Sermon – Matthew 6.1-6, 16-21, AW, YA, March 5, 2014

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As many of you know, Lent is my favorite season of the liturgical year.  I love the spiritual discipline Lent encourages, I love the liturgical uniqueness of Lent, and I love the ways that Lent encourages us as a community live life differently, even if only for a little while.  By Ash Wednesday every year, I usually have a set discipline in place, and I am eager to get going.  But this year, I find myself in a situation in which I have never been.  With the pending birth of our second child, I find myself hesitant to commit to any spiritual discipline this Lent.  I have no sense of how tired I will be, or how upended my home routine and family life will be; I have no idea whether I will be too exhausted to stay connected digitally to the world, or whether technology will be my way of escape when everything else is disjointed; and besides the desperate prayers of an exhausted, weary mother, I have no idea how to tend to my spiritual life once I step away briefly from my churchly life.

I confess this sense of being lost about Lent because I imagine some of you may be feeling that same sense of being lost as well.  We have been buried in an awful winter, longing more for spring and the joys of Easter, than preparing for burrowing deeper into the depths of penitence and discipline.  Our news feed is full of local and global disaster, making even the normal joy of international events like the Olympics feel a bit hollow.  And we have a growing itch to be more settled here at Church – as we trip over one another trying to find adequate space for normal activities while our undercroft is under construction, as our Vestry makes changes to better equip us for ministry, and as our Rector steps away for a time, making us all have to assume responsibilities that burden our already full plates and sparking concern about how we can thrive without our leader at the helm.  Who has time for figuring out a Lenten discipline when we feel like we are just barely managing our lives?

Into this sense of discombobulation, Jesus comes at us in the gospel lesson today with a scathing critique of our spiritual lives.  Jesus wants us to give alms, but to do so with such secrecy that even our own selves are unaware of our sacrifices.  Jesus wants to take our prayer to our private rooms, so we are not tempted to bring attention to ourselves in public.  Jesus wants us to gussy ourselves up daily so that no one notices the longing and discomfort our fasts are creating for us.  To be honest, his words are a bit confusing and seem contradictory to Jesus’ other messages.  This is the same Jesus who later in Matthew says, “What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light; and what you hear whispered, proclaim from the housetops.”[i]  So which are we supposed to do?  Are we to keep our faith humbly hidden so as not to be seen as braggadocios, or are we to shout about our God on the mountaintop, or at least in the local diner, so that others might see the goodness of what God has done for us, and want to join us in that joy?

Perhaps a better place for us to begin is to imagine Jesus offering this teaching with a bit of sarcastic humor.  This past stewardship season we showed a video about the ways in which people give to church with muddled intentions.  The video has a series of clips with people doing things like using their generous giving to garner the decisions they want made in church or dramatically holding up their pledge envelopes before dropping them in the plate.  Imagine the person who would rather put coins in the offering plate for the noise they make than put in bills which silently but strongly support ministry, and you have the idea.  This is the kind of ribbing Jesus is doing when he describes the showy alms giver.

In high school, I was friends with a girl whose father was an evangelical pastor.  I remember going out to dinner with her family once, and being mortified before our meal began.  Once our plates of food arrived, her father stood up in the middle of the dining area, and very loudly began a prayer that, I promise, was easily five minutes long.  My cheeks began to redden as he went on and on.  I could feel the shifting of people near us as they became equally uncomfortable.  As I peeked mid-way through his prayer, I could see a waitress approach our table for drink refills and the recoil back to her station.  I was so relieved the next week at school when my friend apologized for her dad and made a joke about how much she actually hates eating in restaurants because her food is always cold by the time the prayer is over.  This is the kind of prayer Jesus jokes about too when he sends us to our rooms to pray.

And we all know examples of that complainer who has taken up fasting or whatever form of denial they have chosen for Lent.  They regale you with stories of how they almost fainted, or how they had to avoid their favorite activities in order to stay faithful.  You almost want to give them a handkerchief so that they can more dramatically tell their tale of woe as the lift their hand dramatically to their heads.  These are those whom Jesus teases when he says to put some oil on your face – so that even if you cannot keep your mouth quiet with complaints, at least you will look good.

The challenge with us in Lent is not that our spiritual disciplines need to be so rigidly hidden away.  The danger comes when our disciplines become more about ourselves than about our relationship with God and one another.  Jesus is not telling us not to exercise our piety.  Jesus is trying to jokingly help us to see the ways in which our piety can become a stumbling block to others seeing the goodness of God.[ii]  Think of the person who gives generously, who prays prayers that always seem to touch you, or who shares with you what fasting has done for them in a way that inspires you.  Jesus is telling us to be more like them:  not to dramatically hide away our almsgiving, prayer, and fasting, but to do that almsgiving, prayer, and fasting with a genuine humility that invites others to want to know more.  And at the end of the day, Jesus is also telling us to chill out – to enjoy whatever discipline you have chosen and not to worry so much about performing that discipline, but humbling trying that discipline within a community of people who can laugh at themselves as they try to do the same.

This Lent, as I begin this journey with you, my discipline is going to be about giving myself a break, and not taking myself so seriously.  I am trusting that by not pushing myself to take on some discipline that will only make me feel like a failure by week two of newborn sleep deprivation, that God will be present, revealing God’s self to me and showing me that God can work in spite of me and in spite of what promises to be a very unique Lent in the life of a priest.  I am trusting that God, the faith of this community, and my intentional letting go this Lent will work in harmony to make this time a time of holy connection to God.  Jesus invites you into the same trusting release this Lent.  No matter what discipline you assume, or what battles you face in the coming forty days, God will give you moments of insight and blessing, and even a bit of humor to keep you going.  Amen.


[i] Mt. 10.27

[ii] Patrick J. Willson, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 25.

Sermon – Matthew 17.1-9, LE, YA, March 2, 2014

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As many of you know, I really enjoy movies.  I like dramas, comedies, independent films, documentaries, and action films.  But what I rarely admit is that I also enjoy my share of cheesy romantic comedies.  One of those romantic comedies, Notting Hill, tells the story of a famous American actress who is filming in England.  She stumbles into the shop of a normal Englishman and the two of them begin an awkward, but sweet romance.  Unfortunately, the actress’ fame keeps interrupting their relationship – whether with the surprise appearance of paparazzi, a planned date foiled by a press junket, or the confusing boundaries between the public version of the actress and the private version of the actress.  After a hiatus, the actress returns to England to see if the couple can make a go of things one more time.  The Englishman is extremely reluctant, but in her final plea, the actress reminds him that although everyone knows her as this famous actress, she is also just a girl who would like to have the love and companionship of a boy.

In some ways, I read today’s gospel with that same sense of tension between the extraordinary and the ordinary.  Today, on this final Sunday of Epiphany, we find one more manifestation of the identity of Christ.  On this Transfiguration Sunday, we hear the incredible story of Jesus’ transfiguration.  All the drama is there.  Peter, James, and John are up on a mountain – our first clue that something powerful is about to happen.  While they are there, Jesus transforms into an array of light:  his face shining like the sun, and his clothes shimmering in dazzling white.  And as if that were not shocking enough, the great prophets, Moses and Elijah appear, and begin talking to Jesus.  Finally, a thundering voice comes from a blinding cloud with new revelation, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased.”  Now Jesus had heard these words at his baptism, but this is the first time the disciples are actually hearing them.  Jesus is not a prophet just like Moses or Elijah.  Jesus is the divine son of God.  If the disciples had in any way questioned the identity of Jesus, those questions are put to rest.  In response, the disciples fall to the ground, overcome with fear.

When I was a parishioner at the Cathedral in Delaware, I helped teach Rite 13, a class for middle school students.  In one of the sessions we talked about our images of God.  The prevailing images among the young people were of a distant God, one who is Lord over us, perhaps one who sits in a throne, and who is a bit inaccessible.  One even admitted that God was a bit scary.  I do not think those young people’s images of God are that far off from our own images of God.  We often see God as distant, transcendent, full of mystery, and far from our reality.  God is that not-so-relatable father who we may love, but also feel a certain sense of being so different from that we could never fully connect.  God is that famous movie star we have even met, but because of our differences, cannot fully connect with.

Into this reality comes Jesus, whose transfiguration today reveals the fullness and the incredible nature of Christ.  When we say that Jesus is both fully human and fully divine, today’s gospel lesson gives us a picture of that dual nature.  Jesus is all those things that we know about God – mysterious, transcendent, and “other.”  As the Son of God, he can be nothing other than fully divine.  And yet, when the disciples are cowering in fear on the ground, overwhelmed by their brush with celebrity, Jesus comes, in his full humanity and touches them.  He gently touches them and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”  That distant, “other” God we know could never do that.  That distant God had never taken on human form in order to physically touch us.  And yet, that distant God is present in Jesus Christ, doing just that – gently touching overwhelmed disciples and allaying fears.  God in Jesus is that everyday person, simply wanting to love us.

This week I read a reflection by a priest friend of mine.  He was at his Diocesan Convention recently, an event at which he rarely speaks.  But an important issue arose, and he felt as though he could not avoid speaking.  He stood up, argued his case, and faced a heated confrontation.  In the end, the assembly agreed with him and his opinion won over.  As he sat back at his table, a friend quietly whispered in his ear, “You’re shaking.  I’m going to touch you for a little bit.”  As the friend laid his hand upon his shoulder, my friend could feel his blood pressure lowering and the tension releasing from his body.[i]  In a world that has become extremely and wisely cautious about touch, we sometimes forget the power of touch.  We all have had powerful experiences with touch:  whether we received a similar hand on the should as reassurance that all would be well; whether we received a hug that was just slightly longer than normal, but much needed, after confessing some bad news; or whether someone just held our hand for a while, as a silent, encouraging gesture.

Our liturgies understand the power of touch.  When someone lays their hands on us – in ordination, in confirmation, or in healing – something about the weight of those hands stays with us.  Maybe the sensation of that touch stays with us as a reminder of a powerful experience; maybe the weight of the touch becomes a release of something held inside for a long time; or maybe something holy passes between the person laying on hands and the person who has hands laid on them.  For those of us who have gone to Ash Wednesday services, we know the powerful experience of the gritty feel of ashes being rubbed across our foreheads.  That combination of touch and grit has a power to evoke all kinds of images – from the dust of creation, to the coarseness of this life, to the inevitability of our dirt-filled grave.  Or perhaps your most familiar experience with touch comes in the Eucharistic meal – the weight of the wafer as the priest presses the wafer into your hand, or the feel of the weighty chalice as you direct the chalice to your mouth.

Both our experiences with touch and the disciples’ experience with touch point us to the magnificence of what happens on Transfiguration Sunday.  As God takes on flesh in the person of Jesus, God is both that transcendent, mysterious, “other” God, and God is that earthy, fleshy, gentle God who can place a comforting hand on our shoulders, tell us to get up, and not be afraid.  That is what we have been celebrating in these weeks since Christmas – the miracle of what God accomplishes in the incarnation and the impact of what God made flesh means in our lives.  As one scholar writes, “This is the way that God comes into the world:  not simply the brilliant cloud of mystery, not only a voice thundering from heaven, but also a human hand laid upon a shoulder and the words, ‘Do not be afraid,’  God comes to us quietly, gently, that we may draw near and not be afraid.”[ii]  God is both the untouchable, but revered celebrity and the very real person through whom we are touched, comforted, and emboldened to get up and not be afraid.  For that reality, we celebrate our God with our final alleluias of this season, with the touch of healing, the embrace of the peace, and the weight of Christ’s body and blood in our hands.  Amen.


[i] Steve Pankey, “The Power of Touch,” as found at http://draughtingtheology.wordpress.com/2014/02/27/the-power-of-touch/ on February 27, 2014.

[ii] Patrick J. Willson, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 457.

Homily – 1 Peter 5.1-4, George Herbert, February 27, 2014

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Today we honor George Herbert, a priest and poet in the church.  Herbert was born in 1593 to a well-connected family in England.  Though he flirted with politics, he eventually turned to the church, becoming a priest age 33.  Two things are notable about Herbert.  First he is well-known for his poetry, some of which became hymns.  He influenced many other poets, as his poems moved people on issues of prayer and the spiritual life.  Herbert was also well known for his devotion and service to others.  His approach toward life and ministry inspired many.  In fact, his words, “Nothing is little in God’s service,” remind Christians again and again that everything in daily life, small or great, can be a means of serving and worshiping God.  When talking about his poetry, Herbert seemed to meld the two passions when he wrote about his poems as being “a picture of the many spiritual conflicts that have passed betwixt God and my soul, before I could submit mine to the will of Jesus my master, in whose service I have found perfect freedom.”

What Herbert reminds us of today is the sacred nature of all our calls.  Sometimes, we do not feel comfortable using “call” language for what we do on an everyday basis.  In fact, we read passages like the one from first Peter, and we presume that only clergy, or “elders,” have a call.  Though first Peter is talking about how a spiritual leader should lead, we cannot assume we are exempt from similar instructions.  In fact, I might argue that the call that each of you live out in the world is far greater than the call I live in my position.  You have the much together jobs of witnessing in everyday life without such clear markers of faith and devotion like a collar.  And you have the ability to reach way more people that I could ever hope to because unlike what many people assume about me, you are actually “normal.”

What first Peter and George Herbert would both like us to see is that all of us have kingdom work to do, and our aim is to do that work faithfully and with enthusiastic hearts.  Herbert only lived to be 40 years old, and yet one of the things we honor is the way in which he was a faithful, humble, enthusiastic priest – not a bishop, or martyr, or leader of some great movement.  He was just a parish priest who knew that nothing is little in God’s service.  As we celebrate his passion for everyday life and everyday call, we too are emboldened by knowing that fulfilling our calls is not “little” in God’s service.  Amen.

Homily – Hebrews 2.10–18, Frederick Douglass, February 20, 2014

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Today we honor Frederick Douglass.  Douglass was born as a slave in 1818 and separated from his mother at age eight.  His new owner’s wife tried to teach Douglass to read, but the owner put a stop to the practice.  Douglass learned to read in secret, earning small amounts of money when he could to pay people to teach him.  At the age of fourteen, he experienced a conversion to Christ in the AME Church and the spiritual music sustained him in his struggle for freedom.  In 1838, at age twenty, he escaped slavery.  An outstanding orator, Douglass was sent on speaking tours of the Northern States by the American Anti-Slavery Society.  His renown made him a target for recapture, so in 1845, his friends raised enough money to buy out his master’s legal claim to him.  Douglass was highly critical of churches that did not disassociate themselves from slavery.  He was an advocate of racial integration, and edited a pro-abolition journal.  Douglass died in 1895.

In thinking about Douglass and our country’s relationship with slavery, I have often wondered about the presence of Christianity in the mix with slavery.  Christianity was at times seen as a way to subdue slaves; at other times, Christianity was seen as a threat that could stir rebellion.  Of course, I imagine many slaves were attracted to Jesus and the story of God’s people more deeply than we will ever understand.  The epistle lesson asserts that, “Because Jesus himself was tested by what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested.”  Surely that message was both one of comfort and of liberation for slaves in our country.  In fact, Douglass even once said of the old spiritual humans that they followed him, deepened his hatred of slavery, and quickened his sympathies for his fellow slaves in bonds.  For Douglass, his faith strengthened him, emboldened him, and gave him a passion for helping others.

This is the invitation for us as well.  Though we will never fully know the pain of slavery, we do know the power of suffering.  What scripture and Douglass do today is remind us that, first, Jesus Christ suffered as we do to help others, and, second, our faith can strengthen, embolden, and give us a passion for helping others.  We may not affect change on the grand scale of Douglass, but his life reminds us that we still have work to do – that we can be a positive voice for change.  Our suffering will never be as great as Jesus’ or of slaves in this country – but any suffering we encounter can make us agents of change and help us to help others who are suffering.  Amen.

On discomfort…

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I have regularly told people that when I preach, I am preaching to myself.  I find that my messages often resonate with others, but first and foremost, I make sure they resonate with me.  This has led to me needing to be honest about my faith struggles, to be vulnerable about how I still need to grow, and always seeking how God is speaking in fresh ways to me, calling me into deeper relationship with God.

This Sunday though, I found myself with a profound sense of conviction that I have yet to experience.  My sermon was about Matthew 5.38-48, and can be found here.  But what you would not know is that between our 8 am service and our 10 am service, a neighbor in need stopped by to ask if for financial assistance.  I had spoken with this neighbor before, and helped by covering the neighbor’s rent within the last month.  In general, I am able to help neighbors in similar situations because of my discretionary fund – a fund supported by the church and by contributions when I perform weddings or funerals.  But the fund is not large, and so my general policy is to keep within a certain range for each distribution of funds and to only offer assistance to the same family once every six months.  The idea behind the policy is that this allows me to help more families, and keeps enough monies in the fund for emergencies.  So when this neighbor came on Sunday, asking for further assistance, nowhere near the normal six-month wait period, the case seemed cut and dry to me.  I could not offer him what I would not offer to others.  Instead, I gave the neighbor some referrals for additional help, and we lit a prayer candle and prayed together before the neighbor left.

But the tricky part was getting back in the pulpit at 10 am.  I had just read aloud Jesus’ words from the gospel lesson, “Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you.”  And I preached about seeing others with God’s loving eyes.  And though I felt like I was preaching the right message, and I know that ultimately I did the right thing with our neighbor, I still felt a little sick to my stomach.  As one who proclaims the Gospel, I felt like a hypocrite.  I remember wondering how if our neighbor had stayed for worship, whether the neighbor would have thought I was a hypocrite too.  And yet, I also felt an overwhelming sense that any kind of exceptions I had made that day would have undermined my ministry in our community.

I still have not come to peace about the situation.  I do not have some clean, clear answer that makes the situation feel resolved or redeemable, even if I still feel I made the right decision.  But in these last days, I have been thinking that perhaps my discomfort is the point.  I try regularly to find the Good News in scripture – to find where the hope might be in seemingly challenging or bad news.  But perhaps this week it is okay if I am just uncomfortable.  Perhaps we all need to dwell in the discomfort that the Gospel creates from time to time – only then can we be more authentic followers of Christ.

Sermon – Matthew 4.38-48, E7, YA, February 23, 2014

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Julio Diaz has a daily routine.  Every night, he ends his hour-long subway commute to the Bronx one stop early so he can eat at his favorite diner.  One night, as Diaz stepped off the Number 6 train and onto a nearly empty platform, his evening took an unexpected turn.  He was walking toward the stairs when a teenage boy approached and pulled out a knife.  The boy demanded his money, and Diaz gave him his wallet, simply saying, “Here you go.”  As the teen began to walk away, Diaz shouted out, “Hey, wait a minute.  You forgot something.  If you’re going to be robbing people for the rest of the night, you might as well take my coat to keep you warm.”  The robber gave Diaz a confused look and asked, “Why are you doing this?”  Diaz simply said, “If you’re willing to risk your freedom for a few dollars, then I guess you must really need the money.  I mean, all I wanted to do was get dinner.  If you want to join me … hey, you’re more than welcome.”

The teen tentatively followed Diaz to the diner and they sat in a booth together.  As they sat there, the manager, the dishwashers, and the waiters came by to say hi.  The teen then said, “You know everybody here.  Do you own this place?”  “No, I just eat here a lot,” Diaz replied.  “But you’re even nice to the dishwasher,” the teen said incredulously.  Diaz replied, “Well, haven’t you been taught that you should be nice to everybody?”  “Yea,” responded the teen, “But I didn’t think people actually behaved that way.”

Toward the end of dinner, Diaz asked the teen what he wanted out of life.  The teen reacted with a sad look on his face, but did not respond.  Either he couldn’t answer – or he didn’t want to.  When the bill arrived, Diaz told the teen, “Look, I guess you’re going to have to pay for this bill because you have my money and I can’t pay for this.  So if you give me my wallet back, I’ll gladly treat you.”  Without hesitation, the teen returned the wallet.  Diaz opened his wallet and gave the teen twenty dollars, figuring the money might help him somehow.  However, in return, Diaz asked for the teen’s knife.  The teen gave the knife to him.[i]

Today’s gospel lesson is often taken in a couple of ways.  The words from Jesus about turning the other cheek and loving our enemies either sound so passive that we dismiss them immediately or they sound admirable, but totally impossible.  All we need is the last verse, which says, “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect,” before we throw our hands into the air, defeated before we have even begun.  In fact, if we are really listening, we can almost become angry with Jesus’ words.  All we have to think about is a victim of abuse and we bristle at Jesus’ instructions to simply turn the other cheek or go a second mile.  Or maybe we think of a lifetime of pressure to be perfect and all we want to do is angrily add Jesus to the list of people who are perpetually disappointed in us – including ourselves.  Of course we would never say those things aloud because this is supposed to be a beautiful text about loving your neighbor as yourself.  But really, who among us wants to love our enemies or pray for those who persecute us?

We are really good at hating our enemies.  As a country we demonize those with whom we go to war.  And depending on which news outlet you prefer, the Democrats, the Republicans, or the Tea Party are enemies of any progress we want to see in our country.  I am pretty sure the Republicans and Democrats in Congress have not been praying for each other over this past year.  And that does not even compare to the more personal enemies we have.  All we have to think about is that bully at school or work, that family member who is always trying to put you down, let alone that teen who looks like he might be ready to pull a knife on you and demand your wallet.  We are schooled to be empowered people who do not allow ourselves to be doormats.  We are not to turn the other check but to protect ourselves.  We are not to offer more of our stuff to someone threatening to take our stuff.  And we certainly are not schooled to give to every single person asking for a handout.  Surely, in turning the other cheek, we become a victim; in offering our cloak, we are enabling bad behavior; and in giving to beggars, we are simply perpetuating social problems.  We build strong, fortified walls around ourselves in the name of safety, protection, or wisdom.

The challenge for us is seeing what Jesus is really trying to do.  Our way of being demonizes others and simplifies quite complicated relationships.  Jesus way of being invites us to see with God’s loving eyes.  That is what Jesus means when he says to be perfect as God is perfect.  He does not mean for us to achieve some sort of moral or even everyday perfection; Jesus means for us to love as God loves.[ii]  God’s love does not allow us to use labels like “us” and “them.”  God’s love means looking at that enemy who hurts us, threatens us, or even scares us, and seeing the humanity lying beneath those ugly layers.  God’s love means transformation through the simple act of praying for our enemies.  Perhaps your prayer begins without words – just the mental image of the person.  But you may find that as you continue to pray for that individual, slowly you begin to see with God’s eyes.  What should you pray for?  What is redeeming in them?  What could God do to soften them and our relationship with them?

I think of Julio Diaz on that fateful night in the Bronx.  When Diaz told his mom what had happened that night, she said, “Well, you’re the type of kid that if someone asked you for the time, you gave them your watch.”  Clearly Diaz had this “loving your enemies” thing down.  In fact, maybe Diaz saw what Jesus could see – that in God, there are no enemies.  There are just people for us to love.  Diaz does not use Christian language to describe his philosophy.  He simply explains about his story, “I figure if you treat people right, you can only hope that they treat you right.  It’s as simple as it gets in this complicated world.”  Of course we would say, love your neighbor as yourself or do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  Today, Jesus says, “love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

What is not obvious in either Diaz or Jesus’ stories is the subtext of what is happening.  In neither story is passivity the theme.  Instead, both are advocating for active transformation.  What Jesus is talking about is quietly resisting evil.  When he says to turn the other cheek, he is saying startle the person into the decision of whether to hit again.  When someone sues you for your coat, you giving them your cloak actually embarrasses them instead of you.  Though the person suing may have had a right to the coat, your offering your cloak too, being stripped down in front of everyone, humiliates the one suing more than being stripped down humiliates you.  And by walking that second mile, you claim ownership of your own being.  The one forcing you to walk a mile loses her power when you walk the second mile.[iii]  Diaz understood this.  By offering his coat and by inviting the teen to a meal, he shifted the power in the encounter.  By engaging that teen in conversation, and by probing further with him, he began to unravel the mystique of the thief, and found a vulnerable, desperate young man underneath.

The work that Jesus invites us into this week is not easy.  Shouting after a thief on an empty platform, trying to give him your coat and a meal is probably not that instinctive for most of us.  Quiet resistance is a lot harder than passive acceptance or violent retaliation.  Loving your enemies will not feel natural.  So maybe you start with prayer this week.  Maybe you simply start by praying for an enemy and see where the spiritual practice leads you.  That first step will begin the journey to seeing as God sees:  with eyes of love – difficult, radical, transforming love.  Amen.


[i] Story, slightly edited, as told in “A Victim Treats His Mugger Right,” March 28, 2008.  Found at http://www.npr.org/2008/03/28/89164759/a-victim-treats-his-mugger-right on February 21, 2014.

[ii] Barbara J. Essex, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 384.

[iii] Walter Wink, “How Turning the Other Cheek Defies Oppression,” May 4, 2009, as found at http://www.ekklesia.co.uk/node/9385 on February 20, 2014.

Getting back in the game…

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I am a huge college basketball fan.  Well, actually I am a huge Duke Basketball fan, which means I tend to know more about college basketball than any other sport.  This week is the Duke-Carolina game – one of the biggest rivalries in the country and certainly one of the biggest sporting events all year in my home.  What is so great about the rivalry is that no matter what the rankings are for either team at any point in the season, and whether the game is played at Duke or at Carolina, you never know who will win.  Something about the intensity of the rivalry means that no matter how dominant one team might normally be that season, and no matter what advantages being the “home” team might bring a team, there is very little way to predict how the game will evolve.  Consequently, watching the Duke-Carolina games each season make me intensely nervous and anxious.  In fact, as I have gotten older, I have even turned the TV off when I get so stressed.

I have been thinking about that phenomenon and wondering what in our faith life is like the anomaly of the Duke-Carolina game.  Where in our lives do our normally highly functioning spiritual selves get short circuited?  I have begun to wonder whether my prayer life might be the Duke-Carolina game in my faith journey.  There are times when I feel like my prayer life is solid – I find a practice that I really love and I find that keeping the practice is easy and enriching.  But then I have weeks when I get to the end of several days and cannot remember the last time I prayed.  Or I realize that instead of sitting down in the empty church for a time of prayer each morning, I have just starting praying as I pass through, not feeling like I have the time to really stop.  Sometimes the season – in particular Lent – makes me more disciplined.  But even the steady rhythm of Lent does not guarantee that I am steadfast in my prayer life.

The truth is, whatever the Duke-Carolina hiccup is in your faith journey, I am not sure there is much you can do about it.  Much like neither team can seem to master the intensity of the rivalry, I think we will always have a flawed area in our faith life.  Perhaps knowing that fact will allow us to not be so hard on ourselves and enjoy the ride.  Certainly that does not give us permission to sit back and pretend things are out of our control.  Neither team goes into the Duke-Carolina game resigned to lose.  Our task is to keep on trying, to keep tabs on when we are getting slack, and to slap the floor, and get back in the game!

Sermon – Matthew 5.21-37, E6, YA, February 16, 2014

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Today is one of those Sundays when you hear the gospel and your response is, “Whoa there, Jesus!”  If there is not something in the gospel lesson that makes you uncomfortable, I would be shocked.  All the hard stuff is here today: conflict between family members and neighbors, lustful thoughts, divorce, and even oaths.  That last one may not sound all that upsetting, but wait until we talk about oaths, and you will start to get uncomfortable about that one too.  As modern-day Christians, there are parts of the Bible that we would just prefer to skim over – those tough lessons that we either do not abide by or totally disagree with – but that we try to ignore so that we can still claim to believe in Holy Scripture.  In fact, just last week in Adult Forum we were talking about how preachers in the Episcopal Church never get to choose the scripture for a given Sunday.  That is both the beauty and the challenge of being an Episcopalian.  By following the assigned lectionary, we hear the beautiful breadth of scripture, and are also forced to deal with the tough stuff of scripture.

Let’s review the tough stuff first.  First Jesus says that before the people of God offer gifts at the altar, they should make sure they are reconciled with their sister or brother.  Now if each of us had to make sure that all of our relationships were reconciled before we came to the Eucharistic table, I would imagine most of us would rarely receive Eucharist.  Think about that family member, that fellow parishioner, or that friend from school or work with whom you just had an argument.  Did you reconcile with them before coming to church today?

Next Jesus tells the people that avoiding adultery is not enough – they must even avoid lustful thoughts because that is as sinful as committing adultery.  You would have to be pretty immune to our entire culture not to face lust today – in advertising, in entertainment, and throughout media.  That does not even account for the lust we experience in spontaneous encounters with strangers, let alone with acquaintances and friends.

Then Jesus adds that anyone who divorces or who marries a divorcee is committing adultery.  With over half of marriages ending in divorce today, each one of us here is impacted by a divorce: if not our own, then the divorce of a family member or a friend.   I have a distinct memory of studying a Bible passage like this in Sunday School was I was in high school.  My teacher at the time had been divorced, but was thriving in a second marriage.  I asked her if we really believe Jesus’ words nowadays, and she insisted that we do.  I demanded to know how that could be since she and her husband were so happy and faithful.  She stated matter-of-factly that she and her husband would be judged for their lives.  To be honest, knowing how faithful she was, and how judged she felt by scripture, I began to question my faith altogether.

Finally Jesus instructs the people of God not to take oaths.  This one may sound a little strange, but basically Jesus is saying that you should never have to swear an oath because people should always be able to trust your word.  Your “yes” should mean yes, and your “no” should mean no.  So when your teacher asks you if you did all the reading or your boss asks you if you have completed a particular task, your “yes” better mean yes.  When you insist that you have not done something, you had better be sure that that “no” can be trusted.  In essence, there should be no need for you to swear at any point in life because your word can always be trusted.  You should not have to promise to not tell anyone else a secret because you have never told another person’s secret.  I do not know about you, but that makes me think a lot harder about what words come out of my mouth, sometimes even out of habit.

So are you uncomfortable yet?  Is your mind spinning from all the ways in which your behavior is contrary to what Jesus instructs today?  The good news is that there is actually good news.  Jesus does not offer these four rules as a way of making faithful living harder than faithful living already is.  As Jesus says in the verses preceding what we hear today, Jesus does not come to abolish the law, but to fulfill the law.  In other words, Jesus is still preaching the law of God, but Jesus is trying to get the people to see the intention behind the law.  So Jesus says, “Yes, do not murder, but really beware of anger altogether.”  Anger erodes not just our relationships with others but anger erodes our relationship with God.  Instead, by being a person who seeks reconciliation, we can be people bringing about the reign of God in our midst.[i]  Jesus longs for us to have the peace that comes in living a life that strives for reconciliation as opposed to the life that is willing to tolerate brokenness.  Of course, God knows relationships are complicated, and that some relationships are downright harmful.  But what Jesus is trying to get at is that longing for peace and reconciliation is the first step in healing not only specific relationships, but in healing the community of faith.

Jesus also affirms the original law about not committing adultery and not coveting; but he adds lust as being equally offensive.  Now I know this one is tricky because we are sexual beings and our sexuality is a gift from God.  But what Jesus wants us to acknowledge is that lingering on lust takes our attention away from healthy, loving relationships.  Furthermore, Jesus also affirms the dignity of every human being by affirming that no one should be treated as a sexual object.  Jesus is not saying deny your sexuality; Jesus is simply reminding us to celebrate healthy expressions of that sexuality.  I am reminded of a couple of music videos put out by pop-star Beyonce recently.  My first response to the videos was that they were pretty sexually explicit.  But when you listen to the words and see that her husband is the male counterpart in the video, you can see that Beyonce is simply celebrating the gift of healthy sexual experiences within the covenant of marriage.  Though the idea might be a stretch, perhaps what Beyonce is trying to communicate is not that she should be an object of sexual desire, but that we all should celebrate the gift of sexuality experienced within covenanted relationships.

Next, what Jesus says about divorce is not much different than what was already understood about divorce.  But what Jesus adds is a sense of accountability, particularly for men, to tend to the well-being of their wives, who are made the most vulnerable in divorce in Jesus’ time.  We all know the devastating effects of divorce; and fortunately, many of us have come through the other side to see the health and wholeness that come from ending unhealthy relationships and even in finding new thriving ones.  But what Jesus is really talking about here is being more attentive to the way that our actions impact the most vulnerable in society.  Our life decisions and actions are not made in a vacuum.  Jesus is encouraging us to be thoughtful and intentional about how we make those decisions and then how we handle their implications.  In the end, that sees to the welfare of a much broader range than simply ourselves.

Finally, what Jesus says about oaths is not as legalistic as it sounds, even though there are faith traditions that refuse to swear oaths.  Ultimately, what Jesus is trying to get us to see is that our words and our integrity matter.  If we are truthful people, then we have no need for oaths.  Jesus’ invitation is for us to be thoughtful about our words, not only being a people who actively tell the truth, but also being people who do not flippantly use words or make promises without considering their implications.

So ultimately, Jesus tells us today that our actions, our words, our relationships matter.  As followers of Christ, we do not get to be independent agents who care only for ourselves – a concept that is pretty counter-cultural in the United States.  Jesus’ words and their implications do put a burden on us and sometimes make us feel uncomfortable.  But in the end, Jesus words and their implications also make for healthier relationships, a healthier community, healthier relationships with God, and ultimately, a healthier version of yourself.  So embrace the uncomfortable, and know that Jesus has your back!  Amen.


[i] Marcia Y. Riggs, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 358.

Homily – Galatians 2.19-20, Mark 8.34-38, Martyrs of Japan, February 6, 2014

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Today we celebrate the martyrs of Japan.  Christianity was first introduced in Japan in the 1500’s, first by the Jesuits and then by the Franciscans.  By the end of the 1500’s, there were about 300,000 baptized believers in Japan.  But the successes were compromised by both rivalries among religious orders and the interplay of colonial politics.  Eventually, all Christians suffered cruel persecution and suppression.  The first victims, whom we honor today, were six Franciscan friars and 20 converts who were crucified in Nagasaki in 1597.  By 1630, what was left of Christianity was driven underground; yet 250 years later, many men and women, without priests, persevered with their faith.

I have been thinking a lot about those martyrs.  First, I am still a little shocked by the idea of someone being actually crucified almost 1,600 years after Jesus’ death.  I didn’t even think people would do that anymore.  Second, I am astounded by the idea of someone using that form of murder on Christians – crucifixion seems like the ultimate form of insult and torture one could commit that would certainly intimidate and dissuade followers.  What is so sobering to me about the martyrs’ deaths is that the murderers almost seem to be using the faith against the followers, as if to say, “You want to follow Jesus Christ?  Then do what Jesus says in Mark’s gospel and take up your cross.  We may think of “taking up one’s cross” as a description of the suffering for following Jesus – but we often forget that the cross ultimately points to death.  That is an extreme form of witness that few of us would be comfortable assuming.

I think where the gospel, the epistle and even the martyrs are trying to get us to is an emptying of the self and an assuming of total dedication to Christ.  Now we may not be literally crucified in our age, but if we fully embrace the idea of taking up a cross, we fully submit our lives to God.  Certainly there will be dramatic moments – I always remember those kids in Columbine who at gun point were asked to deny their faith.  But more likely, the moments will be small, but tremendous.  Seeing God in the homeless man; saying something uncomfortable among a group of friends because your faith compels you to challenge the direction of the conversation, re-examining your life patterns to assess the ways you have already put your cross down.  Though taking up our crosses now may seem ambiguous, when we take on that work, we will find death – death to our old way of being and life in a new way of being.  Amen.

 

This homily, along with the several posted immediately after date from December 2013 – February 2014.  When we celebrate Eucharist each Thursday morning at St. Margaret’s, I preach a short homily to celebrate the feast day of whatever saint falls nearest to that day (as appointed by Lesser Feasts and Fasts and Holy Men, Holy Women).  A parishioner helps me to transcribe the homilies so that others can enjoy them too.  We seem to have finally caught up now – enjoy!

Homily – Philippians 4.4–9, John Bosco, January 30, 2014

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John Bosco, who we celebrate today, was born in the late 1800s in Italy.  He lost his father at age two, but he managed to retain a sweet, kind disputation.  At age nine, he received a vision of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary encouraging him to be kind, obedient, and hardworking – a vision that began his vocation early in life.  Eventually, Bosco went to seminary and became a priest and was assigned as chaplain to a girls’ boarding school.  But before long, Bosco was not satisfied working with well-to-do young women – he was more drawn to the ragamuffin boys outside the school – so much so that he opened an orphanage for them in 1846. Eventually his work led to the formation of the Salesian order, a group of women religious, lay brothers and dedicated laity who operated orphanages, vocational schools, and night-time primary schools for working people.

Having watched the recent State of the Union address, and especially the commentary following, I think we as a country have lost a lot of what Bosco embodied – the sweet, kindness that shows love to one another.  We are so busy being right that we forget what being kind to one another looks like.

We see a difficult invitation from Philippians today, “Let your gentleness be known to everyone.” Gentleness is not one of those virtues we value today – instead we have become rigid upholders of what is right – much as we saw when our government shut down last year.  Showing love sounds good, but showing love is much harder in practice.

So how can we become a people full of love like Bosco’s?  Two things emerge from Philippians: First, the text says, “Rejoice in the Lord always, again I will say, Rejoice.”  Rejoicing in God may seem silly, but having words of adoration for God always on our lips makes loving a lot easier.  Focusing on God somehow takes us out of ourselves and puts us back on track with being agents of love.  Second, the text says, “whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”  In other words, we have to actively pull our minds out of the messiness of our lives and set our minds on goodness.  Perhaps then we might find our ways to the kindness, generosity, and love we find in people like Bosco.  Amen.