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On Glimpses of Togetherness…

03 Wednesday Mar 2021

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Photo credit: Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly; reuse with permission only

This evening, we are gathering with our local ecumenical brothers and sisters in worship.  These Lenten gatherings happen every year, usually preceded by a simple supper before worshiping together.  One of the eight churches hosts and a preacher from another church offers the sermon.  The freewill offering supports a local nonprofit.  The evenings allow us to see the broader movement of Christ in our community, remind ourselves of the wideness of God’s mercy, and inspire a sense of community and fellowship.

Of course, in the midst of a pandemic, things look a little different.  Instead of seeing each other’s worship spaces, we are getting to see each other’s virtual worship spaces (Zoom, Facebook, YouTube, etc.).  Instead of seeing faces over a meal, we are feasting strictly on the Word of God.  In some ways, we could see the gatherings as “less than,” lacking all the things we love about community.  But for me, it has been a tremendous blessing to see how we are all in this together – all finding our own ways through technology, all seeking to be closer to Christ in the midst of this chaotic time.  Tonight, I am “preaching,” though technically, I prerecorded my sermon last week.  Our time of recording – with just three of us in the room, and two others on Zoom – was a tender invitation into the space where their community has been making it work for months. 

If you do not have plans tonight, or for the next several Wednesdays through Holy Week, consider yourself invited to virtual worship with the Upper James City County Ministerium.  On a basic level, it will give you a chance to pray, worship, and hear a good word each Wednesday.  On a deeper level, it may help you get out of your comfort zone with an unfamiliar style of worship or a theologically different perspective on scripture.  But on an even deeper level, it will remind you of how widely we are all connected during this strange, seemingly disconnected time.  It is my hope that you experience a glimpse into the magnitude of how the Holy Spirit is doing some incredible work during this time that can often feel absent of God.  You are invited to come and see a different perspective!

On Keeping Rituals Anyway…

17 Wednesday Feb 2021

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Photo credit: https://www.cincinnati.com/story/news/2019/03/06/ash-wednesday-2019-wearing-ashes-marks-beginning-lent/3064920002/

Today is Ash Wednesday.  It is the day we gather to kick off the beginning of Lent.  The main marker of this day are the ashes rubbed on our foreheads in the shape of a cross.  This ritual action is so powerful that churches typically offer multiple services in their buildings and they hang out in train stations, street corners, or parking lots so that people can grab their ashes on the go. 

But this year Ash Wednesday is happening in a surreal setting.  Reminding us we are dust and to dust we shall return seems a little superfluous when death is all around us from this pandemic.  Beginning a season of fasting seems like overkill when we have been doing nothing but fasting for eleven months – fasting from a way of life we once knew.  Asking us to give us something for Lent seems tone deaf when we have been giving up things for almost a year.  And with large communities having lost power for several days, churches still on lock down, and best practices prohibiting us from actually touching ashes to others’ foreheads, the whole idea of this day seems like too much.

So why are we even bothering with Ash Wednesday this year?  A couple of reasons.  One of the base reasons is we need to keep the rituals of life to help us feel some semblance of normalcy – some reminder of the things that have been meaning-giving in our lives.  Two, we need reminders that God is present in the midst of all this mayhem.  Some of us have never felt God’s absence, some of us have felt the abandonment of God in this time, and some of us have just felt so depleted that God feels distant – not absent, but also not vividly present. 

I don’t know how you are holding up this Ash Wednesday.  I don’t know where you are on your journey with God these days.  But what I do know is that the church is here to walk with you, comfort you, and create space for wherever you are on the journey – whether driving through,  watching online, or catching up by email, phone, or text.  We are in this together.    

Sermon – Mark 1.4-11, E1, YB, January 10, 2021

20 Wednesday Jan 2021

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This week, we watched in horror as our democracy was torn open.  In many ways, what happened at our nation’s Capitol Building should not be a surprise.  The last four years we have witnessed the fracturing of our common life, as if you could see the very threads of the fabric that holds us together as one pulling so far apart, they look as if they will rip in two.  Both sides have dug in their heels, both have created bubbles around themselves so that they do not hear or engage with the other side, and both seem to think the other side has lost their minds.  That kind of tension only needs a push before the fabric shreds.  The push was just the final straw, but the push masks the many months and years of actions by many more people that led to barricades being pushed down, police officers being overwhelmed, hallowed space being desecrated, and our very identity being called into question by the international community.

As we gather for church today, I am grateful our gospel lesson from Mark is about Jesus’ baptism.  Liturgically, the transition in scripture from the last several weeks is an abrupt shift.  We went from talking about pregnancies, angels, shepherds, the Christ Child, kings, and magi, to a full-grown John the Baptist and Jesus experiencing a vastly different epiphany.  Of course, if we were to read Mark’s gospel from cover to cover, this would not be surprising.  Mark does not even talk about the infant or adolescent Jesus.  We jump into Mark at verse four of chapter one today, but the first three verses are quite simply, “Here is the good news of God in Christ.”  And then we hear the description of John being the prophet foretold by Isaiah. 

But what caught my attention in our reading today is what happens when Jesus is baptized by John.  The text tells us the heavens are “torn apart.”  According to scholar Joel Marcus, the word here in the original Greek is a harsh word, “not the usual one for the opening of the heavens in visionary contexts.”[i]  Mark’s telling of this event is not like Matthew or Luke parallels where the heavens are simply “opened.”  Instead, Mark says the heavens are ripped apart.  The difference is significant, because as another scholar notes, Mark “…implies an irreversible cosmic change with his picture of the torn heavens…:  ‘What is opened may not be closed; what is torn apart cannot easily return to its former state.’”[ii]  In other words, the tearing apart of the heavens is a dramatic changing of the world forever – a “gracious gash in the universe”[iii] that indicates a change in God’s relationship with God’s covenanted people.  Mark’s version of the incarnation story does not involve babies, shepherds, or magi, but his version functions similarly, helping us understand the incarnation changes our lives irrevocably, even if the event feels traumatic.

Now, the difference in tearing we saw this week may seem totally different at first glance.  In the latter, the heavens are torn apart to reveal an eschatological change for the better.  Our covenantal relationship with God is forever altered by the incarnation of Jesus the Christ.  And through our own baptisms, we are adopted into the community of faith and the redemptive hope of Jesus.  In the former, the ripping apart of our democracy felt violently catastrophic, leaving many of us to fear that this ripping apart might be similarly irrevocable, like Mark describes.  Admittedly, that may be giving too much credence to what happened this week.  But the tear this week was similarly revealing.  We saw how far our divisions have pushed us.  We saw how precarious our very identity as moral leaders in the world is.  And perhaps most importantly, we saw in the shredding of our own fabric, a dramatic look at our shadow side.  We have talked a lot about our shadow side this year – whether in looking at our country’s history with slavery, the subjugation of indigenous Americans, or discrimination.  But the events of this week invite us not to try to hide our shadow side, but to expose our shadow side to the light.  My seminary contemporary Patrick Hall explained this week this way, “We must wrestle with what these insurrectionists show us about ourselves.  They ARE us.  We ARE them.[sic]  Acknowledging this truth is devastating and traumatic.  But in order to move forward together, we have to acknowledge that our American city on a hill…was not built by angels, but by people, with all the ugliness and cruelty that people always bring in their wake.  Their ugliness and cruelty is as much our inheritance as the democratic republic we steward together.  All of it lives in us.  All of it always will.”[iv]

The good news for us is unlike the gracious gash in the heavens, which forever changes our world for the good, the tearing we saw this week is not irreparable.  Instead, our invitation this week is to embrace how the tearing open of the heavens, the incarnation of the Christ, gives us the power to begin mending the fabric of our democracy.  The mending will not make us good as new.   In fact, whatever mending we do will leave a misshapen seam that cannot be hidden.  But the repair work we begin today whether in our public act of confession, our recommitment to justice and advocacy work, or simply in our dedication to mending relationships with our neighbors with whom we do not agree, the repair work will leave a misshapen seam that will allow us to never forget the work of reconciliation we are invited into this week.  Fortunately for us, the ripping apart of the heavens is exactly what we need this week to empower us to begin the modern work of mending.  Amen.

[i] Joel Marcus, The Anchor Bible:  Mark 1-8 (New York:  Doubleday, 2000), 159.

[ii] Marcus, 165.  Here, Marcus is quoting D. H. Juel.

[iii] Marcus, 165.

[iv] Patrick Hall, January 8, 2021, as found at https://www.facebook.com/patrick.hall.9889261/posts/10116845123723900 on January 8, 2021. 

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 – John 1.6-8, 19-28, A3, YB, December 13, 2020

17 Thursday Dec 2020

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Yesterday the Edwards family gathered outside the Chapel to baptize eight-month-old Bryson.  When Bryson’s family asked me if Bryson could be baptized this weekend in a small family gathering, I had to think for a moment.  Advent is not one of the normal seasons for baptisms.  But then I remembered two things.  One, this Sunday is Gaudete Sunday – the Sunday in Advent marked for joy, and often marked by shades of pink and rose.  What could be more joyful than a baptism?  Two, I glanced at our lessons and saw John the Baptist was in our Gospel lessons.  Who better to feature in our lessons on a baptism weekend than John the Baptist?!?

Of course, I only needed a few minutes of sermon preparation this past week to realize I had missed something critical about our lessons this Sunday.  Last week, we had John the Baptizer featured in Mark’s gospel.  But this Sunday, when John appears in John’s Gospel, he is not labeled as John the Baptizer, but John the Witness.[i]  John’s role in the Gospel of John does not rest as centrally in his role of baptizer, but more centrally in testifying to the identity of Jesus Christ.  As Lamar Williamson says, “John’s role is to recognize the true light when [the light] appears, and to call attention to [the light] so that others may recognize [the light] and believe – that is, recognize, trust in, and commit themselves to the light.”[ii]  There went my perfectly arranged baptism weekend!  “John the Witness” does not really have quite the same je ne sais quoi as “John the Baptist.” 

So, I started thinking about what we are doing when we baptize people into the community of faith.  Baptism certainly is a rite of initiation into the body of Christ.  Upon baptism, one may receive communion and participate fully in the body.  We make promises on behalf of the baptized, we renew our most fundamental promises on our own lives through the Baptismal Covenant, and we open up a life’s journey of faith, hope, and joy in Jesus. 

But at the end of the day, the thing we are really doing in baptism is witnessing.  We are witnessing to the baptized, and their family, what are the things of ultimate importance to us as Christians.  We are witnessing a commitment to our community – the full responsibility we are willing to take on in the faith journey of the baptized, from infancy to adulthood.  And we are witnessing to the broader community:  that even in the midst of a pandemic (in which Bryson has spent his entire life), even in the midst of divisiveness and unrest, even in the midst of economic uncertainty, we are witnesses to new life, new hope, new joy.

Like John the Witness today, in baptism, we point the way to Jesus.  When Bryson, or our friends, ask the big questions, we will point them toward Jesus.  When Bryson, or our families, question faith and express doubt, we will witness to them about our own faith and doubt stories.  When Bryson, or our community, cannot claim joy or are simply numb to the overwhelming suffering of these days, we will share with them as Steve Garnaas-Holmes says, that “Christ does not come to make us happy, but to stand with us in the pain of life until joy like a seed rises.  All is swallowed up in joy.”[iii]  That is what Gaudete Sunday, a baptism weekend, and John the Witness invite us to do this week:  to be witnesses of joy, not looking at ourselves to be the light, but looking toward the one who is light – the only one who can solidify joy in the darkness of Advent.  Amen.

[i] Karoline M. Lewis, John (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 27

[ii] Lamar Williamson Jr., Preaching the Gospel of John (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 4, as cited by Gary W. Charles, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Volume 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 71.

[iii] Steve Garnaas-Holmes, “Rejoice Always,” December 10, 2020, as found at https://www.unfoldinglight.net/reflections/b4fws8bsnsjklfkw3ws8823kke9a7t on December 10, 202.

On Rituals, Church, and Candy…

05 Thursday Nov 2020

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Photo Credit: https://www.hauntedwisconsin.com/things-to-do/kids-family/trick-or-treat/

Last weekend, I took my younger daughter trick-or-treating.  We spent a long time as parents debating whether we should take our children.  We read scientific articles, talked to other parents, and spent time in long conversations.  Ultimately, we decided to go ahead, making sure we donned our masks, only traveled as a family, and sanitized our hands frequently between houses.  We also talked to our child about how although she may want to greet friends with warm hugs, that night was a night for verbal greetings instead of physical.  Our child did not argue with the restrictions and was simply happy to be going at all.

We embarked at the designated time not knowing what to expect – whether other families with children would be out safely, whether homeowners would respect social distancing and mask wearing, or whether the entire evening would need to be abandoned.  Much to my surprise, the evening went better than I could have hoped.  The number of trick-or-treaters was cut in half, and people mostly respected safe distancing.  Homes distributing candy were also at about fifty percent, and many of those who distributed exhibited tons of creativity:  from baskets of candy lowered from outdoor balconies, to candy “kabobs” planted in yards, to zipline delivery mechanisms, to clotheslines of candy. Many homeowners bagged candy to reduce touching and many seemed to have read the best practices about how to hand out candy.  I was blown away by our neighbors’ thoughtfulness, creativity, and grace.

But what struck me the most was a truth emerging from the whole evening.  If you had asked me or any of my neighbors before Halloween why we were participating in the ritual of trick-or-treating, we probably all would have said we were doing it for the kids:  to give them some sort of normalcy in this crazy, abnormal time.  But as I tucked my child in that night, and thought about all our experiences, I realized a deeper truth.  I think all of us adults participated in the ritual not just because the children needed it; we participated because we needed it.  We needed just one thing to be semi-normal in this super stressful, topsy-turvy world.  And we took our precautions and stretched our creativity, but we participated in a ritual that reminded us of joy, innocence, and community.

In many ways, that is what we are trying to do every week in churches too.  The very essence of Church is incarnational – from how we gather (in large groups), how we worship (using our all our senses, including touch), how we participate in ritual (often kneeling shoulder to shoulder, receiving communion from common dishes, and laying on of hands), to how we interact (from children’s programming and play to Coffee Hours).  With this pandemic, our incarnational essence just is not possible in the same way.  And so, we are worshiping online, we are offering socially distant worship services, and we are gathering on Zoom for pretty much everything – from formation, to fellowship, to learning, and even play.  I know Church right now is not the same, but if Halloween offers any lessons, perhaps it is that participating in the ritual – even an amended and altered ritual – is important for our spiritual, emotional, and physical health.  If you have taken a break from the ritual of Church because it just is not the same (and you are right, it is not), please know that Hickory Neck is here to help you reclaim some of that ritual.  It may be awkward or push your technological abilities.  But I promise, even those unusual connections might just offer the ritual you need to stay healthy and whole!

Sermon – Acts 1.6-14, E7, YA, May 24, 2020

02 Tuesday Jun 2020

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Throughout this time of pandemic, I have struggled with Holy Scripture.  From not being able to wash feet and share in Christ’s last meal on Maundy Thursday, to ringing in the victory of Easter, to watching the disciples be able to touch Jesus or share in communion with him during his bodily appearances after the resurrection, each experience has felt like a stabbing reminder of what we do not have – that we cannot gather, we cannot touch, we cannot share that identity-making holy meal.  But today, as we continue to celebrate Jesus’ ascension, we have finally landed on the perfect Scriptural metaphor for these days.  Thanks be to God!

Of course, I say that not because today’s scripture lesson gives us answers about when we can expect a return to “normal,” (whatever that may mean now), or when this virus will be over, or even when we can safely return to church buildings.  Instead, what our text from Acts recognizes is the brutal truth of this time:  we are in a liminal time.

Now, we have talked about liminal time before.  Liminal time[i] is the time in which we are in the middle of a transition.  Native cultures experienced liminal time most famously in the journey to adulthood.  When young men or young women reached a certain age and maturity, they were sent away from their families and out into the wilderness for a time, a time when they are no longer children, and not yet adults.  Their identity is in flux, their purpose is ambiguous, and their life is on pause.  Liminal time is a time fraught with anxiety, frustration, and confusion.

That kind of transition is where we find our disciples today.  They have spent forty glorious days feeling the victory of Christ’s resurrection, being blessed with further teachings, and being comforted by Christ’s presence.  They are ready.  They confidently ask Jesus today, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?”  Jesus responds with a promise – that they will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon them, and they will be empowered to do their work of witnessing.  But for now, at this moment of climax, confidence, and courage, Jesus says, quite simply, “Wait.”

Now I know I said I was excited about this text because the text is so perfect for this time.  I say that not because this text finally answers all those questions of our liminal time – or even hints at when our anxiety, frustration, and confusion will end.  Instead, what I love about this text is that the text names the very frustrating reality of this time – a time in which we are not longer what we were (a community free to gather how and when we like, doing things like passing the peace, sharing a common cup, and congregating en masse), and yet, we are not yet what we will be – in fact, what we will be is even uncertain.  We are the disciples staring up at the sky, knowing Christ has gone to the father, but frozen in place, not really knowing what is next – waiting.

Karl Barth called the waiting between the Ascension and Pentecost, the days we are experiencing now, the “significant pause…a pause in which the church’s task is to wait and pray.”[ii]  Now, I know what you are thinking.  That’s our Good News?  I should wait and pray?  Telling us to wait and pray seems like a classic platitude, what we say when we do not know what to say.  Will Willimon explains, “Waiting, an onerous burden for us computerized and technically impatient moderns who live in an age of instant everything, is one of the tough tasks of the church.  Our waiting implies that the things which need doing in the world are beyond our ability to accomplish solely by our own effort, our programs and crusades.  Some other empowerment is needed, therefore the church waits and prays.”[iii]  Though the disciples are facing the “significant pause,” the promise of the empowering Spirit is a promise of hope, empowerment, and companionship.  Their waiting and prayer are not for personal comfort during this time of ambiguity, but for empowerment to be obedient.  Instead of praying out of self-pity, they are praying out of determined expectation.

That is our invitation today too – to pray and wait together.  We cannot cram into that Upper Room like the disciples do.  But we can gather – digitally in worship here, in Zoom gatherings, by phone, cards, emails, and texts, even drive-by Coffee Hours.  As David Lose reminds us, in this time of pandemic “God will be with us, comforting, celebrating with, strengthening, and accompanying us in and amid whatever may come.  And God will also be preparing us, preparing us to be God’s emissaries of good news, preparing us to comfort others, preparing us to work for peace, preparing us to live with less fear and more generosity, preparing us to look out for the rights of others, preparing us to strive for a more just community and world.”[iv]  I do not know about you, but I would much rather face the ambiguity of this liminal time with a community who can remind me of God’s promise, helping me see the work of the Spirit.  That is what we do when we pray and wait together.  Our invitation is to accept the gift of this community, gathered virtually for the foreseeable future, and to wait and pray with together.  Amen.

[i] Liminal time is a concept that has been developed by many scholars.  Arnold van Gennep, Victor W. Turner, and Gordon Lathrop all developed the idea of incorporating liminal time into liturgical practice.

[ii] William H. Willimon, Acts, Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Atlanta:  John Knox Press, 1988), 20.

[iii] Willimon, 21.

[iv] David Lose, “Easter 7A:  Important Interludes,” May 25, 2017, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2017/05/easter-7-a-important-interludes/ on May 26, 2017.

Sermon – John 10.1-10, Acts 2.42-47, E4, YA, May 3, 2020

07 Thursday May 2020

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It could be that having been ordered to stay in our homes for almost two months, with no real end in sight, has made me a bit cranky.  It could be that the tidal wave of illness, death, and suffering bearing down on us has birthed rising anxiety and fear.  It could be the slow realization that having lived in this “new normal” will mean our old “normal” will be forever tainted and will never fully be restored has brought a sense of grief or despair.  Whatever the feelings and emotional responses we are having to this pandemic, they are creating a lens or a filter through which we interpret everything – including Holy Scripture.

For me, the initial lens or filter through which I have been reading Holy Scripture has been one of bitterness, resentment, and grief.  Take today’s lessons.  This Sunday, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, is colloquially known as Good Shepherd Sunday.  The lessons on this Sunday every year give us images of pasture, protection, and pastoring.  And yet, this year, my initial response to the readings were resistance.  I am not emotionally ready to be cradled in the arms of a Good Shepherd.  I am not mentally ready to hear that Jesus wants us to have life, and have life abundantly.  I am not spiritually ready to hear about the post-Pentecost community gathered, breaking bread, spending time together in person in the temple and in homes, growing in numbers day by day.  I am not emotionally, mentally, or spiritually ready because hearing those wonderfully affirming things makes me realize how far from reality those things feel right now.

Of course, Church has not always been that way.  In fact, Church used to be exactly those things.  Throughout my life, Church has been the place where the Good Shepherd, where Jesus, has been the comforting figure who brings me into the fold, who knows me by name, whose voice brings assurance and confidence.  Church has been the place where I have found a community of people who make my life whole – a people who teach me about love, about calling, and about what family really looks like.  A little over a week ago, when over thirty of us gathered around our cars, seeing each other’s faces for the first time in months, as we prepared to drive to parishioners’ homes to sing Happy Birthday wishes, I was stunned at how powerful the feelings were of just seeing those beautiful faces, of having a glimpse of why this community has been so incredibly meaningful in my life, of remembering the comfort of being together.  The experience was a shock of love, care, and affection that opened up the gaping hole in my life I had so carefully covered up to protect myself from thinking about what I was missing in this pandemic.

So, does Scripture have any chance with us to be redeeming, restorative, and refreshing when our emotions are so raw?  Is there Good News today?  I have begun to realize in order to allow Scripture to have that power for me, I have needed to switch glasses.  On the Fourth Sunday of Easter in almost every year in memory, this Sunday has been about rose-colored glasses.  We talk about the Good Shepherd romantically and abundance superficially, we sing our favorite psalm, and we gather round and cozy up together.  But today, I hear Jesus inviting us to take off those rose-colored glasses (which he would have hated anyway), and slip on some clear glasses.  In those clear glasses, we can look at the community gathered in Acts and not imagine a loving community gathered and growing and peacefully breaking bread together.  Instead, scholars remind us the post-Pentecost community represents “different regions, speaking different dialects.  Some may not have shared the native languages of others, in spite of a shared Jewish faith.  There would have been distinct food preferences and different levels of financial security.  There would have been different prejudices to navigate, different interpretations of Torah and different political proclivities.”  And for those in charge of making the bread, those numbers growing day by day represented increased stress and strain, not jubilant joy.[i]  I imagine the chaos of that time was not unlike the chaos of sheep gathered into a fold – a noisy, messy, resistant bunch that the loving Shepherd had to prod, yank, and shove into said fold.

With new glasses, we no longer look with jealousy on that early gathered Christian community or that chaotic, smelly sheep fold, but instead begin to see commonality.  Just like the early Christian community trying to make her way through the chaos, we too are making our way through chaos.  We are overcoming technological hurdles, welcoming strangers from all over the community and the globe in our worship, and finding community even in our isolation.  Our gathering now is weird and awkward and frustrating.  But our gathering is also encouraging and life-giving and hope-making.  And as we watch people’s names pop up on the screen and as we see comments of reassurance, we see beauty in this particular community, we see hope percolating up despite us, and we see that even as life feels stripped of all goodness, the Good Shepherd is indeed offering us life in abundance.  This week, the Good Shepherd is not some picture-perfect stained-glass version of a Shepherd with a lamb gently hanging over his shoulder.  This week, the Good Shepherd is standing beside us, his arm cocked over our shoulder, shaking his head with us at the immensity of this crazy reality, and simply giving us a reassuring, unspoken smile, and a nudge into some abundant life this week.  Thanks be to God.

[i] Jerusha Matsen Neal, “Commentary on Acts 2:42-47,” May 3, 2020, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=4443 on May 1, 2020.

Sermon – John 13:1-17, 31b-35, MT, YA, April 9, 2020

23 Thursday Apr 2020

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I have been thinking about this night for a couple of weeks now.  Normally on this night, we wash each other’s feet, we share in what is a “Last Supper” for us until Easter, and then the church goes dark as the altar is stripped of every adornment.  This is a night for intimacy, vulnerability, and community.  But we are in this supremely odd moment where none of those things are allowed.  In this pandemic, we are avoiding the intimacy of touch; we are avoiding making ourselves vulnerable; we are avoiding gathering in community.  There is a way in which this very service, reminds us of the grief of this global moment.

But the more I thought about this gathering, the more I realized how well positioned we are this year to honor this night more powerfully than perhaps ever before.  In the course of just a few hours, the disciples and Jesus’ followers will be mourning the absence of his physical touch too.  Although we are not experiencing the intimacy of touch, we are experiencing the intimacy of a community gathered virtually.  Even in our homes, we are all turned to our devices, coming together from afar – creating a sense of community when we may feel like we do not have one.  And although we are not celebrating our traditional Maundy Thursday service, we are experiencing the tradition of Evensong – a service that is offered almost everyday in Cathedrals, Minsters, and colleges in the Mother Church in England.  In that way, tonight’s service brings us the comfort of a liturgical experience that has grounded the church for centuries.

If anything, living in the time of a pandemic, I believe we are beginning to find clarity about the ultimate importance of things – what really matters and what does not.  Jesus helps us see that tonight.  Strip away everything else, and Jesus concludes, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.  Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.  By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”  You may be thinking, “Great!  Another thing to do!”  But relax.  Here’s the good news tonight:  you’re already showing others you are Christ’s disciples.  I see you checking in on your neighbors and fellow parishioners.  I see you advocating for the disadvantaged and the vulnerable.  I see you supporting ministries financially in this uncertain time.  I see you praying for one another.  I see you doing your part to end the spread of this virus – whether you are a medical professional risking your own health, whether you are a healthy parishioner volunteering to get goods to those in need, or whether you are simply self-isolating.  We may be gathering virtually, but we are gathering in love, living as the faithful disciples Christ invited us to be – living as the faithful disciples you can be and are being.

As we journey further into the grief of this moment with Christ, and continue to journey into the grief of this pandemic, tonight we hold onto the life of love.  There is no better way to share intimacy, vulnerability, and community than to do exactly what we are doing in this moment.  Thanks be to God.  Amen.

On Holy Week, Distance, and Hope…

08 Wednesday Apr 2020

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I remember the first time I was a Rector and planning Holy Week.  I was debating about whether to use the reserve sacrament on Good Friday or not.  I spoke to a priest colleague, and he shared the philosophy of the Rector under which he was serving:  on Good Friday, not even the consolation of the Holy Meal is available to us.

When our staff at Hickory Neck first started talking about Holy Week, we were faced with a stark reality:  there was no way for us to celebrate Holy Week the way we traditionally do.  Sure, we could use technology, and sure, we could try to do parts of what we normally do, but so much of Holy Week is physical and intimate – from waving palms, to washing feet, to kissing crosses, to huddling together around a fire, to having water sprinkled around, to gathering close in the dark, to finally gathering in a huge celebration with large crowds, Easter egg hunts, pictures with friends, and brass instruments.  There just is not a way to create that same feel digitally.  And so, Holy Week would need to be different.

For those of you who know me, you know Holy Week is superlatively special to me – it is my favorite week of the year.  So, for a moment, I grieved that loss, adding it to the long list of things I am grieving during this pandemic.  But then I took a deep breath, made room for Holy Spirit as I relaxed my grip on what I falsely imagined was under my control, and let the creativity flow.  Before I knew it, we were trying evensong for Maundy Thursday – a service we experienced daily on a recent pilgrimage in England.  We were creating a simple, powerful Good Friday liturgy.  And, I was trying for the first time a liturgy I had barely noticed in the Prayer Book – a Holy Saturday liturgy.

Holy Week and Easter will not be the same this year.  But, in all honesty, nothing is the same in this season of life.  If our lives are so distinctly different these days, it makes sense that our liturgies would be different too, as liturgies reflect the life of the people.  Somehow, creating this alternative Holy Week has felt like the Church settling in alongside the community and walking in step with them (from a safe distance, of course!).  Somehow, recognizing grief, discomfort, and sadness has made room for creativity, hope, and grace.  Somehow, experiencing a daily life much more in line with the journey of Holy Week is making Holy Week viscerally palpable, and ultimately healing, life-giving, and strengthening.  We still have a long way to go with this virus and its impact, but I am especially grateful for the gift of Holy Week this year.