options, and so they were resigned to be dissatisfied with whatever the outcome would be.

The trouble with our scripture lessons from Luke and Isaiah today is that they tempt us to conflate what has happened in our political sphere this week with the kingdom of God.  Teaching at the Temple, Jesus predicts the destruction of the Temple.  When asked when this will take place and what the signs will be, Jesus’ answer is dire.  He warns of false prophets; wars and insurrections; nations rising up against each other; earthquakes, famines, and plagues; betrayals by family and friends; and personal arrests and persecutions.  Conversely, Isaiah prophesies of the coming kingdom:  where there will be no weeping or distress; people will live into old age; people will stay on their land and their fruits will prosper; and the wolf and the lamb will feed together.  We could look at these two worlds – the world of destruction and judgment and the world of the peaceful kingdom and easily say, “Well because my candidate won or lost, we will be dealing with either the day of doom or the day of the peaceful kingdom.”  The scripture today tantalizingly tempts us to look at these last five days and say with either dread or joy, “The kingdom of God has come near.”  But I would argue that that kind of conflating is not only false, but also ascribes too much power to humans.

Eight years ago, I voted for Barak Obama.  I remember feeling like he could bring us into a new era.  He talked about hope, and I felt filled with a sense of hope and renewal.  He made a lot of promises, many of which felt in line with what I would call gospel living.  When he took office, I remember holding on to that sense of hope.  I should not have been surprised years later when I became disappointed with some of Obama’s decisions.  My idyllic sense of hope began to deflate, and I remember several people talking about how disappointed they were – as if Obama was a false prophet or failed messiah.  As soon as that rhetoric surfaced, I realized the fatal flaw of my vote of confidence in Obama.  I had placed Obama in the role of Messiah – someone who would bring about the reign of God.  Suddenly, I realized how unfair, and quite frankly, unchristian, that expectation was.  Obama would never be the Messiah I wanted because I already had a Messiah.  No president could ever represent Christ effectively, because we only have one Messiah.  Not until I had that realization was I able to see politics a little differently.  Though I strongly encourage us all to be involved in the political life of our country, and I also strongly encourage us to use our Christian ethics as a moral compass in electing officials, I am also keenly aware that no political servant can ever be a messiah, because every political servant is a flawed human, just like you and me.  Likewise, I am also ever more aware that Jesus was not a Democrat or a Republican, because political parties are made up of flawed human beings with flawed abilities to fully represent the gospel of Jesus Christ.

So where does that leave us?  Are we supposed to step back from political activism if the political system is inherently flawed?  Scholars have debated this issue for centuries.  In their book Resident Aliens, Stanley Hauerwas and Will Willimon argued that Christians should be in the world, but not of the world.  They argued that, “The Confessing church does not take as its primary aim the transformation of the world through the political route of the State.  Instead, [the Church] seeks to transform the world by creating a counterculture of people who live under the reign of Jesus.  In this counterculture ‘people are faithful to their promises, love their enemies, tell the truth, honor the poor, suffer for righteousness, and thereby testify to the amazing community-creating power of God.  The confessing church has no interest in withdrawing from the world, but it is not surprised when its witness evokes hostility from the world’ (46).  In doing so this counterculture church becomes the people of the cross, demonstrating God’s love for the world.  The most ‘effective’ thing the church can do is to become the ‘actual creation of a living, breathing, visible community of faith’ (46) in a hostile world.”[i]

Here is what I know:  the kingdom of man is not like the kingdom of God.  I say that not as an excuse to hide in a bubble, but as a salve for our wounded spirits when we see how far apart the kingdom of man can be from the kingdom of God.  We could leave church today with our hands thrown up in the air, feeling like the two are different and there is nothing we can do to change it.  But that is not what Hauerwas, Willimon, or even Jesus want from us today.  In Jesus’ prediction of doom and personal persecution, Jesus also says something simple and almost comical.  He says, “This will give you an opportunity to testify.”[ii]  Our political system is not perfect.  We are not a perfect country.  We hurt each other and we suffer at the hand of one another.  But that lack of perfection and the presence of hurt is no excuse to not work on bringing about the kingdom of God here on earth.  The prophecy of Isaiah is not some pie-in-the-sky dream about what happens when we die.  The coming of Jesus meant the inbreaking of the kingdom here on earth.  In Christ’s absence, our work is turning this kingdom of man into the kingdom of God.  The vision from Isaiah is just that:  a vision for us to align our steps, and to do our work.  The vision of Isaiah is not a Republican vision or a Democrat vision.  The vision of Isaiah is the vision of God:  of taking “the original creation that the Divine called good,” and “transforming that creation into something new.”[iii]

After this contentious election, I would love to tell you that everything will be okay – that God will magically make things right.  But Jesus tells us today that he needs us to do our work.  When Jesus tells those gathered that they will have the opportunity to testify, he also tells them, “make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance; for I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict.”[iv]  Things will be bad before the kingdom of God reigns over the kingdom of man.  Our political systems are not capable or perhaps even interested in bringing about the reign of God.  That work is ours to do.  But Jesus promises that he will be with us, giving us the words as we work, empowering us to right the ills of this world, strengthening us for work of kingdom making.  And you are in the right place this morning to prepare yourself for that work.  Today and every Sunday we offer you the chance to cry out to God, to confess your own complicity with sin, to learn and be formed into a disciple of Christ, to be strengthened with the holy meal, and then to get back out there in the work of bringing about the kingdom of God.  If you need to linger today a little longer at the altar rail, with your anger or your grief at what happened this week, by all means do it.  If you are emboldened by what happened this week, then take that sense of victory and turn it into kingdom work.  But before you leave today, remember that each of us, in all our diverse opinions and experiences are needed to testify and help each other testify.  We need each other and our Messiah, the Christ.  He will give us the words when the time comes so that we can create a world where the lion and the lamb feast together.  Amen.

[i] Steven Kopp, “Book Summary: Resident Aliens by Stanley Hauerwas,” August 21, 2015, as found at https://slasherpastor.wordpress.com/2015/08/21/book-summary-resident-aliens-by-stanley-hauerwas/ on November 11, 2016.  The page numbers are page citations from Hauerwas and Willimon’s book.

[ii] Luke 21.13.

[iii] Mary Eleanor Johns, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 290.

[iv] Luke 21.14-15.

Sermon – Habakkuk 1.1-4; 2.1-4, P26, YC, October 30, 2016

02 Wednesday Nov 2016

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I don’t know about you, but there are times when I have to tune out from the world.  I binge watch HGTV or find a mindless comedy and I just zone out.  In part, I do this because my psyche, my spirit, my soul feels overwhelmed.  I cannot listen to one more story of natural disaster – of floods, of famine, of destruction.  I cannot learn of one more part of the world where humanity seems lost – of genocide, of systemic violence against women, of the taking of land from its rightful owners.  And lately, I cannot absorb one more barb by a political campaign – of slander, of innuendo, of plain meanness.  And if I am not trying to hide from the world around us, sometimes I find I need to hide from the world right in front of us – from awful diagnoses, to life lost, to relationships broken.

While one common response is to relieve tension through mindless activity, the other alternative is to do what Habakkuk does today:  cry out to God.  “How long, O LORD, must I call for help, but you do not listen?”  The reading from Habakkuk today starts with what is called a lament – something commonly seen in the psalms,[i] but known by us all because at some point in our lives, we have all cried out a lament to God.  In this particular lament, Habakkuk is angry with God because the world is crumbling around him.  Violence is on every side and those supposed to enforce justice are perverting justice.  You can hear the sense of betrayal in Habakkuk’s voice – as if God has abandoned him and the rest of God’s people.  And so, Habakkuk does what God’s people have done from the days of Abraham – he argues with God.[ii]  He demands a response.  He calls God to task – demanding that God not let this ungodly world continue on its ungodly path.

If you are ever in a crisis, one of the things you will learn about me is what I love about our God:  God can take our anger, our righteous indignation, our arguments.  Our people have been engaging this way with God from the beginning – not victim to an all-powerful God who demands our obedience, but in relationship with a God who can handle all of our “stuff.”  Lord knows God has gotten an earful from me over the years – every time a child is lost, fellow citizens die from senseless violence, or life just seemed too much to bear – God has heard from me.  Sometimes I cry out in a lament, sometimes I cannot even find the words I am so angry.  I learned a long time ago that the good news is God can take it.

After his lament, Habakkuk does something that is quite familiar to me as a parent of young children.  Habakkuk stomps his feet, crosses his arms, and stares in silent indignation, daring God to respond.  Of course, one could certainly label this as the conclusion of Habakkuk’s temper tantrum.  But an alternative may be to see something else in what Habakkuk is doing.  In the face of great sorrow, anger, and despair, Habakkuk does not flee.  Though he feels abandoned, he does not abandon God.  Instead, he demands God’s presence and will not be satisfied until he hears a word from God.  And so he waits.  He waits, and watches.  He keeps vigil, listening for God to speak.

Several years ago, Hickory Neck was thriving and heading toward what looked like a tremendous time of growth and change.  The community rallied around creating this new worship space to house the community that was bursting at the seams.  We even have plans for how to expand this building into phases two and three when we expected we would be bursting at the seams again.  But a few years ago, we hit a bit of snag.  Our pastor became ill and eventually took a new call.  Though we had an interim priest, we had interims without the interim.  I would not say that things ever got so rough that we called out in lament to God like Habakkuk.  But we did take a play out of Habakkuk’s book:  we stood in wait, keeping vigil, listening for God to speak a new word to us.

And slowly, God did just that.  God began to speak.  God began to whisper new dreams, new visions.  We began to dream about mission trips, increased local outreach, repurposing building or building new spaces to house ministries for the growing population of both retirees and young families in our area, and meaningful worship and growth.  God began to open our hearts to what new clergy might join us, and what new visions we might build together.  We began to do what God tells Habakkuk to do today.  When God finally speaks to Habakkuk, God says, “Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so that a runner may read it.”  Now there is a little scholarly debate[iii] about what the vision is God is communicating – one of promise or one of condemnation – one to be rejoiced or one to be feared[iv] – but the clarity is what strikes me.  Write the vision; make it plain.

A little under a year ago, your Vestry engaged in just that kind of work.  They looked at the state of Hickory Neck, they talked about their dreams for Hickory Neck, they looked at the finances, and then the wrote a vision.  They knew what everyone here knows:  that Hickory Neck is a special place that has been challenged to grow in new and exciting ways.  We have all experienced the power of worship in this place, the transformative nature of formation and prayer in this place, the radical commitment to hospitality in this place, and the passion for Christ’s call to love our neighbors in this place.  And so, the Vestry did what may feel a little like that line from a Field of Dreams, declaring “If we build it, they will come.”  But the Vestry did not just wait for “them” to come.  They soberly looked at finances and decided they would not only fund a rector, but also a curate.  They named their vision to make our buildings not just useful to us, but useful to our communities:  through Winter Shelter and outside guests, but maybe eventually to a preschool or day center for seniors.  The Vestry committed to not just waiting for “them” to come, but employing tools to invite, welcome, and connect seekers into our community.  They wrote the vision and they made it plain.

When I first came on board with Hickory Neck in April, the Vestry began to ask me under what vision we were going to operate.  What I told them is what I will tell you:  we are already operating under a vision.  Now, there are certainly dreams I have for where we will be 5 to 10 to 15 years from now, but for today, for next year, we already have a vision.  Now, being pragmatists, the Vestry wanted me to make it plainer.  And so, we worked in reverse.  We sat down and we mapped out the entire calendar from August to August.  We wrote down everything we normally do and everything we hope to do.  And then we stepped back and said, “Is this us?  Does our calendar reflect who we are and our vision for this place?”  You see, our calendar was just a tool to mark our values and vision.

We have been engaging in that same conversation in our homes, in small groups, and as a community these last four weeks.  As we laid out a vision of being a community that lives generously, we took stock not of our calendars, but of our checkbooks.  We sat down and looked at where our money was going and whether that cash flow reflected our values and vision.  For the Vestry, our budget involves some commitments that are hefty, but reflect a vision of who we want to be.  Each Vestry member went home and engaged in a similar exercise at home, looking to see if their budgets reflected a vision of who they want to be as individuals.

The Vestry and Stewardship Committee have written a vision and made it plain.  Instead of scaling back and being tentative, we have committed to being a parish who boldly is ready to seek and serve Christ in all persons and to share the Good News of God in Christ.  As the Prayer Book says in the Catechism, our vision is to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ, as we pray and worship, proclaim the Gospel, and promote justice, peace, and love.[v]  Those are bold promises that will require all of us to succeed.  Today, we are talking about how our treasure is needed to bring that vision to fruition; in January, we will also talk about how our time and talent will bring that vision to fruition.  But because our vision is living generously, this is not a call to sacrifice and struggle.  No, this vision is an occasion for celebration and joy.  I look forward to marking that celebration and joy with you today as we bless our commitments to live generously, eagerly helping Hickory Neck to shine its light on the hill for all to see.  Amen.

[i] Bryan Spinks, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 242, 244.

[ii] Theodore Hiebert, “Habakkuk,” Neil M. Alexander, ed., The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 7 (Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 1996), 632.

[iii] Karl Jacobson, “Commentary on Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4,” November 3, 2013, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1875 on October 26, 2016.

[iv] Corrine L. Carvalho, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 247.

[v] BCP, 855.

Homily – Matthew 11.25-30, Feast of St. Francis, October 23, 2016

26 Wednesday Oct 2016

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Today we honor St. Francis of Assisi, one of the most beloved saints of the church.  Most of us think of Francis as the patron saint of animals and creation.  When we think of him we may think of a St. Francis statue in a garden.  We may think of various images of him preaching to birds.   Some of us may even recall that tale where Francis negotiated peace between a village and a wolf that had been terrorizing the town.  That is why when we celebrate St. Francis’ feast, we also bless animals – the creatures that were so dear to him.  That is also why we often worship outside – honoring God’s creation, which Francis loved so profoundly.

The challenge with honoring Francis in this way is that we forget the other parts of Francis’ life – quite frankly, the much more difficult parts of St. Francis’ life.  You see, Francis’ love of creation comes from a deeper place.  Francis first started his journey to God out of a new relationship with wealth.  Francis was the son of a wealthy businessman in the 1100s.  He had everything at his disposal, and his father wanted him to enjoy that privilege and pass that privilege to Francis’ own children.  But in his early twenties, Francis had an encounter with a beggar that changed everything.  Suddenly the trappings of wealth no longer felt like a safety net or source of comfort – they feel like a burden – a barrier to the life Christ calls us to lead.

And so, Francis renounced the wealth in his life, reportedly even stripping off the clothes his father had given him to show how fully committed he was to this new way of life.  He married “Lady Poverty,” and invited others to join him.  The lifestyle is so austere that many joke that that Francis is one of the most revered, and yet, least followed saints of our faith.

I remember in college having long conversations about living in solidarity with the poor.  We were presented the idea over and over again, but we could not get our heads around what living in solidarity with the poor meant.  Several graduates tried – volunteering for at least a year after college.  Some joined intentional Christian communities, in the hopes that living simple lives in community might help them get closer to that solidarity.  Some traveled to impoverished countries to serve among the poorest, while others worked in the nonprofit sector in the States.  But we always came back to one crucial question:  can we live in solidarity with the poor?  Most of us have a safety net, whether our safety net is family, wealth, education, or citizenship.  Can we even help the poor if we renounce everything like Francis?

I must confess, I do not think there is a good answer to the question about living in solidarity with the poor.  And I am not convinced that most of us can live like Francis, begging and living in tattered clothes.  But what Francis is trying to do is help us see how money gets in the way of our relationship with everything else.  That is why Jesus talked about money so much.  Jesus even led a life much more similar to Francis’ than ours – wandering through life, depending on the hospitality of strangers, and telling his disciples to give up staffs and bags when they go out to meet the people.  Both Jesus and Francis began to learn that living without the comfort of wealth meant entering oneself into a state of vulnerability – a state where true, holy, meaningful relationships begin; a state where everything’s value changes – down to the birds that sing, the creation that breathes beauty, and even the pets that show us unconditional love.

Of course, each of us has to discern what taking up Jesus’ or Francis’ way means for us, knowing that many of us have family obligations and debts that must be managed.  But what Jesus and Francis do today is invite us to not allow those burdens to become an excuse for not making ourselves vulnerable.  Jesus says today, “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  For those of you who have worked with farm animals, you know that yokes are meant to fit smoothly on to animals, distributing the weight and burden in a manageable way.[i]  That is what taking on the yoke of Christ, and walking the way of Francis is like – a life, that if taken on, is manageable.  We may be scared to put on our shoulders the burden of vulnerability.  But Jesus promises the burden is light, the yoke is easy.  And Francis shows us the world of beauty that opens when we simply let go.  Amen.

[i] Douglas R.A. Hare, Matthew, Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1993), 129