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While you were sleeping…

17 Wednesday Jul 2013

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I am in the stage of parenting where many parents with older kids look at me sympathetically and promise me that things will get better.  They lament about how it was the threes, not the twos, that were “terrible.”  They promise me that by age five, a certain shift happens.  And some days, those words are enough to help me take a deep breath as my child is screaming angrily for no apparent reason, or hitting, or kicking, or you name it.  I love my daughter dearly, but the last several months of her development have been challenging, to say the least.  And certainly, it feels like she brings out the worst in me too.  So what seems like the glorious bliss of parenthood is quite often a complicated, guilt-provoking mess.

But just the other night, as my daughter “attempted,” to fall asleep, she finally asked if I would come in and rock her to sleep.  Not getting the chance to cuddle her often, I agreed.  As we were rocking, she started lightly snoring, and as I looked at her relaxed face, my perception of her totally changed.  She seemed not like a temperamental, trying toddler, but just a sweet little kid.  The lull of sleep had smoothed out the anger and frustration from her face, and made her look peaceful and lovely.  And in that moment, my love for her exploded, my forgiveness of her craziness overflowed, and my own frustration faded quickly away.

It occurred to me that my perspective in that moment must be God’s perspective of all of us.  The God who loves us all so profoundly must only be able to do that if that God can see us for who we really are – that version of ourselves when we sleep:  utterly human, vulnerable, and lovable.  The anxiety is gone from our face and all that remains are the everyday functions of being human – breathing in and out, while our body is restored to refreshment and wholeness.

Having watched the news recently, especially the Zimmerman/Martin case, I have had some pretty hostile feelings about the people involved in the case, the people reporting on the case, and even toward people whom I know who seem unconvinced of the problems in our justice system.  And everyday, I deal with family, friends, and, yes, even parishioners who frustrate me to no end.  But I have been wondering about how I might begin to think of those objects of my frustration in their sleep.  If I could see them vulnerably, peacefully sleeping, might I begin to see them with the eyes of God?  I am not suggesting that forgiveness will come easily or even soon.  But what I am wondering is whether seeing others through God’s love might at least give me the patience to try one more day of walking in God’s love too.

Sermon – Luke 10.25-37, P10, YC, July 14, 2013

17 Wednesday Jul 2013

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Lisa had produced lots of stories like this over the last ten years.  They were human-interest stories for ESPN – the stories that drew people into the private pain and sacred celebrations behind their beloved sports.  Lisa loved her work, but she had never gotten as involved as she did four years ago.  In 2009 she met Leroy and Dartanyon – two high school wrestlers from a poor Cleveland school who were fighting against all odds.  Dartanyon was homeless and legally blind and Leroy had lost parts of both legs in a train accident.  Dartanyon often carried Leroy to classes up stairs, while Leroy helped Dartanyon with his homework.  Their story was so potent for Lisa that she could not walk away.  Over the course of four years, she would find herself doing everything from helping Dartanyon obtain his birth certificate, to ensuring they had food everyday; from helping them fill out financial aid forms for college, to connecting Dartanyon to a Paralympic coach.

When I saw Lisa’s story this week, I could not help but to think about the Good Samaritan from the gospel lesson today.  Most of us know this story well, and pretty much all of us want to strive to be a Good Samaritan; so much so that we spend time volunteering, we give money to aid important causes, and we even occasionally give a dollar to that guy on the corner.  But what struck me this week about the story of the Good Samaritan is that we often simplify the example of the Samaritan. We read this story and we know that we should not be like the lawyer or the priest or the Levite.  We should help others like the Samaritan.  The problem though with this simplified response to Jesus’ command to “Go and do likewise,” is that we skim over all the work the Samaritan did.  The text says the Samaritan, “went to [the victim] and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them.  Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him.  The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.’”

Several things strike me about this account.  First of all, there is a longevity to the care of the Samaritan.  The Samaritan does not simply give the man some bandages, or a cloak, or even some money, and then leave.  The Samaritan does not simply help the man to a local hospital or inn and then carry on with his life.  The Samaritan does not even care for the man overnight, and then depart, having certainly done his duty.  No, the Samaritan even pays for the man to stay and promises to return and pay for whatever else is due.  This is not a one-time exchange, or even a short-term exchange.  This exchange is a commitment to the long haul – a dedication not just to help but to be in relationship.  This is what Jesus means when he says we are to “go and do likewise.”

What is tricky about this kind of relationship is that this kind of relationship is messy.  Though there is some debate among scholars, many seem to think that the victim on the side of the road was a Jew.[i]  So not only was this victim beaten, robbed, and abandoned by those who should have cared for the victim, he was helped and tended to by a Samaritan – a man who was his enemy.  The Jews and Samaritans had a long-standing conflict.  The Jews had a very low opinion of the Samaritans.  Samaritans were seen as second-class citizens to be avoided at all costs.  So imagine when the victim woke up at that inn to find a Samaritan nursing him back to health.

Not to mention how complicated this is for the Samaritan.  He knows how most Jews feel about him.  He may have even felt the same way about the Jewish people.  But somehow, his sense of pity gets the best of him, and he finds himself not just asking if the guy is okay, but spending his time and resources on this complete stranger who is his enemy as well.  This encounter between these two men is not simply a one-way, clean exchange of helper and helped.  This is a messy encounter that leaves the two in a strange relationship that can only be possible through God’s grace.  Whatever biases the Jew had against Samaritans had to have been called into question that next morning.  Hatred of another cannot remain when one is the recipient of love as deep as the Samaritan shows.  And whatever biases the Samaritan had against Jews had to have weakened that day too.  You cannot dress a man’s wounds, care for him overnight, and return to check in on him without some of your defenses coming down.  The kind of neighborliness that Jesus is inviting people into is messy, complicated, and a bit scary.

Lisa, Leroy, and Dartanyon knew a little about this kind of messiness.  Dartanyon and Leroy not only faced the challenges of their own physical limitations, they also lived in a world of struggle.  Their school was a school marked by violence and active police presence.  Books were handed out and locked back up after each class.  Less than forty percent would ever graduate and untold numbers were left pregnant.  And white people were not necessarily seen as allies.  Meanwhile, Lisa had grown up on the other side of Cleveland.  Her parents scraped together money just so that she would not have to go to school with those her parents would call, “those people.”  Lisa and Leroy and Dartanyon grew up knowing each other as “the other,” and any attempt at a relationship brought these biases, baggage, and burdens to the foreground.

The funny thing is that when we read our gospel lesson day, we can feel that Jesus is scolding the lawyer in some way.  But I think what is actually happening here is a bit of healthy challenge.  Jesus fully admits that if the lawyer simply does what the law calls for:  to love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself – then the lawyer will be fine.  Jesus is saying that even the slightest effort of loving God and loving neighbor is good and to be commended.  But in the story of the Good Samaritan, Jesus is hinting to the lawyer that there is a potential for more – a potential to know God more fully and to love more deeply than he could even imagine is possible.  And that kind of amped up grace and blessing can only come from messy, complicated, scary relationships with the other.

Recently, while Lisa, Leroy, and Dartanyon prepared for a follow-up story with ESPN, Dartanyon quietly asked Lisa the question that probably many others had wondered about but never asked.  “Why did you stay?”  Lisa’s response was automatic.  “I love you,” she answered.  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” he replied.  “But … why … why did you stick around and do everything you did?”  Lisa’s response was long and complicated because their relationship was messy, complicated, and at times maybe even scary.  But after much reflection, Lisa concludes, “I stayed because we can change the world only when we enter into another’s world.”[ii]  Though I have no idea whether Lisa is a person of faith, Lisa is preaching Jesus’ words today with her life.  She understands that being neighbors means not just helping people, but entering into their lives, and taking on whatever messiness that involves – because only then can we know the kind of love Jesus has for us.  In that sacred, vulnerable, tenuous reality that is relationship with the other is where we experience Jesus and the love Jesus has for all of us – even those we might label as the other.  Jesus knows how hard this will be.  But Jesus tells us to “Go and do likewise,” anyway because Jesus knows that we can.  Amen.

[i] Matthew L. Skinner, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 241.

[ii] Lisa M. Fenn, “‘Carry On’: Why I Stayed,” as found on http://espn.go.com/espn/otl/story/_/id/9454322/why-stayed on July 9, 2013.

Harboring hope…

10 Wednesday Jul 2013

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I have begun to think about summer as a time of hope.  Summer brings a sense of unrestrained possibility.  The days are longer, encouraging us to get out of bed and get busy with life, and then leaving us more time for evening enjoyment.  We tend to take our vacations in the summer, creating a hopeful anticipation of what adventures could await.  We slow down a bit, giving us time to rekindle the hope that we bury in the wintertime.  We reconnect with God’s creation, feeling the freedom that the outdoors brings and feeling a renewed hopefulness about life.

Though summers are often busy in the church, with days full of planning, there is a sense of hopefulness about our faith life that comes this time of the year too.  This is the time that we take to dream and imagine how our life together might be better.  We slow down to read curricula, imagining what transformation might happen among our children and adults.  We look at our calendars, feeling a sense that anything is possible for the program year.  We take time to talk to one another to imagine what opportunities beckon – a process that can only take place once we have slowed down and made space for deep listening.  Once we are in the midst of the program year, much of that hopeful anticipation fades because we are too busy executing our plans to dream up new ideas.  But now, now is a time of simmering hope.

Our invitation is to let this hopefulness fill our beings.  Our invitation is to drink in this hopefulness like a thirst that longs for quenching.  Our invitation is to stoke this hope so that it might burn ever brighter, creating a slow burn that lasts us through the long winter months.  This hopefulness is our summer gift from God, prodding us on to live our faith bigger, brighter, and bolder than ever.

Sermon – Lk. 10.1-11, 16-20, P9, YC, July 7, 2013

10 Wednesday Jul 2013

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One of the challenges of our faith is connecting our modern world to the world of Holy Scripture.  Most of us have experienced the Living Word still speaking to us today, but some texts are a little more relatable than others.  Today’s gospel lesson is one of those un-relatable texts.  The more we think about those seventy who were sent out the more we conclude that their experience is totally foreign to us.  Jesus brings us up short right away when he starts talking about going out into the mission field to “harvest” people.  We get nervous just talking about the word evangelism, let alone trying to figure out what harvesting people means.  Our minds wander to thoughts about judgment and saving souls and a shudder moves down our spine.  Then we get into the gritty details of the text.  Jesus tells the disciples that they are to preach about the kingdom coming near.  Most of us hear the word “preach” and we immediately tune out.  “Oh, that’s what the priest does.  I guess this is not a passage about what I am called to do.”  And that thought does not even cover our aversion to the idea of preaching, “The kingdom of God has come near to you.”  All we can envision is that guy in Times Square with the sandwich board yelling about how we are all going to hell for us to decide conclusively that this passage does not relate to us.  Add to these reservations the instruction from Jesus to cure the sick and we are pretty much done.  Most of us are not doctors and many of us are still uncertain about what role our faith plays in our health.

The truth is I am not sure the seventy others who Jesus sent out felt too confident either.  First Jesus tells them that the “harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.”  So basically, there is so much work to be done that the seventy are going to be overworked and overstressed.  Next Jesus tells them, “I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves.”  Quite frankly, I would think most of the seventy would have been terrified by this statement.  I am sure they were panicked with questions about who these wolves were and whether their own lives were at stake.  Then Jesus tells them, “Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals; and greet no one on the road.”  He goes on to explain that they are to be dependent upon the hospitality of others.  If they were not worried about working conditions already, this last bit of information might have set them on edge.  Basically Jesus sends them out with nothing – no safety net, no creature comforts, and no guarantees.  So the seventy are terrified and starkly vulnerable; and we, thousands of years later, are either equally wary or totally dismissive.

Back in April, the Vestry had a retreat about evangelism.  One of the stories the consultant told us was about her own harried experience with evangelism.  She was studying with a professor whose specialty was church growth, and her assignment for her thesis was to go to a local coffee shop and start talking to people about their faith.  The first week she went to the coffee shop, but was too terrified to talk to anyone.  When her professor asked her how it went, she totally lied.  She made up some story about talking to some people and how the conversations were good.  This charade continued for weeks.  Each week she would go to the shop, but be unable to take that first step.  And each week, she would lie to her professor about trying.  Finally, guilt won over, and she took a small step forward.  She made a little sign out of a folded piece of paper that read, “Talk to me about church, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”  She sat nervously, petrified of what would happen.  Eventually a woman came up to her and said, “I’d like to talk to you about church, but I’ll buy the cup of coffee for you.”  The following conversation was transformative for both of them, and the professor, who knew all along she was lying, was proud to see the consultant finally make progress.

Like there was good news for this consultant, so there is good news for the seventy.  Although Jesus does send the seventy out in a very vulnerable way, he does not send them alone.  Jesus sends them in pairs.  Having a partner offers all sorts of security in the midst of their vulnerability.  “When one of them falters, the other can help.  When one is lost, the other can seek the way.  When one is discouraged, the other can hold faith for both for a while.  That is what the company of believers does – we hold on to each other, console each other, encourage and embolden each other, and even believe for each other.”[i]

Second, Jesus promises the seventy that the harvest is plentiful.  Jesus does not tell the seventy that they are responsible for preparing the harvest – that is God’s work.  Their work is simply to gather the harvest.[ii]  This distinction is pretty tremendous because Jesus is saying that people are ready for his message.  Jesus does not tell the seventy that they will need to go out and convince people of the message.  Instead, he tells them that there are people who will already be receptive and are simply waiting for the seventy to gather them.

Finally, we hear that after this scary commission – as lambs among wolves, of walking over snakes and scorpions, and of being utterly reliant on the hospitality of strangers – the seventy return with joy.  This thing Jesus asks them to do does not leave them bereft or exhausted or even discouraged.  The seventy return delighted in what has happened to them; not because they did something, but because of the work that God did through them.[iii]

This gospel lesson has good news for us today as well.  Despite all of our hang-ups about the language – about harvesting people, the kingdom of God coming near, and about curing people – at the end of the day, this story is about our own call to share our experience of God’s grace with others.  When we think about this text in those terms, the language starts to shift.  When Jesus says we are to go out for the harvest, and that the harvest is plentiful, mostly Jesus is telling us that in our world today, people are eager for a word of Good News.  Even if they say they are not religious, or they do not normally talk about God, Jesus assures us today that there are many people who want to hear your story of gratitude about all that God has done in your life.  And when Jesus says the kingdom of God is coming near, he is not asking us to put on a sandwich board and grab a megaphone.  Mostly he is telling us to stop delaying and get out there.  The kingdom being near is his way of saying the time for sharing is now.  Finally, when Jesus tells us to cure people, we might consider the ways that our faith has been a salve for us.  Surely in your faith journey, at some point your relationship with God has gotten you through something tough and has returned you to wholeness.  Hearing some Good News might just be the same salve that others need.

And just in case you are not sure about all of this, I want to give you a little encouragement.  In our Vestry evangelism work, our first bit of homework was to go to a local gas station or shop and ask for directions to St. Margaret’s.  One of our Vestry members was shocked to find that the grocery clerk was able to give her perfect directions to our church.  The Vestry member found out that she lives in the neighborhood across the street, though she had never actually been inside our doors.  Just over a week ago, another Vestry member was chatting with a different grocery clerk about the amount of blueberries she was purchasing.  The Vestry member explained that they were for Church.  The clerk proceeded to ask her which Church and even said she might come by one Sunday.  And then yesterday, as I was stretching at the Y, a gentleman approached me who I had seen several times over the last year.  He said that he had seen me in a St. Margaret’s t-shirt the last time I was at the Y and he wondered what my affiliation was with St. Margaret’s.  In the conversation that followed, I learned that he had once attended St. Margaret’s and that he might consider coming back for a visit.

Though the language of this gospel might make us evangelism-wary Episcopalians nervous, the truth is that Jesus is simply inviting us to share the Good News of God’s grace in our lives.  He promises that we do not have to do the work alone – we always have good partners here at St. Margaret’s.  He promises that people are ready to hear our words – we all have a story of goodness about our faith journey here.  And he promises that there will be joy – we will all find surprising delights in this journey of sharing.  Our invitation is to be a laborer in the plentiful harvest.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “The Greater Gift,” as found on http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=2617, on July 5, 2013.

[ii] David J. Lose, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 217.

[iii] Richard J. Shaffer, Jr., “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 218.

Do over…

03 Wednesday Jul 2013

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This week I was commiserating with another mother of a young child, and we were both noting how hard parenting can be at times.  She confided that sometimes, when things are particularly crazy, she just sings about it.  That morning, she found herself singing, “This morning is insane!”  Although she was complaining, somehow singing about it made her loosen up and feel better about the whole thing.

Her tip reminded me of one of the collects from Mepkin Abbey.  At midday prayer one day, one of the collects was a petition asking God to renew our sense of purpose and use the rest of the day for good.  I remember thinking how full of grace that collect was – like a spiritual “do over.”  I remember thinking that whatever I had accomplished (or not accomplished) in the morning did not have to affect how the rest of the day took shape.  At that moment, in that prayer, I found a new sense of freedom – as if I was given permission to not have to wait until tomorrow to start over, but to start over right then and there.

Courtesy of www.carbonthree.com.

Picture courtesy of http://www.carbonthree.com.

Sometimes I think we could all stand to give ourselves a spiritual “do over.”  Instead of beating ourselves up for our failures, or wallowing in a bad mood because of something someone else said or did to us, we can turn it all over to God and simply start again.  Truthfully, I imagine God is a bit amused by our inability to give ourselves “do overs.”  Our God is a God marked by abundant love, forgiveness, and grace.  Our God is all about the “do over.”  When we forget that, our image of God then becomes a cold, calculating, scorekeeping God.  That is not the God we know.  Instead, our God is a God who is continually welcoming us into God’s arms.  I am reminded of Jesus’ words, as he lamented over Jerusalem, “How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” Mt. 23.37

Perhaps this week, we might consider how we might allow Jesus to gather us under his wing, to start again living into God’s graciousness instead of wallowing in our own sense of failure or frustration.  Whether at the end of the day, in the middle of the day, or even after breakfast, the “do over” is available at all times from the God who longs to gather us.

Sermon – Luke 9.51-62, P8, YC, June 30, 2013

03 Wednesday Jul 2013

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This week, most of us will celebrate the fourth of July in some fashion or another.  Though the holiday is filled with words like independence, patriotism, liberty, and fireworks, mostly we are celebrating a sense of “home.”  Our celebration of the Fourth is really a celebration of the place that millions of us commonly call home.  Our songs celebrate this theme:  “God bless America, our home sweet home”; or “and the home of the brave.”  This is a day that we celebrate our home with a sense of pride, of belonging, and of identity.  Like any home, our country has faults and drawbacks, but our country is our home, and nothing else can replace the sense of comfort that home can bring.

Perhaps what we forget in our celebrations is that our “home” did not always feel that way.  Centuries ago, when the original settlers came to this country, the country felt nothing like home.  In fact, those settlers left what they knew as home, with all the comforts home offered, and came to this foreign place.  This was a place of newness and discomfort.  Nothing was familiar, and in fact much of what the settlers experienced was downright scary or dangerous.  Though settlers came here to establish a new home, that home-like feeling took a very long time to create.

Here at St. Margaret’s we have made a similar transition in the last fifty years.  I was just reading the rough draft of our fifty-year history this week, and I was thinking about the contrast of those early years with our experience of St. Margaret’s now.  Fifty years ago, St. Margaret’s was merely a group of people gathering.  We had no building, no clear identity, and certainly no sense of the familiar.  In fact, the story goes that when we would gather for Sunday worship in the American Legion Hall, the smell of smoke and beer lingered from Saturday night events at the Hall.  When people left their church homes to join St. Margaret’s, I am pretty sure smoke and beer on a Sunday morning was not exactly what they were dreaming of for their new home.

So as we Americans prepare to collectively celebrate our home, and as we at St. Margaret’s, in our fiftieth year of ministry, continue to celebrate our home, we find Jesus saying some pretty funny things about home in our gospel lesson today.  When someone along the road says to Jesus, “I will follow you wherever you go,” Jesus says to him, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.”  Then, when Jesus calls others to follow him, and they first ask for some basic things, like burying their father or saying goodbye to their loved ones, Jesus refuses.  In other words, Jesus basically tells anyone considering following him that they will lose all sense of home – not only the literal place to lay one’s head, but also all the comforts and familiarity of home.  Following Jesus is a calling into a homelessness of sorts.  Jesus’ calling into homelessness is pretty scary.  Following Jesus means giving up control and trusting that all will be well, which is a lot to ask, considering Jesus has already told them that all will not be well.  Their new “home” will be a place of suffering, persecution, pain, and homelessness.  Jesus’ new home sounds a lot like the home those founding ancestors of our country and those founding members of St. Margaret’s faced years ago.

To be honest, I am not sure I would have been able to follow Jesus as those men and women did so many years ago.  I am sure you already know this about me, but I am a pretty big fan of control – or at least the illusion of control.  I do not like the feeling of things being out of my control.  So when Jesus asks me to let go of control – of a sense of home and familiarity – I am not sure I would have said yes.

The good news is that I do not think Jesus is actually asking us to cede control to him.  Jesus is not really offering the choice of either us being in control or him being in control.  As we well know, Jesus did not head to Jerusalem with the mission of taking control or charge.  Instead, he set his path to Jerusalem to throw himself fully and completely into our out-of-control lives and to come out on the other side.  That is the promise of this Gospel – “not that we can be in control, or even that God is in control, but rather that God in Jesus joins us in our out-of-controlness, holds onto us, and brings us to the other side.”[i]  This is the homelessness Jesus is really inviting us into – this commitment to giving up the illusion of control, to take some risks, and to throw ourselves into this turbulent life and world, trusting that God joins us in the adventure, holds us through the ups and downs, and brings us in time to the other side.  When Jesus offers his hand out to others to journey with him into homelessness, this is the underlining promise – that he is with us in the journey into homelessness and out-of-controlness.

On my mission trip to Burma, we had a day when we were supposed to go see working Elephants in the forest.  We loaded up our truck, crammed in way too close, as usual, and began the bumpy journey.  But an hour into our ride, our truck had some mechanical issues.  We pulled into to what seemed to be a local mechanic, although our version of a mechanic shop and the Burmese version of a mechanic shop are very different.  Sensing that this stop would take a while, our tour guide suggested our team take a walk.  The seven of us followed, happy for a distraction.  During our walk, we came upon a rice paddy, and could see workers out in the field.  Although the team was content to observe from a distance, our guide recommended crossing the dikes to get a closer view.  We found his offer shocking.  We worried about trespassing, encountering swarms of disease-carrying mosquitoes, or falling off the dikes, which looked quite tenuous.  Most of the team looked at the sturdy ground on which we were standing and decided that we should not test the swampy paddy.  When our tour guide realized most of us were not following him, he came back to the place where he jumped to the first dike.  First, he pleaded with the group as a whole.  Then, he called me by name.  “Jennifer, please come with me.  It’s okay.  You can trust me.”  I looked into his dark brown eyes, and saw a sparkle of adventure and joy.  I looked back at the dirty – but dry – road wistfully.  Then I turned back toward our guide and his outstretched hand.  His smile conveyed a sense of confidence and encouragement that warmed my heart, and I found myself jumping across the water to the dike.

We all know that sense of crossing into Jesus’ homelessness.  Certainly our country this week has at many times felt out of control.  Though we call this place home, we have been bitterly divided about Supreme Court decisions and Congressional bills this week.  Those decisions have left us wondering what sort of home we are creating now.  The same could be said for St. Margaret’s.  Though many of us know this place as home, our home seems to be ever changing.  There are new ways of operating, new projects underway, and new invitations.  There is an ambiguity about who we will be and how we will change.  But the promise in all of this, especially in the emerging sense of homelessness in our country and in our church, is that God is right here with us.  God continually promises to be on this crazy ride with us.  That reassurance by God today fills us with hope, and a renewed sense of courage and joy as we journey forward.  Today, as we look into Jesus’ sparkling eyes, he calls us by name, and says, “Come on.  Let’s go be homeless!”  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Out of Control,” as found on http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=2614 on June 28, 2013.

Homily – Amos 5.14-15, Cornelius Hill, June 27, 2013

03 Wednesday Jul 2013

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Cornelius Hill, who we celebrate today, was the first Oneida chief to be born in Wisconsin in 1834, after the U.S. government forced the Oneida peoples west from N.Y. State.  As a young man, he was formed at Nashotah House in the tradition of the church.  He was known for his intelligence, courage, and ability to lead and was made chief as a teenager.  He was active in politics, helping his people navigate controversies like land allotment and fishing rights.  Eventually, Hill turned to the church and was ordained a priest.  He saw the Christian faith as a way to help his people grapple with the profound and rapid changes that faced them.  His ordination also helped him bridge the gap between the Oneida and white culture.

The juxtaposition of celebrating Hill and the news from this week highlights how complicated our world continues to be.  I have been eagerly listening as Supreme Court decisions are released.  At times it has felt like justice is being served in our country and at times I have wondered where our country is heading.  And just as I try to sift through the mess, watching commentary has reminded me that half of the country has been overjoyed that justice is being served, while the other half feels devastated; and yet God desires for us to love one another and show grace to one another in the conflict.

I think we as a country and certainly Hill in his time are struggling to live into the words of Amos.  The prophet says, “Seek good and not evil.  Hate evil and love good, and establish justice in the gate.”  As much as establishing justice may be our goal, my definition of justice may be very different from yours.  So how do we move forward and how do we live lovingly together?

I hear Hill’s voice in all this.  He saw the Christian faith as a way to help his people grapple with the profound and rapid changes that faced them.  We too must turn to our faith as we grapple with how to reestablish justice.  But we cannot stop at grappling – we are constantly invited to act.  Hill did not simply pray and grapple with his faith and politics – he advocated for justice and listened to opinions that were not always popular or were unlike his own.  He did not simply desire justice.  He, like Amos demands, worked to establish justice.  Our invitation today is to grapple, to pray, to listen, to seek good, and to establish justice.  Amen.

Summer seeking…

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

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100_2966Last week, I spent time at the Trappist monastery, Mepkin Abbey, in South Carolina.  There were many highlights, which I imagine I will write about in the coming weeks and months.  But what has been lingering in my mind is my experience with their labyrinth.  I have now walked several labyrinths, but my experience with Mepkin’s labyrinth was a bit unique.  When you first approach the labyrinth, it looks like a field of weeds and tall grasses.  A casual passerby would miss it (or at least wonder why the monks were slacking on their grounds keeping).

The first time I walked the labyrinth, it was relatively early in the morning.  I must have been the first one out there, because there were cobwebs all along my walk in.  I found myself constantly clearing the way, recognizing how appropriate a metaphor the cobwebs were for the clearing of my mind I was trying to do.  Several of the tall grasses were also bent over into the path, meaning I had to push my way through.  Again, I found myself wondering what tall grasses have been blocking my own spiritual journey lately.  The final challenge of the walk was the buzzing bugs who seemed to know right where my head was.  I suppose I was waking them up or disturbing them, but all I could think about was the buzz of voices who have been frustrating my walk with God lately.

100_2964But like any labyrinth walk, once I calmed my mind, and especially after standing in the warm sun in the center of the labyrinth, I began to reinterpret my own metaphors.  The buzzing of the bugs were not some outside set of voices agitating me, but instead my own busy mind, distracting me from hearing God.  The cobwebs became the habits that have grown in me and my parish that clog up the way to change.  Those habits and practices tend to cling to us, but when cleared can make way for a powerful new experience.  And those pesky tall grasses became not annoying barriers, but reminders that the journey with God will always have road blocks.  One can either turn around the way one came, stand facing the barrier paralyzed, or find a way around the road block to continue the journey with God.

Each time I walked the labyrinth, a new truth was revealed to me, and God spoke to me differently.  On my last walk, I had come to a place of real peace during my retreat.  That labyrinth walk was almost buoyant, full of joy and praise.  What the daily walks reminded me of is that we all need spiritual practices that can help us access new revelations from God.  Despite the tendency of churches to dramatically slow down in the summer, I have begun to think about this summer as a summer of seeking at St. Margaret’s.  Once again, we are offering yoga on our lawn for parishioners and our neighbors.  Parishioners who traditionally participate in weekly Bible study are instead using the summer to participate in spiritual “field trips,” to places like the Shrine of Our Lady of the Island and Little Portion Friary.  We still have our mid-week Eucharist on Thursdays and our beautiful cemetery grounds, which are great for quiet meditation.  We will also be using this summer for planning more spiritual and formation opportunities at St. Margaret’s for the program year.  Our summer of seeking is giving us the space we need to hear how God is calling us into deeper seeking, serving, and sharing Christ in the months to come.

Sermon – I Kings 19.1-15a, P7, YC, June 23, 2013

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

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This past week, I went down to a monastery in South Carolina for my annual spiritual retreat.  An annual spiritual retreat is one of the stipulations from my letter of agreement here at St. Margaret’s, so one could assume that we all know what going on a spiritual retreat means.  But I cannot tell you the number of people – parishioners, friends, family members, and fellow travelers – who have asked me the same question:  so what do you do on a spiritual retreat?  Some follow up with other questions about whether I have a schedule of meetings or classes or whether I really have to be silent the whole time.  But most people do not know what a spiritual retreat really looks like.

So imagine my surprise this week, when I opened the text for today, only to hear God twice asking Elijah, “What are you doing here?”  Having been asked that question by countless others over the last few weeks, I got a little defensive about God’s question for Elijah.  Thinking that I somehow needed to answer this question too, my first response was a response not unlike Elijah – who twice explains to God, in the exact same words, “I have been very zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword.  I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.”  As if God did not know that already.  God’s double question, and Elijah’s double response give a little clue about what is happening here.  God is not really asking what Elijah is doing there – at least not in the sense of, “What led you to come here?”  God is asking a much deeper question.  God’s question is the deeper question, “What does your being here say about me, about you, and about our relationship?  Given what you know, what are you doing here, Elijah?”

So instead of answering the question in the standard way – telling others about the silence of the day, the times of worship, the periods, places, and practices of prayer, or even about the monks themselves, instead I let God’s deeper question sit with me this week as well.  What are you doing here?  I found that each time I tried to answer the question the response was not as deep as God’s question.  So if I said I came to rest and refresh for my ministry, God’s response was, “What are you doing here?”  If I said I wanted help discerning answers to some heavy questions, God’s response was, “What are you doing here?”  If I said I just wanted clarity, God’s response was, “What are you doing here?”

This is the hard question from the text for all of us today.  God is asking this question of you this week too.  When you came in those doors and sat in that pew, God asked you, “What are you doing here?”  When you listened to scripture and when you pray, God is asking you, “What are you doing here?”  When you come to the Eucharistic table and consume Christ’s body and blood, God is still asking you, “What are you doing here?”  Today is one of those tricky days in Church.  There is no coasting through this service, just hoping to feel some sense of peace.  God is actively in our faces, asking us the tough question.

The truth is most of us feel like Elijah a good portion of the time.  We hear Elijah’s whiny response throughout this story.  When Elijah flees from Jezebel’s death threat, Elijah sits down under a tree and asks God to just let him die.  He even flops down under the tree hoping for death.  Of course, God does not allow that.  Twice angels wake him to give him food for the journey.  Even after this sustenance, Elijah finds another place to hide – a cave hidden away.  But God does not allow hiding there either.  We know Elijah’s pain.  We just want to come to church, hear some good music, hear a decent sermon, get that sustaining meal, and go back to the daily grind.  We do not want to hear what God says in the sheer silence.  In the sheer silence, God says, “Go.”  God tells Elijah to get back out there and do God’s work.  God does not coddle Elijah or comfort him in his fear.  Instead God tells Elijah to go.

At the end of the day, God’s words for Elijah were the same words for me during my retreat.  I may have lamented to God.  I may have worried to God.  I may have given some lengthy explanation to God about why I was there.  But before I could go any further, God stopped me.  “What are you doing here?  Go.”

When I was in college, the first year I danced with a team, we went to a training camp.  The coach realized pretty quickly those of us who were lacking in certain areas.  My challenge was that I could not yet do a toe-touch.  When we started doing them in training, the coach had us stand in line and one-by-one we had to do a toe-touch in front of him.  When he saw mine, he laid into me.  I basically remember him screaming something to the effect of, “I don’t care if you have to do sit-ups non-stop, or if you need to lift weights, or you just need to stand there and do toe-touches all day until you can’t move, I better see you up in the air before the season starts.”  At least, that is the clean version of what he yelled.  Never having played sports, I had never had anyone yell at me like that, and he put the proverbial “fear of God” in me.  And figuring he was serious, I started working out more and practicing more just to get to where he wanted me to be.

I hear God as being like that coach for us today.  God is kind of like a coach, getting up in our faces today, demanding to know, “What are you doing here?”  And before we can stumble through some Elijah-like complain fest, God says, “Go.”  God says that the dismissal we hear every week is not some cute phrase we say to conclude the service.  That dismissal is our “Go.”  “Let us go forth in the name of Christ.”  “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”  “Let us go forth into the world, rejoicing in the power of the Spirit.”  The answer to what we are doing here is to be empowered to go.  We can be fed by the word, by song, and by the meal, but the reason we do those things is so that we can go.  God’s question today is deep, hard, but simple:  What are you doing here?  And in case we are wondering what the answer is, God tells us:  Go.  Amen.

Homily – John 1.43-51, Gilbert Keith Chesterton, June 13, 2013

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

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Today we get the wonderful story of Philip and Nathanael’s calling.  I love Nathanael, partially because he is such a natural skeptic.  That may sound strange to say – who would want to idealize someone skeptical of our Lord and Savior?  I am not saying we should try to be more like Nathanael – I am saying we already are like Nathanael.  Somewhere deep inside of us, in places we don’t like to talk about, all of us have a little dose of skepticism about our faith.  Just think about the last time someone really tried to challenge you on your faith – the truth is, our story, the story of our faith is pretty fantastic and hard for our 21st-century minds to believe.  Nathanael’s skeptical and ultimately sarcastic tone can be found in all of us.

That is why we celebrate Gilbert Keith Chesterton.  Born in 1874, Chesterton was one of the intellectual giants of his day.  He was a writer of different genres, but he eventually focused on the defense of “orthodoxy” – the acknowledgement of the mystery and paradox of Christian faith in an age of increasing skepticism.  His writings utilized both his wit and religious fervor, and he often satirized those who saw faith as irrational and unnecessary.  Chesterton influenced many of the greats, like C.S. Lewis and Ernest Hemingway.

What both Chesterton and Jesus do today is a little light ribbing.  They tease those around them, who presume to know something about a God who, at the end of the day, is quite mysterious.  They remind others of their finitude and their limited knowledge, reminding them not to get too “puffed up” with their own assumptions.

I don’t think Chesterton or Jesus Christ are sending us a message to tear us down – quite the opposite, actually.  God endowed us with great minds that God expects us to use – much like Chesterton did.  But God also wants us to held in tension with our gifts a sense of humility and wonder.  Only when we hold our power and our humility in tension can we begin to fully engage the mystery of God and then share that mystery with others.  Amen.