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Sermon – Exodus 32.7-14, P19, YC, September 14, 2025

24 Wednesday Sep 2025

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This week Hickory Neck hosted a group from St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Powatan.  The group has been touring historic churches, gleaning lessons from each church’s stories, and asked if they could come do the same with us.  I told Hickory Neck’s story – from a newly constructed country church, to the act of siding with the British and closing altogether after the Revolutionary Way, to being a school for generations of children, to being a hospital for physical healing, to being ransacked by militias in multiple wars – where even the pulpit was used as firewood, to finally hosting a worshiping community just over 100 years ago, to now, being situated on 12 times the amount of property we originally had, hosting three buildings and a vibrant community of faith.

As I fielded questions from the group, I reflected on how as I have prayed in those wooden pews, as I have brushed my hand over those bricks with initials carved in them, and as I have stepped over a tombstone every time I enter that historic building, I find myself wondering about the stories of countless souls who have graced that building.  I know the more recent stories – of children in window wells, and people crowded around the altar for seating, and even of decisions like the one to build a new chapel so we have room to grow.  But I wonder about the stories of those who first opened the church who awaited who might show up that first Sunday of business.  I wonder about the grief experienced by those who watched their worship space become something else – or for those kids who grew up to tell tales like “when I was young, that didn’t used to be a church…”  I wonder about those who, for over 60 years never imagined anything for Hickory Neck other than being a little family-sized church, to those who worried a new building would mean the loss of intimacy the historic church provided.

As I pondered those various voices, imagined the myriad emotions of almost three hundred years experienced on this property, contemplated how those histories impacted spiritual relationships with God, I could not help but recall another group of followers of God – the Hebrews we read about in our lesson from Exodus today.  Those folks had been on a long journey too.  Their ancestor Abraham had journeyed to a foreign land and been promised countless descendants.  After his own dramatic journey, his descendants ended up in Egypt to escape a time of famine.  The rescuing by his son Joseph evolved into slavery under a new pharaoh.  After deaths and suffering, a reluctant prophet, Moses was sent.  Then came plagues, a mass exodus, a chase that led to drowning of the enemy, and a long journey in the wilderness.  But despite centuries of God’s faithfulness, the people lose their hope again and cling to something tangible – an idol – to soothe their anxiety. 

Now the part of that story we get today is interesting – I mean, who doesn’t have questions about the idea of God changing God’s mind, of God being so enraged by the infidelity of God’s people that God would destroy them entirely, of Moses slyly arguing with God, reminding God of how appearances matter (Does God want the Egyptians to see God destroy the very people God liberated?), of how God’s action of rage would negate the promise God made to Abraham, of whose people the Hebrews are (with God and Moses sounding like two arguing parents – your people have sinned…I think you mean your people with whom you made a covenant!). 

But what is more interesting to me is the greater arc.  Reading Genesis and Exodus is like reading a soap opera.  Journeys and betrayals, covenants and falls from grace, destruction and rebuilding, promises made and promises broken.  In the greater arc of that saga is a truth:  God’s faithfulness.  Over and over and over again, God’s faithfulness wins the day.  Theologians have read this passage from Exodus, and become anxious about the implications of a God that can change God’s mind.  If God’s mind can change, does that somehow make what we know about God inconsistent?  Danish Christian philosopher Søren Kierkegaard addresses this very issue.  Kierkegaard describes God as, “You Changeless One … You who are changeless in love, who just for our own good do not let yourself change.”[i]  In other words, “To say that God can be changed is not to suggest that God’s love for the world can be changed, but simply to say that there is no part of the world, no matter how meaningless to us, that is not of importance to God.”[ii]

As I think about the chaos of these days – of the unchecked shootings of children, political activists, and everyday people doing everyday things; of the demonizing of anyone who does not think like we do; of the disregard for the dignity of other human beings – I can empathize with a sinful people who would make an idol to have some tangible sense of comfort.  But this week, as I thought about the soap opera of our ancestors in Genesis and Exodus, and as I imagined the varied journey of our ancestors at Hickory Neck, I found myself overwhelmed with the faithfulness of our God – of the Changeless One who is changeless in love.    

I do not know what part of the world’s chaos is tugging at your anxiety or your temptation to craft an idol – perhaps an idol of money, power, popularity, and fame.[iii]  Whatever that force that is tugging at you, pastor Catherine Young reminds us that the interaction between Moses and God today is an invitation to remember that, “We can converse – even argue – with God.  The irony-filled dialogue between Moses and God shows that God has a sense of humor and appreciates ours.  More than our piety, God wants our honesty and candor.  God calls us to talk, listen, wrestle with our emotions, and be honest about our problems.  Those direct interactions change us…and sometimes they even change the mind of God!”[iv]  What they do not change though is God’s changelessness – God’s changeless love for God’s people in ancient days, in American history, and in our own day.  You Changeless One … You who are changeless in love, who just for our own good do not let yourself change.  Amen.

[i] Søren Kierkegaard “The Changelessness of God,” found in the collection of Kierkegaard writings, The Moment and Late Writings, eds. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong, Princeton University Press, 1998, p. 268.

[ii] Michael Fitzpatrick, “The Lord’s Mind was Changed,” September 4, 2022, as found at https://journeywithjesus.net/essays/3442-the-lord-s-mind-was-changed on September 12, 2025.

[iii] Catherine E. Young, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Supplemental Essays (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 3.

[iv] Young, 5.

Sermon – Luke 5.1-11, EP5, YC, February 9, 2025

12 Wednesday Feb 2025

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On occasions of big life milestones, we tend to be a people who like to offer sage advice.  Whether the advice is about how to approach retirement after decades of work, how to handle parenting to a first-time parent, how to manage marriage, how to navigate divorce, or, like today, how to approach full membership in the body of Christ through the act of baptism.  As parents and godparents tentatively offer their children to the Church, in turn, we as a community offer advice and counsel – sometimes formally through things like the baptismal covenant, and sometimes informally over coffee and cake from our own lived experiences.

As I was reading our gospel lesson this week, I was thinking about one of those loved bits of wisdom that often comes up in the life of the Church.  I cannot tell you the number of times I have heard a parishioner say to me, “You know what they say the definition of insanity is, Jennifer?  Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”  Sometimes, when we just cannot get some momentum to overcome a problem at church, I find myself doing an “insanity check” because of that old adage.  So, imagine my surprise when I read today’s gospel and hear Jesus basically asking the disciples to do the exact opposite of what that bit of wisdom suggests about how doing the same thing over and over again never leads to meaningful change. 

Here we are, meeting Simon, James, and John in Luke’s gospel for the first time.  These career fishermen have had a rough day on the job.  They have been out on the water all night long, using all their normal tricks, fishing in all the right spots, and have come to shore, exhausted, disappointed, and likely more than a bit irritated to have nothing to show for their labor.  Into this despondency and frustration, this guy, Jesus, inserts himself and basically says the complete opposite of what that old saying says about doing the same thing over and over.  Jesus says to the soon-to-be disciples, “Go back and fish again.”  To weary, disheartened men, who have just spent all night doing this work, Jesus says, “Do the work again.” 

We do not know why Peter agrees.  But we do know the feeling Peter describes when he basically tells Jesus this is a terrible idea.  We may not be fishermen, but we know “what it’s like to work really hard at something that matters, and have nothing to show for [our] efforts when [we’re] done.  …I imagine we all know what’s it’s like to pour ourselves into a job, a relationship, a ministry, a dream — and come away exhausted, frustrated, thwarted, and done.”[i]  For that matter, after the last month we may be having those feelings right now.  Whether we are weary from watching the chaos and upheaval of these first few weeks of a new administration, or we are weary from having big conversations about church, we know how resistant we would be if Jesus were to tell us, “Just go back out into the world (or to Hickory Neck) and keep doing the same thing!”

But here is the thing:  Jesus doesn’t actually ask Peter to keep doing the same thing.  Though the physical action Jesus is suggesting is the same, something dramatic changes in the scene.  Yes, Peter, James, and John, are using the same nets, in the same waters, in the same location, using all their same gifts.  But this time, this time the text tells us that Jesus gets in the boat with them.  Jesus does not shout from the shore what the disciples should do.  Jesus gets on that weary boat with them, and heads out into the deep, trouble waters with them.  As scholar Debie Thomas says, “This is a promise to cultivate us, not to sever us from what we love.  It’s a promise rooted in gentleness and respect — not violence and coercion.  It’s a promise that when we dare to ‘go deep,’ to do what we know and love with Jesus at our side, God will enliven our efforts in ways we couldn’t have imagined on our own.”[ii]

As I have been looking at the chaos in the political sphere right now, and even as I have been looking at pretty big changes at Hickory Neck, I have been wondering if Jesus’ only words of encouragement are going to be, “Just get back out in the deep waters and keep doing the good work of the Gospel.”  Because lately that has just felt more like “insanity work.”  Instead, what our gospel lesson tells us that when we get back to the work Jesus has given us to do, knowing that Jesus is in the boat with us, it means not only will we not get the same results, we are going to be surprised with abundance.  Now, I’m not saying you have to accept the promise of abundance enthusiastically.  Even Peter protests and then acquiesces half-heartedly.  “Yet if you say so, I will,” Peter tepidly commits.  So Debie Thomas tells us we can commit too.  “Yet if you say so, I will try again.  Yet if you say so, I will be faithful to my vocation.  Yet if you say so, I will go deep rather than remain in the shallows.  Yet if you say so, I will trust that your presence in the boat is more precious than any guarantee of success.  Yet if you say so, I will cast my empty net into the water, and look with hope for your kingdom to come.”[iii]

When we baptize little Arthur today, and we decide what bit of wisdom we want to pass along to him, forget about that whole “insanity” advice.  Maybe instead, our advice can be something more akin to our gospel.  We can tell him, “Sometimes Jesus is going to invite you to do some crazy stuff – to do something that you are certain will lead to the same old results.  But just remember, Jesus does not send without getting in the boat with you.  Jesus does not send you without empowering you to do the work.  Jesus does not send you without the promise that abundance will come.”  Our invitation today is to not to just give the advice to little Arthur – but to hear and embrace the advice for ourselves too.  Amen.

[i] Debie Thomas, “Same Old Same Old,” February 3, 2019 as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/2075-same-old-same-old on February 7, 2025.

[ii] Thomas.

[iii] Thomas.

Sermon – John 6.35, 41-51, P14, YB, August 11, 2024

28 Wednesday Aug 2024

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One of the components of our leadership training in Vestry is to talk about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.  If you’re not familiar with his model, Maslow presents a pyramid of needs.  At the bottom are the physiological needs:  food, water, shelter, etc.  The next level of need is safety or security:  this would include health, employment, and social support.  The third level up the pyramid is love and belonging:  this entails friendship, family, intimacy, connection.  The fourth level is self-esteem:  including confidence, achievement, and respect.  And the final level, the tip of that pyramid is self-actualization:  creativity, a sense of purpose and meaning, and acceptance happen here.  The idea is, you cannot work on someone’s sense of purpose or meaning – the top of the pyramid, or even their sense of achievement and confidence without first meeting their basic needs at the base of the pyramid.  The same is true in the church.[i]  If we want to have excellent programming and ministry, where people are successfully naming and living into their vocations, we first have to make sure that we are a church who is in accordance with the canons of the Episcopal Church, that our property is safely maintained, that people feel welcome and cared for, before we think about people feeling proud about their church and helping their church thrive.  For Vestry members, when we are initiating change, we must be sure the hierarchy of needs has been met before we act.

Neal Mitchell tells a story of church who struggled with that sense of pacing with change.  There was a pastor who decided that the piano was not in the ultimate location in the sanctuary, so one week, he just moved it to the other side.  You would have thought he sacrificed a baby on the altar for the blowback he got.  He stirred such a commotion with his unilateral change that he eventually left the church and took another job.  Years and years later, that same pastor came back to the church for an anniversary celebration.  When he walked in the sanctuary, he immediately saw that the piano was in the location he always wanted but the church had refused to allow in his tenure.  After the worship service, he quietly asked the current pastor, “How in the world did you get them to move the piano over to that side of the worship space?!?”  The newer pastor said, “Oh, that.  Yeah, I just moved the piano an inch at a time.  No one even balked with the piano landed in the current position.”[ii] 

In John’s gospel today, Jesus in right in the middle of a lesson about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.  We are in the third week of what is called the Bread of Life Discourse.  To the casual reader, you may be thinking, “Didn’t we just talk about the bread of life last week?”  And you wouldn’t be wrong.  We are in the middle of talking about the bread of life for five weeks.  But the text may not be as repetitive as the text feels.  You see, Jesus has been walking us through a hierarchy of needs.  First, we had that feeding of the five thousand.  Jesus starts by attending to the people’s immediate need – food.  You can’t share the love of Christ if your belly is growling with hunger.  Next, the conversation goes back to their history – when God provided manna in the wilderness – in other words, when God didn’t just tend today’s hunger, but worked on the need of security – of daily bread.  There God tended to the second level of need.  Today, Jesus is talking not about today’s bread, or even daily bread.  Jesus is talking about the bread of life – the bread that will sustain us for eternity – the feeding of our souls, not just our bodies.  This kind of bread means relationship, intimacy, care, and empowerment.[iii]  

This week, I experienced another week of Vacation Bible School – this time through one of our ecumenical partners in town.  Over the course of two weeks of VBS, one of the common conversations I have had with church members here, there, and with the other Williamsburg Episcopal Churches was a reflection about how although families find their way to church through a program like VBS, the next step of coming to church regularly is more difficult to inspire.  Now there is a lot wrapped up in that pondering, but at the heart of that reflection, particularly by longtime churchgoers is an understanding that they have found something deeply meaningful and lifegiving at church and they want to share that soul sustenance – that bread of life – with folks who do not have that same sustenance. 

I think that is what Jesus is trying to help us see today.  We are certainly called to be a community of food.  Lord knows Jesus did that all the time – feeding masses of people, tending to their health needs, helping lift up the poor.  And, Jesus was also about feeding souls – helping people find relationship, belonging, soul-nourishing, and that sense of purpose in the kingdom.  We consume the bread of life here every week not because the bread tastes all that particularly good or because that bread fills our stomachs (certainly not like Coffee Hour does).  We consume that bread of life because that taste, that lingering feeling of a melting wafer moving down our throats, is a balm of belonging, of purpose, of entrance into the eternal.  We are very good at describing our welcoming community here at Hickory Neck or our awesome children’s formation program or our incredible service to the community.  But what Jesus is inviting us into this week is vulnerable conversations with others about our deep-soul needs that God fills every week in this place.  Those kinds of conversations are tricky while standing at the bus stop with our kids, or while waiting in line at the grocery story, or while running into someone at the gas station.  But those are the conversations that move pianos and move hearts – conversations that name the deep, hidden longing for the eternal that we all have.  Jesus invites us to feed others today, to tend to others’ daily bread, and to share the bread of life:  to share the deepest gift of the Church with a hungry world.  Amen. 

[i] Idea explored by Matt Skinner in Sermon Brainwave Podcast, “#977: Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost (Ord. 19B) – Aug. 11, 2024,” August 4, 2024, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/977-twelfth-sunday-after-pentecost-ord-19b-aug-11-2024 on August 7, 2024.

[ii] Neal O. Michell, How to Hit the Ground Running (New York:  Church Publishing, 2005), 51-58.

[iii] Idea explored by Karoline Lewis in aforementioned podcast.

Sermon – Mark 6.1-13, P9, YB, July 7, 2024

17 Wednesday Jul 2024

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I realized recently that one of things I often say when I am asked how my family is doing is to offer a halfhearted compliment, “Everyone is staying in their lane.”   I think I started adopting that minimum standard, “staying in your lane,” because I have learned over the years how little control I have as a parent.  I may not be able to control what things my kids are interested in, I may not be able to control how well they perform in school, and I may not be able to control how they handle interpersonal relationships.  But if each family member is “staying in their lane,” then that means I have at least controlled their meddling with one another, their active misbehavior, or their making a scene anywhere else. 

That is what seems to be bothering the folks in Jesus’ hometown of Nazareth – Jesus is not staying in his lane.  At the beginning, there seems to be a modicum of respect for what Jesus is teaching in the synagogue – they compliment the wisdom he seems to have gained and the healing acts he has performed.  But the compliments end there.  Then the questions begin.  Where did he get this wisdom?  Isn’t he the carpenter’s son?  Isn’t he the son of Mary – a question dripping with criticism, as you would usually only refer to someone’s parentage through the father, not the mother.[i]  In other words, the people of Jesus’ hometown are basically saying, “Stay in your lane, Jesus!”

Passages like this can be so tempting for us.  We read about Jesus’ hometown and think, “Those silly folks from Nazareth!  They cannot see what God is doing right in front of them!”  As if “those” people and finger pointing is what the gospel calls for.  But when we start wagging our fingers at “those” people, we forget one kernel of truth about scripture:  we are always “those” people.”  Anytime something someone does in scripture makes us uncomfortable or sanctimonious, scripture is speaking straight to “us” not “those people.”  So, the people of Nazareth aren’t the only ones telling Jesus to stay in his lane.  We tell that to Jesus all the time.  When the Holy Spirit is calling us try a new ministry that feels daunting, we are tempted to tell Jesus to stay in his lane and let us do things our way.  When Jesus puts people in our lives that push us out of our comfort zones, we grumble to Jesus to stay in his lane and stop sending us prophets – I mean, annoying people.  When we hear that still, quiet voice speaking truth to us in places we like to keep in a box, we cut Jesus some nasty side-eye and tell Jesus to stay in his lane.

But as scholar Debie Thomas says, “The call of the Gospel is not a call to stand still.  It is a call to choose movement over stasis, change over security, growth over decay.”[ii]  Just last Sunday, we started a movie series about changemakers.  Last week, the film was The Philadelphia Eleven, the story of the unsanctioned ordination of the first eleven women in the Episcopal Church.  The vitriol of the bishops, clergy, and lay people who were opposed to those women’s ordination was shocking to the ears.  From the clergy person who stated with confidence, “Women can be anything they want – except a priest in God’s holy church.”  From the woman who lamented the ways those women had violated what God calls women to be and do in the world.  To the bishops held a public, scathing trial of the three male bishops who dared to ordain the first eleven.  The Philadelphia Eleven had waited time after time for the Episcopal Church to change – to chose growth, change, and movement instead of decay, security, and stasis.  And when the church refused to let these women out of their lane, the stepped out of their lane anyway.

Scholar Thomas concludes, “The scandal of the Incarnation is precisely that Jesus doesn’t stay in his lane.  God doesn’t limit God’s self to our small and stingy notions of the sacred.  God exceeds, God abounds, God transgresses, God transcends.  The lowly carpenter reveals himself as Lord.  The guy with the tainted birth story offers us salvation.  The hometown prophet tells us truths we’d rather not hear… [Jesus] will call out to us, nevertheless, daring us always to see and experience him anew.”[iii]  Our invitation today is let Jesus out of his lane in our life:  to not hold his lane as sacred, and to open ourselves to the ways his transgression of lanes is helping us to experience Jesus in new and fresh ways.  Maybe we do that in weekly worship, opening ourselves through song, prayer, and scripture to fresh experiences of God.  Maybe we come to the film series or Bible study this summer to see where God is exceeding, abounding, transgressing, and transcending.  Or maybe we let go of whatever boundary we are holding here at Hickory Neck to see what happens when we ask Jesus to please cross out of his lane.  The promise for us is a fresh experience of Jesus in our own day, time, and place.  Amen.

[i] Efrain Agosto, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 215.

[ii] Debie Thomas, “Hometown Prophets,” June 27, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/3058-hometown-prophets on July 5, 2024.

[iii] Thomas.

Of the Mind and of the Heart…

15 Friday Mar 2024

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Photo credit: https://www.everypixel.com/image-8567765057447502976

A couple of weekends ago, my husband and I found ourselves kids-free, walking the local downtown area.  As we strolled along, we observed other families – parents pushing strollers, parents supervising kids learning to ride their bicycles, parents pausing family walking for educational moments.  Watching the other families brought back a flood of memories of those stages of our lives – the fond, endearing moments as well as those moments when we felt like we might crack.  But what was not familiar was what we were experiencing that day:  the children having plans of their own, making choices to be with friends over being with their parents.

My husband and I used to work with families at our church who were going through those very changes:  the phase of life where the children’s primary influence shifts from parents to peers.  It is a good and natural phase, but one we observed was much harder for parents than for the children.  But teaching and knowing something is quite different from experiencing something – from watching your own children do the very thing you have taught other parents about.  That moment is the clarity that comes from taking an academic subject and having it become a very real, emotional subject.  Suddenly, I could see the future of the relationships with our children in a much more tangible way.  And there was some sadness, some joy, and lots of somethings in between.

As we make our way past the halfway mark of Lent and we see the approaching journey of Holy Week, I have been thinking a lot about the learned experience of faith and the felt experience of faith.  Often we Episcopalians are creatures of the mind – studying repentance and forgiveness, participating in liturgies that shape the penitential nature of Lent, and even talking to others to learn about their Lenten experiences.  But knowing about Lent can be quite different from living Lent – facing all those things we preferred to keep in the “academic” box and instead having to move them into the “lived” box. 

My prayer for you as your Lenten journey approaches the climax of Holy Week and Easter is that you let yourself feel all of it.  My prayer is that you allow that much more vulnerable version of yourself to gather next to Jesus and keep walking forward – as the imperfect person you are, accompanied by the perfection of the Savior who makes this journey possible.  I look forward to hearing how letting down those walls of self-protection and letting in the grace, love, and forgiveness of God shapes these last days of Lent.  Know that I walk with you!

On Celebrating Life, Death, and Movies…

04 Wednesday Oct 2023

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Photo credit: https://www.cnn.com/2023/09/28/tech/netflix-dvd-rental-movies-ending/index.html

Well, it finally happened.  Netflix’s DVD business closed last Friday.  Now I recognize that acknowledging I still received DVDs from Netflix may make me seem old-fashioned.  Even a contemporary exclaimed recently, “Do people even have the equipment to play DVDs anymore?!?”  I took a good ribbing, but the truth is I love movies, and Netflix’s DVD business allowed me to watch movies that were not available via streaming services.  I was constantly finding new gems, and still had over 100 movies in my queue that I hoped to watch some day.

For those of us old-timers still watching DVDs, the closing of Netflix’s DVD branch has been tinged with nostalgia and a tiny bit of grief.  Over the course of 18 years, I watched 667 films, each story sparking my imagination, eliciting pleasure, sorrow, excitement, indignation, laughter, and hope.  Obviously there will be other ways for me to revel in the artistry of filmmaking, but there is a certain finality to the closing of this chapter. 

Despite my wistfulness, I commend Netflix for the way they have handled this change.  Instead of wallowing in grief, or attempting to apologize for market changes beyond their control, instead, they have handled this “death” with grace and joy.  Knowing the closing was coming, this year they used their iconic mailing envelopes to feature celebratory artwork honoring how a whole generation has been shaped by their service.  On the week of their closure, the sent a “gift” to every member – a summary of the highlights of our membership – what movies we had watched each year, milestones in our membership, and even the list of movies in our queue in case we want to find another way to see them.  Instead of a death, it has felt like a celebration of life.

In a lot of ways, it has reminded me of the ways the Episcopal Church approaches death.  When someone we love passes, we use the burial office to celebrate life – certainly the life of the one who has died, but especially the promise of eternal life promised in Jesus Christ.  But I’ve been thinking about it over this last week, and the Church honors “mini-deaths” all the time:  the ending of a ministry that is no longer needed or effectively utilized, the retirement of a ministry leader after a successful tenure, or the blessing of a parishioner or staff member who moves away from the community.  All those transitions can be hard because they make us remember fondly the ways ministry blessed us in the past.  But those transitions are also often the source of new life:  a new ministry we could never have imagined five years ago, a new leader whose fresh ideas opens up new opportunities, and new members who shape and mold us into a new community.

I wonder what things feel like they are dying in your life right now – what things you thought would always be there are undergoing change.  Where might the Holy Spirit be inviting you to see new shoots of growth in the midst of something withering on the vine?  How might those “mini-deaths,” be tremendous gifts to you or your community?  How might we take a cue from Netflix, and find ways to celebrate those endings with dignity and joy?  I am grateful for the ways a secular business is helping me see the sacred in our own life cycles.  Let’s celebrate together!

How long, O LORD?

25 Wednesday May 2022

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Photo credit: https://www.kcrg.com/2021/11/08/prayer-vigil-planned-fairfield-high-school-spanish-teacher-found-dead/

Early this morning, I put my middle schooler on a bus.  She still lets me take her to the bus stop (as long as I stay in the car).  Everyday I pray as the 20 kids board the bus that they will be kind to one another and to themselves.  They are long-time experts in active shooter drills.  We acknowledge them, but I tend to minimize them because their normalcy breaks my heart. 

Later this morning, I put my second grader on a bus.  We still hold hands on the walk to the stop, she still plays with her classmates once we arrive.  Almost 30 kids board the bus everyday – from tiny kindergarteners to lanky fifth graders.  She is becoming an expert in active shooter drills too.  But because she is the age of some children who were shot to death yesterday in Texas, I couldn’t help calculating that the number of kids who didn’t come home last night in Uvalde was about 2/3 of the children on our bus.  I kept thinking about how sad my second grader is for school to be ending soon because she loves her teacher so much – and how traumatized my daughter would be if her teacher had died shielding my daughter and her classmates.  The more I picture standing outside that school waiting for news of my child’s fate, the closer I feel to crumbling in sobs of grief.

Yesterday, I did what we always do after a tragedy.  I quoted scripture on social media in the wake of the news.  “How long, O LORD, must I call for help? But you do not listen!  ‘Violence is everywhere!’ I cry, but you do not come to save.” (Habakkuk 1.2)  This morning as the bus pulled away, those words echoed in my ears, “How long, O LORD?” 

The response from God was stark, “I don’t know.  You tell me!”  I cried out to God yesterday and this morning for help to end this awful system of violence. In response, God reminded me I am God’s feet and hands in this world.  If I want the violence to stop, I can and should certainly pray.  But my prayer must in part be a prayer to summon political courage to actually do something.  And not just for me, but for all of us – those who would have us get rid of every gun in this country and those who would fight to the death for their guns – and everyone in between.  This problem is for all of us.  We are all to blame for massive shootings.  How?  Because in doing nothing, in finding no common ground at all, we are simply praying until the next massive shooting happens.  Whether you need to imagine your own children or your own childhood teacher in the faces of those who have died, allow the utter sorrow and pain to pierce your soul today so that tomorrow you do something – anything – to make a change.  And if you really want to make an impact, find someone whose opinion on gun control is different from yours and start talking about what you can do together to make a change.  That’s my prayer for us today.  That we start answering the question, “How long?” with “I change it today with you.”

On Being Tended in the Wilderness…

17 Wednesday Mar 2021

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Photo credit: https://www.markmallett.com/blog/the-desert-path/

This Sunday our church will regather in our building for the second time during this pandemic.  We will be masked, socially distanced, and observing all kinds of safety regulations.  In many ways it will not be the same.  The crowd will be much smaller than normal, we will not be able to hug or slide into a seat next to a dear friend (or soon-to-be friend).  We will not be able to sing, or kneel at the altar, or linger for conversation and coffee. 

But we will be back in a space so sacred that simply sitting in the chairs will bring a flood of memories and emotions.  We will be with people who have suffered through a long, hard year, just like us, and who are just as overwhelmed with gratitude as we are.  We will engage all the senses in worship:  hearing the word and music, seeing familiar and new sights, touching chairs we have not sat in for months, smelling the spring air floating across the room, and tasting the distinctive taste of a communion wafer. 

Five weeks ago, when we read the story of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness at the beginning of Lent, I am not sure we fully understood Jesus’ experience.  We certainly have a whole new appreciation for the literal experience of wilderness – the deprivation, separation, and desperation.  But I am not sure we have ever fully understood what it means to be tended by angels and to reenter society.  For me, I always thought of Jesus having gone through an ordeal, but essentially leaving the wilderness the same, albeit a bit stronger, person.  But having just marked the one-year anniversary of this pandemic, I am now keenly aware that no one who enters the wilderness ever exits the wilderness the same person. 

Similarly, though I am thrilled to see some of my people on Sunday, and I am honored to offer angelic-like care after a year of suffering, I know that when we finally exit this pandemic, we will be changed community.  We will be a community with an increased capacity for empathy and justice.  We will be community who is not just open to experimentation and creativity, but who demands the kind of nimbleness that will always keep us open to the movement of the Spirit.  We will be a community who is less married to our buildings and more married to creating sacred spaces wherever we find them – online, in homes, in the community just outside our property.  We will be a community who knows all the goodness we have found inside this church community does not belong inside our community, but outside in the world with those who need it.  As we gather in this hybrid time, we are not returning to who we were.  We are pausing in the wilderness to be tended by the angels.  And then, slowly but surely, we will walk unknown paths together, a stronger, nimbler, more faithful community.   

On New Year Hope…

06 Wednesday Jan 2021

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Photo credit: https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/hope-and-caution-during-infertility-treatment-2019102818130

I remember when the year 1999 rolled over into 2000.  It was a time a great hubbub.  There was a sense of enormity about the transition.  Prince’s song 1999 experienced a revival, most of the world was worried about the ability of our technology to transition to Y2K, and many feared there would be some sort of cosmological event.  As the minutes rolled down to seconds, there was a collective intake of breath that we held until the clocks moved to midnight.  In the end, the transition was fairly uneventful.  Technology kept functioning, no big events happened, and most of us realized it was just another New Year’s. 

I have felt a similar incongruence this New Year’s.  Having had such a tumultuous year – between the pandemic, civil unrest, and political upheaval – I think many of us had begun to believe that once we turned the calendar from 2020 to 2021, things would be better.  The virus spread would slow as vaccines were promisingly being rolled out and we would finally be able to turn our energy from crisis mode to dealing with long-term issues like race.  And we might even begin to see some political stability.  If we could just get 2020 to close, all would be well. 

But these first days of 2021 have felt a little like the first days of 2000.  Not much has changed.  Instead of feeling like the change in calendar year has made everything better, we are left with the reality that we are still in the same situation.  In fact, things are going to get worse before they get better, which is almost incomprehensible.    

As that reality has sunken in these last few days, I see two invitations before us.  The first invitation is to take a deep, steadying breath.  This is not a loud, exasperated sigh, but a calming, strengthening breath – a breathing in of the Holy Spirit as we face the continuation of this season.  The second invitation is to take a moment to reflect on all the coping mechanisms we have developed in these last ten months – whether it has been operating in a new way (like livestreaming worship, zooming formation, or drive-thru connection events), whether it has been making space for community when we feel isolated (like sending mail, emails, and texts to fellow parishioners, hosting far-flung friends on Zoom calls just for fun, or taking socially distanced walks with others), or whether it has been discovering pleasant surprises (like the new people who have connected to your community even when your doors are closed, the hilarity that can ensue with virtual Epiphany pageants, or the blessings of a property that can lead to things like an outdoor labyrinth).  I know these last months have felt overwhelmingly disastrous at times.  But taking some breaths and looking at the goodness that has happened in the mess is what is giving me hope and fortitude for this next year.  My prayer is that you might find that same hope today too!

Sermon – Matthew 26.14- 27.66, PS, YA, April 5, 2020

08 Wednesday Apr 2020

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There is a meme that has been circulating that reads, “This Lent is the Lent-iest Lent I’ve ever Lented.”  Of course, the grammar is intentionally ridiculous, but the meme had the effect of making me want to laugh and cry all at the same time.  Lent is usually when we craft a time of sacrifice and abstinence – a time of purposeful withdrawal from comfort to help us ascetically come closer to God.  But this Lent, we have not needed to craft anything.  Comfort has been ripped away from us, our footing has been upended, and a sense of being bereft has swept over us as our governments have attempted to force us to respect the dignity of every human being through stay at home orders with punitive consequences.  In other words, that daily devotional I started reading in the first week of Lent is buried under a pile of crisis management paperwork.

Because this has been a “Lent-y” Lent, the emotional rollercoaster of Palm Sunday is much more relatable than in most years.  We started out our service singing loud hosanas, feeling the high of the promise of the arrival of a savior-king, and we end with a reading where disciples have deserted and betrayed, the faithful have condemned out of fear and resentment, the leadership have mocked and brutalized, the Chosen One of Israel lies dead in a tomb while the remaining faithful women linger at a distance, fearfully mourning Christ’s death.  In this “Lent-iest Lent we’ve ever Lented,” we are no stranger to the feeling of going from confident security and relative prosperity, to sober, fearful waiting and looking at the tomb that is sealed with finality.  As death and the threat of infection hang around us, we do not need to contrive a sense of deep mournfulness and communal culpability.  We do not need to imagine the feeling of Christ’s death.  From singing hosanas to shouting “Let him be crucified,” we are living the narrative of Palm Sunday today.

Though I would never wish our current reality on us, and though I wish we were having a more man-made experience of Lent, I must confess the confluence of this time with this virus feels appropriate.  We do not have to imagine the grief of sitting by the cross mourning the reality of death – we are already sitting by the cross mourning.  We do not have to imagine being forced from the crowd to take up a stranger’s cross in a violent, turbulent moment – we are already in a turbulent moment in the company of strangers.  We do not have to imagine what feels like the extinguishing of hope and victory – we are already in the midst of clouded hope and unseen victory.

I suppose that is where I find hope today.  We do not need to imagine today.  We are the disciples, afraid and unworthy.  We are the mourning women, anxious and bereft.  We are the religious leaders, angry and discouraged.  None of that may sound hopeful.  But I see hope all around.  I see hope in governor’s wives who can see and speak to truth, warning us and helping us see.  I see hope in disciples who can see their own unfaithfulness and mourn with honesty.  I see hope in Jews who risk reputation and sacrifice personal wealth to properly bury the Christ.  I see hope in a Messiah who wanted to escape certain and necessary death, but dies with dignity and faithfulness to save us.  Though today is a sober day, today is also a day of promise.  The hosannas we say are not in vain.  The songs we sing are not in vain.  The prayers we pray are not in vain.  I have hope that we will come through this unique Lent a changed people – a people more humble about our frailty, a people more sober about the importance of community, a people more astounded by the blessing of a savior.  Even in our physical separation, we walk this holiest of weeks together, we mourn and comfort together, and we hold out hope together.  Today, we walk in the light of the Lord.  Amen.