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Sermon – Job 42.1-6, 10-17, P25, YB, October 25, 2015

28 Wednesday Oct 2015

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I remember well the reentry experience I had after my first major international mission trip.  A team of about 20 of us traveled to Honduras for ten days, spending seven of those days in a rural, impoverished village.  When I came back to Duke, I came back a changed person.  Suddenly the mounds of food available in the dining hall seemed exorbitant, if not wasteful when I remembered the hungry children of the village.  Although the long, hot showers felt glorious, I also could not help but feeling guilty for using so much water and having that water so ready at my fingertips when I had become so accustomed to having only a bucket of water to bathe with every other day – a bucket that I had to share with someone else.  Even being able to go to the student health center for the stomach bug I brought back with me felt like a luxury after having run a health clinic with meager supplies and only one doctor.

All that would be enough to make me feel out of place.  But what made the experience worse was that I felt like a transformed, confused, vulnerable person in a sea of people going about their everyday lives.  In fact, I was very clear that I was the weird one.  All I had to do was have the basic, “What did you do for Spring Break?” conversation, and I could tell that no one could relate to my new reality.  They had been to Cancun, Cabo, or Costa Rica for Spring Break.  They had stories about partying, pools, and pina coladas.  There biggest stressors were navigating taxis without speaking Spanish, haggling with shop owners about prices, and trying to figure out how much to tip the cabana guys.  My stories about a lack of indoor plumbing, sleeping on cement floors, and boiling water to drink just led to blank stares and quick exits.  Instead, I was left alone, on a campus full of abundance, with students who have never had to worry about money or even their basic needs being met, in a place where my only responsibility was to study and attend classes.  Having seen real poverty, I would never again be able to look at the campus and people and privilege around me and see all of that in the same way again.

I think that is what makes me so uncomfortable about the happily-ever-after ending we get in Job today.  These last few weeks we have been reading through Job.  We hear the confusing conversation between the Adversary and God about how the Adversary will test Job’s righteousness by taking everything away – his children, his livestock, his home.  We remember how his friends try to tell him he must have done something to deserve his suffering.  We hear Job lash out at God, demanding to know why he is suffering so.  And last week we heard God put Job in his place, asking how Job thought he had any right to presume he knew God’s ways.  The today, when Job humbly confesses and submits to God, God suddenly relieves Job of his suffering.  He brings back his wealth – twice as much as he had before.  He blesses Job with children and livestock again.  On the surface, the whole story sounds so simple.  Job has everything taken away, he remains faithful, and then is restored his fortunes.  But something about that ending does not sit well with me.  How could Job ever look at his ten children without remembering the ten he had before?  How could Job ever look at that livestock and wealth without remembering how he once had nothing?  How could Job receive his consoling brothers and sisters without remembering how they had all deserted him and left him to sit with his sores and grief?  For some reason, I just cannot imagine how all that abundance in the face of recent tragedy somehow makes up for all his suffering.

Of course, we all try to make that transition in life.  I know widowers or divorcees who have had countless people ask why they do not start dating – as if a new spouse could ever make them forget the one with whom they shared a lifetime.  I know pet owners who have lost a beloved pet, only to have someone say, “You should just get a new puppy.  A puppy will make you forget your old dog.”  I even know young mothers who have lost a pregnancy or even an infant, only to have someone say, “You’re young.  You can always have another.”  To their credit, I genuinely think our friends and family are trying to say something that they think is helpful.  They are facing the abyss of pain too, and simply want to make everything okay.  And so they, and we, say something that even sounds awful to us coming out of our mouths.  But we do not know what else to say.

As I have thought about Job this week, I realized the end of his story is not a happily-ever-after ending.  The end of his story is a story about the new normal.  The new normal is not just a return to the same – or even a doubling of what was before.  The new normal for Job is learning how to be a person of faith in the midst of abundance.  Job teaches us a lot about living in the new normal.  Job prays for his friends who tried to blame Job’s suffering on Job.  Job eats with his siblings who disappeared during his suffering.  And Job does something radical.  When he has those ten children, three of them are daughters.  The text tells us that he gives the daughters an inheritance along with their brothers.  That kind of action was unheard of in Job’s day.[i]  Women were not given inheritances.  If they wanted security, they got married.  But Job, in his new normal, decides not just to enjoy his wealth, but to make his wealth count for others – for the most vulnerable:  for women.

Though I would never wish Job’s fate on anyone, Job’s suffering and trials teach him something about faithfulness.  Job moves from basically espousing a prosperity gospel – one in which he was blessed with good things because of his faithfulness – to espousing a theology of gratitude.  His wealth is no longer something for him to possess as a reward, but is now a tool for making a difference in the world.  That is not to say that Job is not a righteous man before his trials.  The text tells us he is.  What the text does infer is that Job’s relationship with his wealth is transformed, along with his faith.[ii]

A few weeks ago, Deacon Anthony told us about an experience of a man in New York City that he saw on the website, “Humans of New York.”  The story about the man in his own words goes like this, “Not long ago it looked like I was about to get everything.  I was one of the first employees at a company that sold for a billion dollars.  So I started a new company, and everything seemed to be going perfectly, but suddenly everything came apart.  This has been the toughest year of my adult life.  I went bankrupt, my company failed, and a person I loved died.  I didn’t commit suicide—though I considered it.  But my ideas of myself have definitely died.  I thought I was better than everyone.  I saw my success as the culmination of all my positive merits.  Losing everything forced me to realize how much of my good fortune was due to things that had been given to me.”[iii]  I think that man from New York understood Job’s reality deeply.  His year of tragedy taught him the same thing that Job’s time of tragedy taught him.  Everything is a gift:  our wealth, our abundance, our comfort, our security.  Everything is a gift.  And once we realize that everything is a gift, we are irrevocably changed.  We cannot go back to living life in a haphazard, oblivious way.  Our perspective toward abundance, and our responsibility to manage that abundance, changes.

Job found a way to transform the lives of his daughters with his wealth – even though society would have never have considered asking him, let alone expected him to do so.  Often we talk about wealth being a burden or a responsibility.  All we need to do is think about the lesson we heard recently about the rich getting into heaven being like a camel going through the eye of a needle.  Or we know those familiar words from Luke, “to whom much is given, much is required.”  But Job does not teach us that lesson today.  Wealth is not a burden or a responsibility.  Wealth frees us for opportunity – opportunities to bless, to transform, and to flourish.  Like that man in New York understood, wealth is a gift.  Our invitation this week is to consider how we might use our wealth as a gift.  Instead of seeing this stewardship season as a reminder of the burden we all have to support the operating budget of the church, I invite you to consider this stewardship season as a gift – an invitation to use your wealth to create opportunities to bless, to transform, and to flourish the ministries of this place.  Like Job joyfully watched his daughters experience a new freedom, I wonder what new opportunities your wealth might create in this community.  Amen.

[i] Dale P. Andrews, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 199.

[ii] Kathryn M. Schifferdecker, “Commentary on Job 42:1-6, 10-17,” October 28, 2012, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1455 on October 22, 2015.

[iii] Found at “Humans of New York,” October 10, 2015, found at https://www.facebook.com/humansofnewyork/photos/a.102107073196735.4429.102099916530784/1105944539479645/?type=3&fref=nf on October 23, 2015.

Waves of Gratitude

16 Friday Oct 2015

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I don’t really know how it happens.  I am sure we could blame consumerism, capitalism, or competition.  Maybe we could even blame sin.  But somehow, in the midst of our abundance, we find ways to be dissatisfied.  We want more – more stuff, more security, more freedom.  There is something deep inside of us that sees what others have and covets.  Our maybe it is more subtle and quiet.  We look at our current situation, and think, “If I just had that, I would be happy.”  And whatever “that” is, it does not seem like too much to ask in our minds.

The other day, my family and I were driving in the city.  We turned the corner, and right before us loomed an enormous billboard.  But instead of trying to sell something (or convince me that I needed “that”), it simply said, “Gratitude.”  I was stunned.  I do not know who put up the sign or why, but what I can tell you is that it stopped me in my tracks.  Whether I am bustling around with my family or busy at work, I am rarely meditating on gratitude.  I am just not very good at holding gratitude at the center of everything.  For me, that sign was a beckoning back:  a beckoning back to a spirit of gratitude.  So instead of having my mind on wherever we were going that day, suddenly, I looked around the car.  There was my beautiful, loving, precious family.  We were sitting in a car that works, enjoying leisure time.  I was not sick or worried about my housing security.  A wave of gratitude swept through that car that left me stunned.

This week St. Margaret’s kicked off our Stewardship season.  Most of us think about Stewardship season, and we immediately start worrying about what we are going to be able to pledge this year.  But before you start crunching numbers, I invite you to take a moment to be stunned by the prayerful practice of gratitude.  Start at home.  Prayerfully consider your friends and community.  Think about St. Margaret’s and why you pull yourself out of bed every Sunday to be there.  Give thanks for the God that creates us, sustains us, and gives us all that we need.  The further out we move from ourselves, the bigger our gratitude gets.  By the time we get to God, that unfathomable One who is infinitely bigger and more gracious than we can imagine, our longings for anything else disappear.  All we are left with is humble sense of gratitude.

This week, I invite you to meditate not on your checkbook, but on this blessed life God has given you.  If you have to start with something as basic as being able to breathe – being on this side of the ground, then start there.  I imagine no matter how rough or dissatisfying life may feel, you will slowly begin to realize the enormity of abundance surrounding you.  Let that wave of gratitude sweep you into a stunned silence – and join our God who waits there for you.

Journeying in the darkness…

07 Wednesday Oct 2015

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October is Pregnancy Loss Awareness Month.  In some ways, it seems like a strange month to choose.  In October, we are often focused on the harvest.  We have harvest-themed door wreaths and table decorations.  We enjoy a taste of the harvest ourselves – picking apples and pumpkins.  This is a time we celebrate abundance, and yet this is also the month when we honor when abundance is taken away.

As a child, I knew very little about pregnancy loss.  I had an aunt who sometimes referred to infant she lost by name, but no one besides her talked about it much, and the subject was so hushed and confusing that I never asked many questions.  As a chaplain, I experienced my first pregnancy loss with a patient.  A whole new world of darkness invaded what had developed in my mind as a world of joy.  I was at the age that my friends were starting to have babies.  But no one had ever talked to me about the dark side of pregnancy.  The darkness still felt very “other.”

Finally, a dear friend – one with whom I had shared many confidences – lost her pregnancy.  We lived far away, but I had just seen her pregnant belly at a reunion of friends for the weekend.  We had laughed and shared dreams about the child.  It had been a weekend of light.  And suddenly, that weekend was washed away with darkness.  We all rallied, sending flowers, meals, and cards.  We prayed and we cried.  And we listened.  My friend was very good about being vocal and honest about her pain.  We journeyed with her through the darkness.

During our mourning period, I shared with a few coworkers about my grief.  Slowly, the stories poured out.  Of pregnancies lost, of an infant loss, and even of the grief of trying to get pregnant.  No longer could I go on pretended that the world of pregnancy and babies was all roses and sunshine.  There is a darkness, a fear, and an uncertainty that haunts every pregnancy.  Most of the time those fears are unrealized, but unfortunately, not always.  And sometimes that darkness crashes down on those who never even realized the darkness was lurking.

We don’t talk about pregnancy loss much in church.  We have a liturgy for blessing a pregnancy.  We have a liturgy for giving thanks for a healthy birth.  And we have a liturgy for an infant baptism.  But the liturgies for infant loss are scattered and hard to find.  They are modified versions of other liturgies, often unauthorized by a liturgical committee.  They are like the darkened corner room of the maternity ward where they try to hide away the mom who has to deliver her stillborn.

Today, I want you to know that I am willing to talk about pregnancy and infant loss.  As a priest in the Church, I am willing to journey with you through the darkness – even if that darkness has been lingering for twenty years or more.  Or if you are trying to get pregnant, or even if you are pregnant and are afraid of the darkness – I am here.  You are not alone.  I will stand in the darkness with you – for however long you need.  And for those of you who are just now becoming aware of this issue and want to be supportive, I recommend this video.  You will find great resources on the website, as well as a link to an amazing book of devotions.  Join me in being the Church – a Church willing to sit in the darkness until we can find the light again together.

O death…

16 Wednesday Sep 2015

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This past week I have been thinking a lot about death.  It’s probably a function of being a priest, but death is ever a part of my journey.  Many days I can avoid thinking about it.  But I imagine that is not really what God wants.  Just to prove the point, I find that deaths usually come in threes.  No one can avoid thinking about death when they come in threes.

That was the case last week.  Within 24 hours, a parishioner, a family member, and an acquaintance all died.  The parishioner was retired but was living a full life.  She went in to check on some pain and within four months she was gone.  The family member was much older.  She had lived a full life and the journey toward death took a long time.  We were sad, but ready.  The acquaintance was around my age and had three kids at the same nursery school one of my daughters attends.  She got sick and within a week died.  Three children.  My age.

That’s the funny thing about death.  We can pretend it happens only to old people (which we never are – even when we are).  We can pretend it is far away and will come when we are fully prepared and ready to join our God.  We can pretend that death is non-existent.  But we know that is all pretend.  We know that pretending is just our way of masking how scary death is.  For those of us who believe in eternal life, we like to say that life is changed, not ended.  But that is what we say about others.  I wonder how much we can proclaim it for ourselves.

One of my favorite songs from the film “O Brother, Where Art Thou,” soundtrack is called “O Death.”  In the song, the artist sings, “O, death, won’t you spare me over til another year.”  The singer’s voice is haunting.  And while there is a part of us that knows we should not fear death, there is something in that song’s words that resonates with us.  We want one more year.  One more decade.  One more lifetime.

And yet death comes.  Sometimes death comes within a week – within a day.  I wonder what you would do differently with your life if you were willing to let that reality slip over you.  What has God been calling you to do that you have been avoiding?  What have you been meaning to say to someone that you don’t say because you are afraid?  Does the reality of death make you want to move?  Though the questions are heavy, as is the topic, I think there is freedom in the questions too.  We can let go of all that is weighing us down and start living.  The promise of earthly death is a blessing – one that frees us to live this life with abundance, grace, and joy.  How will you start living into that joy today?

Sermon – John 6.1-12, P12, YB, July 26, 2015

29 Wednesday Jul 2015

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On one of the first days on a mission trip to Burma, our team went to Church.  Like any good Anglican Church, the Burmese have their own version of Coffee Hour.  Lots of people wanted to be around us, but mostly all we could do was smile and nod because of the language barrier.  One of the mothers of the parish came up to us and asked our translator if we were hungry.  She said she would bring us some Mohingar.  When she returned, we discovered Mohingar was a soup.  My teammate and I graciously thanked our host, but suspiciously eyed the soup.  I mean, it’s soup, so how bad can it be, right?  But it’s soup – there’s not telling what is in that thick broth.  But when you are a guest, you eat.  And, so, with many eyes on us, we tentatively ate our Mohingar.  As we ate, flavors filled our mouths.  The soup was good – really good.  In fact, this “Mohingar” was probably the best soup I have ever eaten.  This was no ordinary soup – Mohingar is like a meal in soup form.  Mohingar has eggs, noodles, fish, banana stems.  It sounds strange, but I promise you it was delicious.  I had no problem needing to pretend to graciously like the soup.  It was amazing!  At the end of my very satisfying, filling bowl of Mohingar, I raved to our host.  Unfortunately, that meant she insisted I have more.  I later realized on that trip in Burma, that this was always the practice with food.  If you even came close to finishing your food, you were always offered more – more rice, more fish, more fruit, more Mohingar.  We finally broke down and learned how to say, “I’m full” in Burmese.  What I learned about food in Burma was that showing love and hospitality meant showing abundance through food.  That is not to say that our hosts were well-off.  In fact, many of them were struggling.  But even in the midst of poverty, abundance found a way.

The disciples in our gospel lesson today were not accustomed to this practice of abundance.  Instead, they were quite adept at the practice of scarcity.  When Philip is asked where they can buy bread for everyone, he calculates the number of wages that would be needed to feed such a crowd, basically concluding that there is no way they can afford to feed so many.  When Andrew is presented with just a little food from boy – five loaves and two fish, he scoffs.  His scarcity mentality is too limited to imagine how greatness can come from so little.  I am sure that when Jesus told the disciples to sit the people down, the disciples were vacillating between skepticism, disbelief, and maybe even fear of what would happen when all five thousand people realized how hungry they were and how little this Jesus and his disciples had.

We are all familiar with this theology of scarcity.  Karen Yust imagines the same scene in a contemporary congregation.  She says, “One might expect the [Vestry] to echo Philip’s money-management concern, pointing out that the congregation does not take in enough revenue to support such a project.  The outreach committee might reinforce Andrew’s position, stating that the congregation has earmarked only a small percentage of its income for mission giving and the proposed project’s needs far exceed the allocated amount.  The groups responsible for discipleship and worship may not even offer an opinion, as they are busy preparing for a fast-approaching religious festival.  The buildings and grounds committee may assist with seating everyone on the lawn, although some [committee] members might worry about the effects of this event on the property’s landscaping.  It is likely that none of the congregations’ boards or committees would expect to participate in a miracle, as that is not what they signed on for.”[i]  On the surface, those behaviors are all smart behaviors.  Vestries have fiduciary responsibility for parishes.  Outreach committees must be wise in managing their aid.  The Altar Guild, Buildings and Grounds Committee, and Sunday School teachers all have areas of responsibility that need tending.  Even I have parameters around my discretionary fund and how often one person or family can receive aid.  The challenge is when a group of people have gathered to serve and glorify God, but only have a limited financial ability to do so (and trust me, big parishes sweat paying the bills as much as small parishes do), a seemingly necessary but nasty habit evolves – a theology of scarcity.  We all have faced that temptation.  Think about the last time you were planning your pledge to the church.  I am sure each of us looked at our income and other financial obligations before deciding what we had left to spare for the church.  We want to be sure that if we give generously to the church, we still have enough to pay the bills!

But Jesus does not seem to know anything about this theology of scarcity.  In fact, Jesus seems to have developed the opposite theology – a theology of abundance.  Of course, this feeding of five thousand should be no surprise.  This is the same Jesus who turned water into wine in Cana – and not just a little wine, but gallons upon gallons of wine; and not just any wine, but the best wine they had had all night long.  This is the same Jesus who will later explain to his disciples that in God’s house, there are many dwelling places – not just room for each of them, but many dwelling places.  In John’s gospel, “we are confronted with this profuse and full-measured flood of God’s grace mediated through the Christ.”[ii]  Nowhere does Jesus invite us to be careful or reserved.  Instead, Jesus keeps reminding us of the abundance of God.  Not only can he feed five thousand people, there will be leftovers.  And my guess is that those leftovers were there even after Jesus kept asking if they wanted more – until the people found the right words for “I’m full.”

Today, Jesus leaves us with baskets – twelve to be exact.  Twelve full baskets that are left over after feeding five thousand.  Those baskets sit there, challenging our every tendency to live on our own scarcity or fears of insufficiency.  Those baskets sit there, challenging our tendency to hoard, save, worry, and live a very small, safe life.  Those baskets sit there, challenging all the times we would rather pull back than push forward.  Instead, the baskets sit here today, right here at St. Margaret’s, inviting us to exercise faith in God’s abundance.  The baskets sit here today, calling us as a community to go places we have never been, to do things we have never tried, and to be things we have never envisioned.[iii]  The baskets sit here today, reminding us of all the times St. Margaret’s has had enough and emboldening us to live our lives as though we will always have not just enough, but an abundance.  The baskets sit here today, inviting us not be a people of anxiety and competition, but a people of generosity and hope.[iv]  Those baskets – that message of abundance is our good news today.  Amen.

[i] Karen Marie Yust, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 284.

[ii] Charles Hoffman, “More than Enough,” Christian Century, vol. 123, no. 15, July 25, 2006, 18.

[iii] Hoffman, 18

[iv] H. Stephen Shoemaker, “Bread and Miracles,” Christian Century, vol. 117, no. 20, July 5-12, 2000, 715.

Sermon – John 15.9-17, E6, YB, May 10, 2015

20 Wednesday May 2015

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One of my favorite television shows was a show called Gilmore Girls.  Gilmore Girls captured the story of the quirky relationship between a single-mom and her teenage daughter, and the funny adventures that happened to them in their small town.  One of my favorite scenes from that show was an episode in which the daughter was celebrating her birthday.  First thing that morning, the mother tiptoed into her daughter’s room, snuggled in her bed, and began her yearly ritual of retelling her birth story.  “Once upon a time, a long time ago, a scared, pregnant woman entered the hospital with contractions.”  Based on the way the story begins and the tone in the mom’s voice, the viewers all think this is going to be a tender moment between mother and child, where the mom will describe the way her heart filled with joy when she looked into her daughter’s eyes.  Instead, the mother proceeds to tell the gory, painful story in graphic detail, basically intimating that the daughter should feel indebted to her mother for the great burden of her birth, and every year the child should celebrate the work her mother did to birth her, instead of the mother needing to joyfully celebrate the daughter.

The audience chuckles at the scene because we all know that mother.  This is the mother who says, “I was in labor for 60 hours with you…the least you could do is…”  Or the mother who says, “Oh you think that is hard?  Try giving birth naturally to a nine-pound baby and then tell me what hard is!!”  This kind of guilt-based love never really feels like love.  The response guilt-based love gets is something done out of obligation, not out of joy or devotion.

The funny thing is that in many ways, that guilt-based love is what we hear from Jesus in our gospel lesson today.  Jesus says, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.  No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”  When I think about Jesus, I do not think of him as a coercive parent.  And yet, his language, especially about his death and resurrection can sound exactly like that.  You can almost hear the nagging parent, “I hung on a cross until midday and died for your sins.  The least you could do is love one another as I loved you!!”  And what is so frustrating is that there is no comeback line to that logic.  There is no way for us to come back to Jesus and argue, “Well, that was a different time period.  If you had lived today, that would not have happened.”  Or, “But your death wasn’t all that bad, and you did rise again, so really, we don’t need to feel that guilty because your death was a necessary evil.”  Those whining excuses do not hold water, and we are left manipulated into a sense of obligation, because, really, who can argue with Jesus?  He did die for our sins, and there is no way to repay him.

When we think about our faith, more often than not the lessons we learn are guilt-based.  Even our most basic “Golden Rule:  Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” is a lesson based on guilt.  When we are reminded of that rule, and we think about how we feel when someone hurts us, we guiltily stop our negative behavior.  But the guilt is not limited to our faith.  Our behavior in friendships is often dictated by guilt and obligation.  She always buys me a gift for Christmas, so I should buy her a gift too – even when we know neither of us needs gifts.  They had us over for dinner and served nice wine, so now we need to invite them to our place and pick up a similar vintage.  He gave party favors at his party, so we need to give party favors at our party too.  We get so caught up in the obligations of life that we lose touch with joy – the joy of our faith, of our friends, of our life.

Here’s the problem with guilt:  guilt creates a false sense of agency.  In other words, after we experience guilt, we come to believe that we have the power, and in the case of guilt, the need, to work harder to achieve something better.  When we first read our gospel lesson, the lesson seems laced with guilt.  Upon first glance, Jesus seems to be telling us over and over all the things we need to do to be better – to love better.  But that assumption could not be farther from the truth.  Jesus says three things that show us how his love is not a manipulative, guilt-inducing love, but a freely given and freeing love.  First, Jesus explains that he wants the disciples to abide in his love and to love others because he wants his joy to be in them, so that their joy may be complete.  I hear Jesus’ words this way, “Don’t love because you feel like you have to or because you feel like you should.  Love because loving will give you joy.  This joy is no ordinary ‘happiness’[i] – a fleeting feeling like the one you get from a great piece of chocolate.  This joy runs deep and can be a well that you can keep drawing from, even after happiness is long gone.  I know because I have this joy – and I want to give that joy to you.”  Jesus does not guilt us into a particular behavior because we should behave that way.  He wants us to know and feel the deep joy he has and he knows the way to get there – through love.

Second, Jesus renames the disciples as friends.  He says, “I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father.”  As one scholar explains, in Jesus’ day, “to be called a ‘slave’ of a good master was not denigrating, and it could even be a title of respect.  But still a ‘slave’ was not on the same level as a friend.  A slave’s status obligated him to support a master through difficult times, but a friend would do it freely, for reasons of mutual commitment and affection.”[ii]  Jesus is not offering a promotion in order to garner favor with the disciples.  Jesus is pointing to a reality that has already occurred, and that reality shifts the motivation behind all that they do.  The love Jesus talks about giving is not out of a sense of obligation due to an unequal relationship, but out of a sense of abundance that comes from intimate, loving equality and mutuality.

Finally, Jesus reminds the disciples that the love they experience in him is not out of a sense of obligation because of their relationship, or even because the disciples must do something to receive that love.  No, Jesus says, “you did not choose me but I chose you.”  This is different from the love of a mother or father for a child.  A child never chooses their parents, but parents also do not get to choose their children.  But here, Jesus chooses the disciples.  Jesus sees their inadequacies, their weaknesses, their imperfections, and he chooses them anyway.  They do not earn his love; they do not even earn their discipleship.  Jesus chooses them.  Jesus loves them first.  They do not earn that love or owe anything for that love.  Jesus chooses them – again and again.

When we hear Jesus’ words more clearly – when we hear the great abundance behind his words, suddenly our sense of guilt disappears.  When we understand that we are Jesus’ friends, that we are chosen by Jesus, and that Jesus simply wants us to know the same joy that he knows, all those commandments – which basically boil down to love anyway – are not burdens or actions done out of guilt.[iii]  Those commandments are what we do because we are so overwhelmed by how we are loved that the love spills out of us helping us to extend Christ-like friendship, love, and joy to others.  That behavior is not something we choose.  We do not choose to love our cranky neighbor.  We do not choose to love that parishioner who always seems to know how to irritate and downright anger us sometimes.  We do not choose to love that homeless person on the street.  We could not fake that kind of love if we were guilted or even if we wanted to give that love.  We can only approach that kind of love because when we know Christ – as his friend – the friend who chooses us before we ever choose him – the friend who longs for us to know deep, abiding joy – when we know that Christ, the love we need oozes out of us despite ourselves.  We find ourselves doing ridiculous things like taking that cranky neighbor a bowl of soup when we hear about their cancer treatments.  We do silly things like hug that frustrating parishioner really hard at the peace.  We do crazy things like giving our full wallet’s contents to the homeless person because suddenly how responsible they are with the money just doesn’t even matter anymore.  We cannot stop that love.  We cannot control that love.  We cannot even use that love judiciously.  That kind of love comes from a place in us unlike any other we know – a place free from guilt, obligation, and coercion.  Because although you were birthed through the waters of baptism, that birth will never be a reason for you to be guilted into anything.  Amen.

[i] Karoline Lewis, “Choose Joy,” May 3, 2015 as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=3608 on May 8, 2015.

[ii] Thomas H. Troeger, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 499.

[iii] Lawrence Wood, “Labors of Love,” Christian Century, vol. 120, no. 10, May 17, 2003.

Homily – II Cor. 9.6-15, Thanksgiving Day, YA, November 27, 2014

03 Wednesday Dec 2014

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One of the funny things about being a priest is the way that everyday people interact with me.  The funniest experiences occur when people first find out I am a priest.  I love seeing the raised eyebrows or hearing the stammers as someone panics about any inappropriate things they might have said in the first ten minutes of our conversation.  Parties with strangers or our children’s school gatherings are always fun as people try to figure out how they should modify their behavior in front of me.  In fact, many of my single and dating priest friends have avoided the conversation altogether about what they do for a living, hoping that the other person will get to know them for who they are, not just what they do.  There really is a sort of cultural divide that I forget about until I get in one of these situations and then have work with someone to create a sense of comfort and commonality.

That cultural divide is no more obvious than on a holiday like Thanksgiving Day.  Today we gather to celebrate what is mostly a secular holiday.  This day has become a day about an abundance of food, watching parades and football, enjoying fellowship with friends and family, and post-turkey naps.  This is a day of giving thanks for the good things of life, but often in a secular way.  I know many people who have a tradition of going around the table and saying something for which they are thankful.  But those things are usually listed without a mention of God.  In fact, the non-specific nature of gratitude this day is what makes it a perfect day for interfaith groups, like our own Plainview-Old Bethpage Interfaith Group, to celebrate – because we can all recognize in our own different ways our gratitude and thanks.

But for us Christians, this day is a little different.  We may do all the same activities: feast, fellowship, and fun; but we also root those activities in gratitude toward God – the source of all our blessings.  For us, today is not just a day to be grateful for the good things in life, but to be thankful to God for our blessings.  That may sound like semantics, but I think that, especially today, our language matters.  So we can still go around the table listing our blessing, but we also acknowledge that God is the source of those blessings.  We can still enjoy a feast, but we begin our meal in a prayer that thanks God for the bounty of the earth, the hands that touch our meal in its many stages, and for the privilege and pleasure of good food.  We can still watch the game or the parade, but we are grateful to God for the blessing of shelter and the disposable income to afford that television and cable service.  And we can still enjoy the company of friends and family because we know that God blesses us with companions on our journey.

So why does our naming God today matter?  What difference does our calling this a sacred day have to do with anything?  The difference is that when we name God in the midst of blessing, there is a “so what?” attached.  Our epistle lesson says today, “God is able to provide you with every blessing in abundance, so that by always having enough of everything, you may share abundantly in every good work.”  In other words, when we give thanks today, that is not the end of the story.  When we give thanks today, God is well pleased.  And God also expects us to share that abundance with others.  As the epistle says, our blessing is not strictly for us.  Our blessing is given to us so that our blessing might be a blessing to others.

And that is why we mark this day as a sacred day.  Because if Thanksgiving Day is simply a secular day of being grateful, the day begins and ends with us – our experiences, our gratefulness, our happiness.  But if we celebrate Thanksgiving Day as a sacred day, then the day may begin with us, but the day ends with others – our blessings overflowing to bless others.  That is the true abundance of Thanksgiving Day.  The abundance cannot be contained.  In fact, our epistle lesson says that the more we pass along our abundance, the more that abundance grows, “The one who sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and the one who sows bountifully will also reap bountifully.”  So, go home and enjoy all the blessings of this day – and then share those blessings bountifully.  Amen.

Sermon – Matthew 25.1-13, P27, YA, November 9, 2014

12 Wednesday Nov 2014

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I am fortunate in that I do not have a long commute to work.  But there have been a few times when I have needed to take the Long Island Railroad during morning rush hour.  What I found fascinating about those trips is how people use their time on the train.  Most people are on their phones, probably doing any number of things:  scanning email, sending a few quick texts, checking Facebook, reading the news.  Some people are reading the paper:  catching up on the headlines, reading the sports page, or checking the financial reports.  Others use their hour on the train to catch up on sleep.  That one always scares me – how people sleep lightly enough not to miss their stop is beyond me.  And I suppose there are a few people like me, who enjoy the people watching.  But those are rarely the morning regulars – they got over that fascination a long time ago and chose some other way to spend their time.

We make choices every day:  how we spend our money, what we will do with free evenings, what groups we want to be involved in, and with whom we want to spend our time.  What we do while commuting is just one example of the myriad choices available to us on a given day.  But over time, those choices begin to shape who we are.  Those choices begin to define whether we are an avid reader, someone who is connected to the goings-on of the world, someone who is physically fit, or someone who is known for their volunteer work.  What seem like inconsequential decisions, like regularly watching a TV show, a standing appointment with a friend for dinner, or joining a civic group, slowly begin to shape a life.  Those little choices we make day in and day out shape who we are and what our life is really about.  In my line of work, I go to a lot of funerals, and that is one of the consistent things I see:  the choices a person makes over time informs who they are.  So in a eulogy, someone is described a devoted mother, or an avid sailor, or an advocate for the poor.

Our gospel lesson today is all about how our choices matter.[i]  The most obvious choice we see is the choice by the foolish bridesmaids not to bring extra oil.  Actually, the foolish bridesmaids make two choices.  First, they choose not to bring extra oil, perhaps assuming the groom will not be long.  Second, once they realize they are out of oil and the others are not going to share, they choose to go buy more.  Neither of their choices is illogical really.  Based on the customs of the time, the maids should not have needed extra oil.[ii]  Their choice not to bring extra oil is a perhaps presumptuous, but not scandalous.  The second choice is reactionary.  The wise bridesmaids tell them to go and they do – in the middle of the night, the foolish maids make an impetuous decision that ends up costing them greatly.  The foolish maids’ choices create a world fraught with risk – where split-second decisions leave the maids with little footing in a world that is constantly throwing choices at them

But the foolish bridesmaids are not the only ones making choices in our parable today.  The wise ones make choices too.  When faced with the needs of the oil-less bridesmaids, the wise bridesmaids send the foolish ones away to get their own oil.  They do not consider sharing their oil or allowing the foolish ones to stand with them.  Quite frankly, they should not have to share.  They have thoughtfully constructed a world in which careful planning and preparation pay off in great rewards.  Their choices have lead to a world in which everyone fends for themselves, where pity is not necessary, and boundaries are clear and concise.

And of course, the bridegroom makes a choice too.  When the foolish bridesmaids knock at the door, the groom has a choice:  he can justifiably send them away since they were not considerate enough to be ready and waiting for him; or he can be forgiving and graciously allow them into the celebration.  The choice of the groom to close the door leads to a world in which mistakes are severely punished and there are no second chances.

This parable is one of those parables that does not leave us feeling good about the world.  In fact, the choices of the characters in the parable depict a world that is marked by rigidity, scarcity, and lacking in forgiveness.  We know this world all too well.  All we have to do is listen to the current debate in the United States about immigration.  Whenever we debate the issue of what to do with illegal immigrants, the arguments are similarly marked by rigidity, scarcity, and a lack of forgiveness.  We worry about the drain on our resources with illegal immigrants – the health care, education, and social services needed for them.  We worry about the jobs they will be taking from legal citizens.  And we worry about our capacity for compassion – I have heard many argue that we cannot save every child in the world by welcoming them here.  All of those fears are valid.  And so we draw boundaries, we put up limits, and we say no.  We make choices that shape our experience as Americans.  And like the bridesmaids with extra oil, our decisions could probably be labeled as wise.

Although that wisdom is usually praiseworthy, and is clearly praised in our lesson today, for some reason, that wisdom does not sit well with me this week.  Instead, I have found myself wondering what other choices the three characters in this story could have made. [iii]  The foolish bridesmaids could have simply chosen to stay.  Sure, they would have had to risk being in the dark for a while, and leaning into the light of others.  They may even have had to plead their case with the groom once he arrived.  But at least they would have been there.  They could have stayed.  Staying would have been scary and made them vulnerable.  But they could have chosen to stay.  Meanwhile, the wise bridesmaids could have chosen to either share their oil, or stand side-by-side with the foolish ones, letting their light shine the way for both of them.  Sure, they were within their right to refuse.  They are the ones who thought ahead and did the right thing.  But they could have chosen another way.  They could have chosen to share their abundance with the foolish.  The bridegroom had a choice too.  The groom had every right to refuse entry to the foolish maids – based on what he knew, they were late and unprepared.  He had no obligation to let in people to his celebration who do not care enough about him to be prepared to wait for him.  But the groom could have chosen to let them in anyway.  He could have chosen gracious hospitality, even to the undeserving maids.

I recently had a conversation with another parent about creating healthy eating habits for children.  She was explaining to me a philosophy in which parents let children guide their own eating choices.  So instead of serving children the healthy food first and then bringing out the dessert, the parent is to put everything out on the table and allow the child to serve themselves.  The argument is that through experience, the child will eventually learn that loading up a plate with dessert leaves the child unsatisfied, if not sick.  Over time, the child will learn what foods make her feel good, what portions she needs to feel full, and how to plan her plate accordingly.  Truthfully the idea sounded crazy to me – like some hippy, permissive parenting that would lead to malnourished, unruly children and wasted healthy food.  But then again, I tend to choose a world guided by structure and order imposed from an authority.  This parent was suggesting a different kind of world guided by trust, that makes room for growth through mistakes, and that leads by example.

That is the funny thing about choices.  Our choices shape our world.  Most people read today’s gospel and think:  Okay, the moral of the story is to choose preparedness and alertness and when Jesus returns, we will be ready.  But instead, the moral of this story might be that the choices that we make shape our world – and our choices may not be as obvious as we think.  So yes, we can choose to live lives with strict boundaries and rules, lives that are guarded and have limits, and lives that are grounded in consequences.  We can also choose to live lives that are grounded in forgiveness, that make room for mistakes, and that make us uncomfortable, but also make room for joy.  Sometimes those choices will be obvious: when we actively decide to forgive someone who has wronged us or when we purposefully decide to share our resources even though the other does not deserve our generosity.  But sometimes the choices will not be so obvious:  when we commit to a new ministry, even if we are not sure where that ministry will take us or what that ministry will demand of us; when we choose to give up some of our disposable income to support the work of this church, even if we are not sure we can spare the money; or when we give up some of our family’s outside commitments so that we can be more present in the life and work of the church.  Those choices demand sacrifice, vulnerability, and work.  But those choices might also be the choices that make someone say at our funeral, “He loved the Lord, he loved the church, and he boldly lived a life of trust and abundance.  And look where his life led.”  Amen.

[i] Anthony B. Robinson, “Choices that Matter,” Christian Century, vol. 110, no. 29, October 20, 1993, 1011.

[ii] John M. Buchanan, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 286.

[iii] David R. Henson, “The Breaking of the Bridesmaids: Rethinking a Problematic Parable” as found at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/davidhenson/2014/11/the-breaking-of-the-bridesmaids-how-scripture-undermines-a-parable/ as posted on November 3, 2014.

Homily – Ephesians 3.14-21, Phillips Brooks, January 23, 2014

12 Wednesday Feb 2014

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We all have someone in our lives who has brought us a little closer to God.  Maybe it was an outstanding preacher, who opened up a connection between your everyday life and Holy Scripture.  Maybe it was a friend who always could see God moving in the midst of everyday events.  Maybe it was a public figure who seemed to live the life of faith in ways we can only dream to do.  For me, it was my Old Testament professor in seminary.  To be honest, I never really liked the Old Testament; I found it to be full of violence, an unfamiliar God, or even just books that were hard or cumbersome to read.  But then I had this professor, who seemed to come alive with every word in the Old Testament.  She overflowed with passion, joy, insight, and light.  She opened up the Hebrew text in ways I had never understood and made me fall in love with a set of books I had written off as irrelevant.

In some ways, Phillips Brooks, who we honor today, offered that same insight to others of his time.  Born in 1835, Brooks served as a priest in Philadelphia and Boston.  He was a dynamic preacher – in fact, he is often called the greatest preacher of the century.  Though his sermons are engaging to read, many say they don’t capture the warmth and vitality of his delivery – in fact, many say that he spoke to his audience as a person might speak to a friend.  Brooks inspired men to enter the ministry, and was able to appeal to conservatives and liberals alike.  In 1891, he was elected bishop of Massachusetts.  His personality and preaching, along with his deep devotion and loyalty, gave that diocese the spiritual leadership they needed.

The joy for God that Brooks seemed to have sounds a lot like Paul in our epistle lesson today.  Paul says, “I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.”  What Paul wanted for the Ephesians is the same thing that Brooks wanted for the people of Massachusetts and my seminary professor wanted for that community – a taste of the love, grace, and abundance that can be found in our God.

Perhaps you already know this experience of God.  But if you are looking to reconnect with that experience or find that kind of experience with God for the first time, I invite you to take a look at the people God has already placed around you.  One of them, maybe even a stranger for now, is present already to show you the enormity of love that comes from the Lord our God.  Amen.

Homily – Ezekiel 34:22-31, Paul Sasaki and Philip Tsen, October 31, 2013

06 Wednesday Nov 2013

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Today we honor Paul Sasaki and Philip Tsen, bishops in Japan and China in the mid-1900s.  Bishop Sasaki, from Japan, was persecuted and imprisoned for his support of the independence of the Anglican Church during Word War II.  Missionaries from the Episcopal Church first came to the area in 1859; it was the first church in the Anglican Communion not composed primarily of British expatriates.  The Episcopal Church there elected its first bishops in 1923.  But when WWII came, with Japan opposing the West, the Japanese government ordered all Christians into a “united church.”  Bishop Sasaki refused to be merged, and inspired most of the church to stay together and faithful to their Anglican heritage.  Bishop Sasaki was tortured and imprisoned for his actions, but his witness rallied the church after the war.

Bishop Tsen was raised by Episcopal Church missionaries.  After his ordination, he worked closely with Canadian missionaries in China.  During the Sino-Japanese War, he worked to sustain the people of his area, eventually becoming the leader of the Chinese Anglican Church.  But upon his return from the 1948 Lambeth Conference, he was put under house arrest by the Communist authorities.

When I was in Burma, learning about the Episcopal Church there, I sometimes wondered how they did it – and honestly, why they chose their path.  Their lives would be so much easier if not for the Christian identity.  They could earn more money, avoid persecution, stay out of the watchful eye of the government.  I wonder if Bishop Sasaki or Bishop Tsen did not feel the same way at times.  Though we often encourage standing up for our beliefs, the path of least resistance would certainly be easier.  Surely, we have all had even some small instances when we have either caved or wanted to cave when faced with ethical challenges to our faith.  We knew what we should have done, but the path of least resistance was just too easy.

I think the way Bishops Sasaki and Tsen overcame those challenges was by believing in the promise of Holy Scripture.  We hear the words of promise in Ezekiel today.  God promises a shepherd, security, rains for produce, abundant yield, freedom from invasion, release from poverty and hunger.  These must have been words of promise for these bishops in tumultuous times.

These are words for us in tumultuous times, too.  Whenever we are feeling overwhelmed by the powers of evil or are feeling tempted to take an easy way over what feels like the hard way – Ezekiel reminds us that the way of God is full of abundant promise.  That kind of promise is the kind of promise we can lean on, no matter how hard something is – for we are the sheep of God’s promise, and the LORD God is our God.  Amen.