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Sermon – John 17.20-26, E7, YC, June 1, 2025

18 Wednesday Jun 2025

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One of my favorite biblical scholars is Karoline Lewis.  She is one of the hosts of a preaching podcast I listen to, and through listening to her over the years I have found her to be insightful, funny, passionate, and deeply attuned to where the Word of God meets our daily lives.  Lewis is a New Testament scholar whose expertise is especially in the gospel of John.  In fact, her commentary on the Gospel of John is my go-to commentary anytime I am exploring John’s gospel.          

The irony in my deep appreciation for Karoline Lewis is that her passion and love for the gospel of John is almost in equal balance to my dislike for the gospel of John.  Where she finds deep beauty and meaning in John, I often find a jumble of words that are so repetitive and circular that I get lost.  Even when I have prepared a sermon for and studied a passage of John for the entire week, when I get to the moment of holding that gospel book and proclaiming John, I find myself second guessing myself, “Wait.  Didn’t I just read that sentence?  That sounds like what I just said a second ago – did I repeat a line?” 

Today’s gospel from John is a classic example.  We find ourselves at the end of Jesus’ farewell address to the disciples before his crucifixion and death, and within that address, at the end of his high priestly prayer.  In this prayer, Jesus prays several phrases in that typical Johannine circular language, “As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us…so that they maybe be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one..”  The good news is that Lewis and other scholars seem to agree that what Jesus is praying in his circular, convoluted way for is unity.  As scholar William Herzog suggests, “What matters most for John is that the experience of the indwelling remains available to the community, for the unity of the Johannine community is based not on dogma but on a communal experience of indwelling that is analogous to the relationship between Jesus and the Father.  This is what the community witnesses to the world.  Their mission is to keep this experience of faith alive in the community, so that they can offer it to a broken and fractured world.”[i]

Now, while unity is a theme we can get our heads around, unity is a practice we seldom live or experience.  Disunity is our lived experience.  One look at the deep, seemingly irreconcilable differences between political positions would be enough for any of us to understand how fantastical unity sounds.  But disunity is not just in the wider world.  Just this week in Discovery Class we were talking about how theological differences around the sacraments are what created the array of denominational differences within the Christian body – the reason why some of us are not welcome at the communion table in other denominations.  And that does not even address the differences of opinion the various churches hold on the role and place of women, LGBTQ members, and people of color.  But the lack of unity gets even closer to home right here at Hickory Neck.  I have long touted the unity of Hickory Neck across political and theological differences.  The unifying symbol of us of gathering together around the table has instilled in me a deep belief that if we can be one in communion, surely unity is possible in the world.  But even I, in the last six months have wondered if external pressures would prove that our unity is not as a strong as I think. 

That is why, for this one time in particular, I am grateful for John’s repetitive circular language.  Jesus’ final words of prayer today are, “I made your name known to them, and will make it known, so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.”  As one scholar says, “The last word is love.  Jesus does not call for doctrinal unity, organizational unity, or political unity.  So often, Christ’s prayer for his disciples has been used to sanctify those ends, and even to justify the harsh imposition of artificial unity.  Yet this prayer is for unity that grows out of the love of God, received and shared among his followers, leading to an experience of unity in love between Jesus and his followers, and with the one from whom Christ comes.  In moments of communion, surely the debates about the nature of God and humanity, the questions of whether divine grace or human will is the means of unity, all of these must fade away, leaving only the burning vision of a cross and the words, ‘For God so loved the world…’”[ii]

My fear that the unity I have witnessed at Hickory Neck would unravel was perhaps based on the idea that we could humanly will our unity to stay together.  But John’s gospel today reminds me that the only reason we are not unraveling is not because we have willed our unity, but because the love we have found in Jesus – the same triune love experienced within the three persons of the trinity – is what holds us together.  Jesus’ prayer today is not a prayer for those disciples who heard the prayer.  Jesus’ prayer today was for us – the future generations who would exist only through the love that the divine has given us – that circular, sometimes confusing, but ever convincing love in us and through us.  Our work is in that last part – that love going through us.  The love of Jesus for us in this prayer is not just for us – but is the gift that emanates through us out in the world.  As Lewis says of this prayer, “Jesus is no longer in the world.  The incarnation is over.  Jesus has been resurrected.  He ascended to the Father from whence he came.  But we are still in the world.  Jesus’ works are now in our hands, and Jesus is counting on us to be his presence in the wake of his absence.”[iii]  That charge would be daunting if not for Jesus’ prayer of promise – we can be that presence because the love that was in Jesus is now in us, breathing, transforming, and blessing the world through love.  Amen.

[i] William R. Herzog, II, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 545.

[ii] Peter J.B. Carman, “Theological Perspective, Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 544.

[iii] Karoline M. Lewis, John:  Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014),214.

Sermon – John 21.1-19, E3, YC, May 4, 2025

18 Wednesday Jun 2025

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Our gospel lesson today utilizes two overlapping modes of storytelling.  The primary mode has a lot of movement and action.  We have disciples fishing, a man shouting about where to put nets, Peter leaping out of a boat to swim ashore, breakfast sizzling in a pan over a crackling fire, and Peter and Jesus having this strangely repetitive conversation.  This mode of the text is a little discombobulating.  There is so much happening that by the time we get to Jesus telling Peter to feed his lambs, we forget the part of the story about Peter getting dressed to jump into water.  The frenetic nature of the text leaves us with more questions than answers:  Why is Peter fishing at a time like this?  Why is he naked?  Why do the disciples not recognize Jesus at first?  Why is Jesus cooking breakfast?  Why does Jesus repeat his question to Peter three times?

In some ways, the frenetic nature of storytelling reflects the frenetic nature of the disciples.  Before they met Jesus, they had all settled into certain identities in their lives – many of them were fishermen, many of them had families with whom they worked, and all of them had homes where they resided.  Their lives were simple and predictable.  Then this guy comes into their lives and their identity and purpose get totally out of balance.  They have no consistent daily routine, they leave behind everything they know, this man they are following is compelling but also completely confusing, and they are being asked to totally change their lives.  And just when they find a rhythm of managing their unpredictable lives with Jesus, everything turns over on its head again, and they lose everything – their leader, their purpose, and their identity.  So, in an effort to find something to hang on to, the disciples become punchy with action.

We all do this.  My family has learned that something is going on with mom when they find me intently scrubbing something in the house.  I may not be able to solve some problem at work, or I might not be able to fix some relationship that needs mending, but I can have a clean floor.  I might not have responded to the forty-eight emails in my inbox and the twenty-nine items on my to-do list, but my desk will be cleared of all clutter and looking freshly dusted.  My frenetic coping mechanism is cleaning, but we all have some frenetic coping behavior.  Some of us need to find a shopping center or online store to clear our minds of all the stuff going on inside of us.  Somehow finding the perfect dress or newest gadget takes away our other anxieties.  Others get out in the garden and dig our way to peace of mind.  Something about a freshly weeded garden makes us feel like something was accomplished, even if the rest of us is in shambles.  Still others hit the gym.  There is nothing like sweating away anxieties or feeling the burn to take away the other feelings going on inside of us.[i]

What is interesting about all the activity and noise found in our gospel lesson is that there is also a mode of storytelling present that is completely quiet.  We start with the disciples silently staring at that Sea of Tiberias.  There is nothing left to say among them, because they have talked this whole resurrection thing to exhaustion.  Then we find the disciples on the boat fishing in the middle of the night, silently absorbed in the mechanics of navigating waters and fishing nets.  Despite the splashing of Peter to swim to Jesus, once they all gather on the beach, no one says a word.  The air is only filled with the quiet lapping of water and the sizzling of a pan over a fire.  The disciples have questions, but no one asks them.  Even the conversation between Jesus and Peter has a quiet, sober tone.

I think this quiet space is where the text is really pointing.  The disciples, who have irritated Jesus to no end, finally fall silent.  No more asking about who shall be first, and nor more asking what Jesus means or who he is.  No more crazy proposals like building booths for Moses, Elijah, and Jesus, and no more insisting that Jesus wash all of their bodies, not just their feet.  No more insisting that they would never betray Jesus.  There is nothing left to say.  And so, they stare quietly, they fish in silence, and they answer in hushed, humble voices.

This mode is the most important because this mode marks a shift.  The disciples stop trying to muscle their way into discipleship, and they finally learn to let Jesus take the lead.  They have become so physically, mentally, and spiritually exhausted that they stop trying to control everything, and they simply wait for Jesus to tell them what to do.  This is a critical moment in the disciples’ journey with Christ.

If you didn’t know before this past winter, you certainly know by now that one of my loves is dance.  I grew up doing all sorts of dancing:  ballet, jazz, tap, hip hop.  But the most difficult form of dancing I stumbled into was formal partnered dancing – the fox trot, waltz, cha-cha.  In the other forms of dancing, I am responsible for myself, learning the steps, and making sure I know the rhythm so that the dance looks beautiful.  But in partnered dance, especially as the woman, you have to learn how to follow.  As someone with pretty good rhythm and memory for steps, you have no idea how incredibly frustrating following a man who does not know what he is doing can be.  The tendency is to want to use your arms or legs to start guiding the man, or even to whisper the directions.  But the role of the woman in partnered dancing is to follow where the man leads – quite a challenge for many of us who consider ourselves liberated women!  But what I also find in partnered dancing is that when you have a really good partner, he can make you feel like the most graceful, beautiful woman on the dance floor.  In fact, you stop worrying about the steps and the count, and you start moving with fluidity and ease.  The price for such a feeling is total surrender and trust.  But the payoff is that you find a joy so strong that you will hunt down that partner and beg them to save you a dance.

This is the kind of submission the disciples finally master on that beach.  No more trying to muscle Jesus into the way they want him to behave.  No more trying to talk their way through their relationship with him.  They surrender all they have to him, longing for the clarity that only he can give them.  And when they finally do that, in the quiet of that morning, they finally hear the words of purpose for their lives.  “Follow me,” Jesus says.  They are the same words Jesus said to them at the beginning of their relationship with him; he has already called them into discipleship.[ii]  But now they finally hear.  And now they can finally respond with their whole being.  Jesus’ words are as clear as they can be.  Jesus’ words give their life meaning.  And their spirit is finally in the place where they can hear and respond.  They are truly and thoroughly ready to follow him – they are ready and able to be disciples.

This is what Jesus invites us to do as well.  This morning, in this sacred place, Jesus invites us to shove those piles off the desks of our minds, to rip out the weeds blocking our hearts, and to drop our armfuls of distractions and to listen to his simple words for us.  The words are there waiting.  The direction is clear.  The peace and comfort of clarity and purpose are ours for the taking and the world needs our discipleship now more than ever.  So, when you come to this table for the Eucharistic feast, quietly listening for Jesus’ words for you, you will be able to hear those words, “Follow me,” and do just that when you walk out those church doors.  Amen.

[i] Gary D. Jones, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 420.

[ii] Karoline Lewis, Sermon Brainwave:  #1021: Third Sunday of Easter – May 4, 2025, April 24, 2025 as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/1021-third-sunday-of-easter-may-4-2025 on May 1, 2025.

Sermon – Mark 7.1-8, 14-15, 21-23, P17, YB, September 1, 2024

04 Wednesday Sep 2024

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Before I became a priest, I served as a Director of Volunteer services at a Habitat for Humanity affiliate.  In my training as a volunteer manager, I learned that one of the most important things about recruiting someone to a volunteer position was clarity about what one was asking from a volunteer.  If they were going to serve on a committee, how long was the commitment, how frequently would they meet, what work would be expected, and how was leadership structured were all details they should have.  If they were going to work on site, what training was expected or would be provided, what age restrictions existed, what risks would they undertake, and how their day would be structured were important details before a workday.  If they had a group event, they needed to know how many volunteers could be on site, what hours they needed to commit to, and what happened in inclement weather.  By the end of my tenure, every volunteer position had a position description outlining expectations, qualifications, and rewards.

So, imagine my transition to the priesthood and realizing how poorly the Episcopal Church had defined membership.  The very first time someone asked me (and every time since then), I dread the question, “So what do I need to do to become a member of this church?”  The Episcopal Church does a notoriously poor job of defining membership.  Our commitment to professing “All are welcome!” seems to translate into no defining characteristics of membership.  “How do I join your church?” should be one of the easiest questions there is.  And yet, when I talk to new members, the answer has to be two-fold:  the technical answer (as long as you attend three services a year and are a financial contributor, you’re considered a member – the answer from the wider Episcopal Church which I loathe!), and the more practical answer we have crafted here at Hickory Neck:  you fill out a form, you commit to supporting the church financially, you commit to feeding yourself (through study, prayer, regular worship), and you commit to feeding others (through giving your time to the church and to the wider community on behalf of the church). 

Our gospel lesson today seems to be wading through a similar lack of clarity.  The Pharisees and scribes are totally perplexed by how some of Jesus’ disciples are not washing their hands before eating – a totally valid concern in these days of post-pandemic!  But handwashing was not just about hygiene.  The ritual washing of hands was about identity, or “membership” as we understand membership today.  The Jews of this time are in an “oppressed minority, living in an occupied land.”  Their question is asked with the backdrop of colonialism, cultural and religious diversity, and competing claims on identity.[i]    Their question is both simple and complex:  why aren’t the disciples living like members of our community? 

For many a reader of this text, all sorts of erroneous conclusions have been drawn – primarily the anti-Semitic understanding that the laws of the Jews are superseded by laws of Jesus.[ii]  But that is not what is happening in this text.  Jesus does not have any issue with ritual cleansing:  he of all people understands the expectations of following God.  But Jesus is saying something more nuanced about identity and membership.  Jesus is saying that no matter how we traditionally mark ourselves as “other,” even if something is “the way we’ve always done it,” what is more important is how we live our faith.  So, if we are doing all the right things:  washing our hands the right way, bowing or genuflecting at all the right times, crossing ourselves when we’re supposed to, saying “Amen” during the sermon – or avoiding saying “Amen” during the sermon – none of that matters if our insides are defiled.  As Jesus quotes from Isaiah, “This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me…”[iii] 

Today’s invitation is to ponder what membership in this body of faith means.  Are we honoring Jesus with our lips, but our hearts are far from Jesus?  Are we following the external “rules” but fostering evil intentions in our heart?  Have we filled out the membership form but neglected our work of feeding ourselves and feeding others?  Our work this week is making sure that when we go out into the world to love and serve the Lord – the dismissal that the we agree to every week – that we love and serve the Lord in ways that show people Christ through our words and actions; that as the political season ramps up, we ensure we are not defiling the dignity of any human being with our lips; and that when we talk about how much we love this church on the hill, we do so in a way that does not mask our individual struggles with avarice, deceit, slander, pride, and folly.  Telling the world you are a proud member of Hickory Neck Episcopal Church is just fine – and something I hope you do on a regular basis.  But our invitation from scripture today is to be clear with others that, as that old tune says, “He’s still working on me,” is also a part of membership in the body of Christ – perhaps the most appealing one that draws others into a desire for membership too.  Amen. 

[i] Debie Thomas, “True Religion,” August 22, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2944 on August 30, 2024.

[ii] Idea suggested by Matt Skinner on the Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#799: 14th Sunday after Pentecost (Ord. 22B) – Aug. 29, 2021,” August 22, 2021, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/799-14th-sunday-after-pentecost-ord-22b-aug-29-2021 on August 28, 2024.

[iii] Mark 7.6b.

Sermon – John 13.1-17, 31b-35, MT, YB, March 28, 2024

01 Wednesday May 2024

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Photo credit: https://lighthousesouthbay.org/resources/stories/maundy-thursday-family-worship-footwashing/

In my first year of seminary, we traveled to Burma for an Anglican Communion learning trip.  For a portion of the trip, we led an educational component for the theological students, which closed with a foot washing experience.  In my mind, the foot washing experience was so authentic:  those with empirically more power serving those with less; the leaders becoming servants; and certainly, the tangible re-creation of Jesus’ experience, since in Burma everyone wears those plastic flip flops, so their feet really are dusty in the ways that I imagine those disciples’ feet were.  The seven us of seminarians were feeling pretty good about ourselves – we were embodying the kind of love Jesus always talks about. 

But then something unexpected happened.  When we finished the last student, several students grabbed the arms of each us, and almost forcefully put us in the very chairs where we had been washing their feet – all with very little English to navigate the turning of the tables.  The role reversal felt all wrong – we were the ones who should be washing them, not them washing us.  Suddenly we were asked to be vulnerably touched, to humbly receive, and to ultimately right the balance of power between us.  The unplanned reversal left us shaken and uncomfortable, and a whole less sure of ourselves.

As I have been thinking about this Maundy Thursday service this week, that’s kind of what this service is:  messy.  Jesus, the one with power, lowers himself to the floor and washes the disciples’ feet – something not even servants would normally do, as they would simply provide the water for you to do the work yourself.  There are a few occasions where women might do this work, but certainly Jesus shouldn’t be stooping to women’s work.[i]  There is all kinds of messiness about the appropriateness of Jesus’ humble act that makes the disciples feel quite vulnerable.  But then there is the fact not only does Jesus do this humble, vulnerable act on his hands and knees, but also he does this for everyone, including Judas – his soon-to-be betrayer – and Peter – his soon-to-be denier.  Jesus washes the feet of the faithful follower and stumbling follower alike.  On the one hand, we can conceptualize how to humbly serve others – I imagine it gives us great satisfaction like we seminarians had in Burma.  But humbly serving those who literally betray you and shun you – that’s something else altogether.  All we have to do is imagine the politician who makes us the most angry, indignant, and rightly willing to protest.  And then imagine kneeling down and washing his or her feet – humbling yourself before them, willing yourself to tenderly touch the very human skin of your so-called enemy.

And so, by the end of this passage – where Jesus has argued his way through this lesson of foot washing, and as the verses that were edited out of our passage tonight would have told us, Judas leaves to betray Jesus, we are told a major kernel of truth – a command that this whole night is named for (Maundy literally means in Latin “command” or “mandate.”[ii]).  Jesus says, “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.”  Now we all LOVE to talk about this new commandment – we love to talk about love.  But those six words are the scary part of this commandment:  Just as I have loved you.  So that person who betrays us, denies us, works against goodness, who hurts us, who angers us – we are to love them just as much as the people we actually like.  Jesus is asking a lot tonight, folks. 

And so, in this service, in just a few minutes, we are going to do some messy things.  We are going to literally wash each other’s feet.  No matter how embarrassed we are by our imperfect feet, no matter how little we like being the recipient of care, no matter how much we might like the people in this room but we are not prepared to be really vulnerable with them – we will have the opportunity to both serve and be served tonight.  Then we will gather around the altar rail – with people we like and maybe people who frustrate us, with people who agree with our political opinions and people who really do not, with people we may not even really know all that well – and we will receive the blessed sacrament, elbow to elbow with everyone.  And then finally, we will watch as everything is taken away – the dishes from our feast, the adornments we love, the familiar things of comfort, even the light itself.  And the priest will scrub down the altar, with a sound that sounds like the scrubbing away of everything familiar and comforting. 

We do all these messy things because what Jesus asks of us is nothing short of messy.  “Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”  That is what we leave here tonight – on this Commandment Thursday – to go out in the world to do.  To love – to messily, vulnerably, frustratingly, painfully do.  To love – just as Jesus has messily, vulnerably, frustratingly, painfully loved us.  That command is what we hold on tomorrow as we allow Jesus to walk to the cross.  That command is what we hold on to through Saturday as he sits in tomb.  That command is what we hold onto when we mourn the entirety of his life – “the whole witness of the Word made flesh.”[iii]  That command is what we hold onto even when we joyously and fearfully celebrate what happens on Easter.  But that command is especially what we hold on to in the days and weeks to come – in this year of 2024 as we try to love – just as Jesus has loved us.  Jesus knows loving will be messy.  But Jesus gives us the messy gifts tonight to help us love anyway.  Amen.

[i] Mary Lousie Bringle, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 279.

[ii] James E. Lamkin, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 280.

[iii] Karoline M. Lewis, John:  Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 179.

Sermon – Matthew 5.1-12, AS, YA, November 5, 2023

29 Wednesday Nov 2023

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I once served at a church that decided to support a ministry for women exiting prison.  We decided to prepare ourselves for our engagement in the ministry by reading the book The Prison Angel, about a wealthy divorcee in California who has an epiphany about her call, and eventually becomes a nun that lives in the notorious prisons of Tiajuana, Mexico, serving the men and their families.  We spent weeks reading the book, reflecting on Mother Antonia’s stories, slowly grasping the realities of prison life and those who serve them.  I was feeling energized by how well prepared our book study group would be when we finally began serving our local ministry.  But on the last day of our study, one of our participants shared, “I don’t know.  I don’t think I could ever be as self-sacrificial as Mother Antonia.  She’s sort of superhuman and I just cannot imagine living that kind of life.”  I remember feeling completely deflated – here I was trying to inspire servanthood and instead, I had made servanthood feel unattainable.

Sometimes I fear All Saints Sunday does the same thing.  Certainly, that can happen as we think of those significant saints of the church, like St. Peter, St. Francis, or Mother Teresa.  But our feelings of inadequacy can happen with the personal saints of our lives – the souls of beloved parents, lovers, children, and friends.  We remember the faithful ways they lived and only see our own failings.  And then we go and read the Beatitudes from Matthew’s gospel, we can become downright despondent.  Maybe I have mourned or felt poor in spirit.   But do I hunger and thirst for righteousness?  Am I pure in heart?  As we grieve the violence in the Middle East, have I done anything tangible to be considered peacemaking?  Has anyone ever reviled or persecuted me for the sake of Jesus?  Instead of inspiring and uplifting us today, this feast day with Matthew’s gospel has the potential to leave us feeling unworthy and unmotivated in our journey to live faithfully.

I can assure you that is not the lectionary’s intent.  In fact, after weeks of stories about discipleship in Matthew, the lectionary takes us back to the fifth chapter of Matthew for a purpose.  Perhaps we should look at what the Beatitudes are not doing today before we look at what they are doing.  The Beatitudes are not “to do” items.  As scholar Debie Thomas explains, these are not suggestions, instructions, or commandments.  There is no sense of “should,” “must,” or “ought” in these words.  We are not to walk away from these words thinking we should “try very hard to be poorer, sadder, meeker, hungrier, thirstier, purer, more peaceable, and more persecuted…”[i]  Likewise, the Beatitudes are not meant to shame us.  Jesus is not attempting to make us feel like overprivileged wretches worthy of self-condemnation.  Likewise, Jesus is not telling us to grit our teeth through whatever suffering we are living through, knowing that relief comes after death.[ii]

Instead, the Beatitudes are redefining what our modern culture might define as “#blessed.”  When we talk about being blessed, we are usually referring to our bounty or at the very least, the goodness we see in an otherwise hard world.  Instead, theologian Stanley Hauerwas explains that by declaring the poor in spirit, the mourning, the meek, the merciful, and the peacemakers as blessed, Jesus is indicating the transformed world of the kingdom of God has begun.  “Each of the Beatitudes names a gift, but it is not presumed that everyone who is a follower of Jesus will possess each beatitude.  Rather, the gifts named in the Beatitudes suggest that the diversity of these gifts will be present in the community of those who have heard Jesus’s call to discipleship.  Indeed, to learn to be a disciple is to learn why we are dependent on those who mourn or who are meek, though we may not possess that gift ourselves.”[iii]

What is particularly helpful as we read these familiar words, then, is to clarify what we me by the literal word “blessed.”  Going back to the Hebrew scriptures here will help.  There are two words for “blessing” in Hebrew:  ’ashar and barak.  Barak means to “bow or stoop.”  For example, in Psalm 103, when we say “Bless the Lord my soul,” we mean “Bow to the Lord.”  But ’ashar literally means, “to find the right road.”  So, if we go back to Beatitudes, we instead hear “You are on the right road when you are poor in spirit; You are on the right road when you hunger and thirst for righteousness; you are on the right road when you are persecuted.”  Jesus is calling his disciples to hear and walk in the way of his will for our lives.[iv]

As we remember those saints who inspire us, as we recall those loved ones who taught us about how to live faithfully, as we hear Jesus’ beautiful blessings of all kinds of experiences in life, we are reminded today not to feel guilted into a more holy life.  We simply remember that the people sitting next to you today are all different points of the faith journey, with different blessings or things that feel like curses.  Because we choose to walk together, we will learn to be faithful people that, someday, someone else will remember – that someone else will tie a ribbon onto this altar rail to remember the ways you taught them what being “#blessed” really means.  Our invitation today is to celebrate the right road, knowing the fullness of that road is only visible through the communion of saints who walk the right road together.  Amen.

[i] Debie Thomas, Into the Mess and Other Jesus Stories:  Reflections on the Life of Christ (Eugene, OR:  Cascade Books, 2022),120.

[ii] Thomas, 120-121.

[iii] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew:  Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 63

[iv] Earl F. Palmer, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 4 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 238

Sermon – Matthew 11.25-30, Feast of St. Francis, October 1, 2023

04 Wednesday Oct 2023

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“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”  Whether you are wearied from wrestling your pets this morning (or your kids!), weary from full fall schedules, or weary from illness, anxiety, or bad news, Jesus’ words are words of comfort today.  They remind us of our time of renewal in sabbatical, and we want to cozy into the Gospel words today.

But today is not about Jesus blessing times of rest.  Jesus is actually commissioning disciples.  At this point in Matthew’s gospel, Jesus has been describing the way of discipleship:  serving the poor, working for justice, striving for peace.  Jesus tells them the work will be hard and will make the disciples weary.  To those disciples, Jesus offers a way to reach comfort.  Jesus says, “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Now, I do not know how much you know about yokes, but I have been studying up on yokes this past week.  There are actually two kinds of yokes.  Some yokes are meant for one person.  Imagine, if you will, a person hauling water from a well in village, the yoke over her shoulders, while two buckets full of water hang below.  The yoke distributes the weight of the water, but the yoke is not exactly an easy yoke.  The other kind of yoke is meant for two animals – like two oxen working together.  If one ox gets tired, the other pushes a little harder; later the roles may reverse.  A good yoke balances the work between the animals, without chafing or rubbing.  The work is genuinely easier and lighter.

This second kind of yoke is the metaphor Jesus uses to depict discipleship.[i]  Jesus tells them the work of discipleship will be hard and wearisome.  But when yoked to Jesus, the work will feel light.  So often, when we think of disciples as easing suffering, fighting for the poor, struggling for justice, we think we need to solve the worlds’ problems on our own – that we must use our own gifts to make a difference.  We go unyoked, and we feel overwhelmed and disheartened.[ii]  Even when try to do good work:  building beds for kids in need, buying extra food for food collection Sunday, or donating money to events like our Murder Mystery – we can still become discouraged.  When we think we can go at it alone (or maybe even better than others), we do not get relief in Jesus’ yoke. 

St. Francis, who we honor today, knew all about the yoke of Jesus.  Francis came from a wealthy family, had a rambunctious youth, and enjoyed status and privilege.  But one day he encountered some beggars and lepers and everything changed.  Francis renounced his privilege and wealth, took on poverty, and honored the sick, poor, and disenfranchised.  What Francis discovered was his wealthy had become its own burden of sorts.  Once he yoked himself to Jesus, everything changed.  He began to see Jesus in everyone, even birds to which he preached and the animals for whom he advocated.  Francis yoked himself to Jesus and became a faithful steward of God’s creation – so faithful that we bless animals and rejoice in creation ourselves through music and scripture today.

Now, I know you maybe came today to bless your pet, or maybe to remember a beloved pet who showed you what unconditional love really is.  And while that will bring us comfort today, and we do so with love and laughter, we also do something much bigger.  Today we remember all the instances where we have felt love – in animals, in each other, even in Jesus – and we take that love not only as a comfort, but also as a commission.  Today Jesus invites us outside of ourselves – our worries, our woes, our weariness, and put our attention on those who may need love even more than we do. 

Do not get confused.  I am not asking you to add weight to that single yoke, asking you to add more water to your heavy buckets.  I am inviting you to take off the single yoke and step in a double yoke – to yoke yourself to Jesus, yoke yourself to other disciples in this room.  Take on that yoke of Christ because the yoke is easy and light – and will actually free up your burden.  Jesus will give you the comfort, encouragement, and strength you need.  And you will be enabled to stride forward making an impact right here in James City County.  We will do that work together, because the yoke is easy and the burden is light.  Amen.

[i][i] Douglas R. A. Hare, Matthew:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1993), 129.

[ii] Barbara Brown Taylor, The Seeds of Heaven:  Sermons on the Gospel of Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 21.

Sermon – Lk 11.1-13, P12, YC, July 24, 2010

05 Wednesday Oct 2022

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The single most common topic I have been asked about in the course of my ministry, year in and year out, through crisis, through joys, through transitions, and change, young and old have approached me asking for one thing:  teach me how to pray.  The request is simple, yet complicated all at the same time.  You see, when someone asks me how they can pray a reel begins in my mind, flashing all the experiences of prayer I have seen in my lifetime:  the healing prayers that splayed someone to the ground in the Pentecostal church of my early childhood; the United Methodist prayers spoken extemporaneously from the heart; the hippy campus minister who always started prayer with silence so long you wondered if he had fallen asleep; the prayers written to accompany the prayer beads my fingers strung together; the stiff Episcopal collects that seem at the same time formulaic and beautiful; saying the Lord’s Prayer in Spanish, trying to keep up with the native speakers; silent prayers in the middle of the night as I seethed in my anger at God, with no words left; praying into a telephone that doubled as a speaker in the retirement home’s dining room; resorting to digital Pop-Up Prayers when a pandemic forced us into isolation.  When asked, “teach me to pray,” where can I possibly begin?!?

When the disciples ask Jesus to teach them how to pray, Jesus’ mind seems to be all over the place too.  Jesus begins his lesson with the actual text of the Lord’s Prayer.  Jesus says, “When you pray, say this…”  But Jesus does not stop his lesson there.  Jesus goes on to teach the disciples through three small vignettes. 

In the first vignette, the disciples hear about the man who refuses his friend bread in the middle of the night because he has already gone to bed.  The disciples learn through this funny battle of wills that their posture in prayer is to be persistently inquiring.  In fact, the word used in our translation today for “persistent” is also translated by some scholars as “shamelessness.” [i]  In the second vignette, the disciples are told in the instruction to ask, seek, and knock that God responds to their inquiries.  They learn here that their posture in prayer is a posture of action.  Prayer is to express their need to God, to search out God when they feel abandoned, and to cry out to God with a loud knock.  The final vignette compares the care of a parent with the care of God for the disciples.  The disciples learn that God’s love for them is greater than the instinctual, caring love of a parent for a child.  The disciples experience that abundance when they enter into a prayerful relationship with God. 

A vulnerable, active, abundant relationship with God sounds wonderful and easy enough.  The problem is the relationship Jesus describes is not easy.  We find it difficult to be continuously vulnerable, active, and overwhelmed by God in prayer.  In fact, we find simply remaining in prayer with God difficult.  When I was in seminary, I had a group of lay persons from my field education parish who met with me once a month to help me reflect on my ministry at the church.  One of my committee members, Joe, was notorious for keeping me on the spot in these meetings.  “So, Jennifer, how is your prayer life?” Joe would always ask me.  The first time he asked me that question, I stammered through some sort of reply about corporate and individual prayer.  But Joe wanted to know the specifics of what my prayer life entailed.  Joe’s monthly prodding was the first real experience I had with accountability in my prayer life.  Finally, after about a year of asking me about my prayer life, I asked Joe about his prayer life.  Joe explained that the reason he always asked me about my prayer life was because he struggled with his own prayer life.  His pushing me was a way of also pushing himself.  He knew that if I struggled to keep an engaged prayer life, he could gain some camaraderie in his own struggle; and if I was feeling particularly connected to God in prayer, he would be challenged to engage God with more intentionality.

The mutual support that Joe was unknowingly creating is the promise of our Gospel lesson today.  First Jesus gives the disciples words:  the Lord’s Prayer.  Once they own those words, they have an assuring entry into dialogue with God.  And once the disciples have that entry, they are assured of God’s presence in the prayer relationship.  God is the faithful friend, who gets up in the middle of the night to answer prayer.  God is the responding God who will answer, be present, and open doors through the prayer relationship.  God is the parent that our parents can never fully be because God’s love is more abundant than the disciples, as humans, can ever be.  Jesus does not promise that God will respond to the disciples’ prayers in a particular or specific way.  The disciples are not promised riches or earthly gain through a life in prayer.  But Jesus does promise that God will respond, will stay present with the disciples, and will love the disciples abundantly. 

Despite all the modes of prayer I have witnessed over time, perhaps the best advice is to start where Jesus does with the words of the Lord’s Prayer.  Jesus affirms for us today that if all you can pray is the Lord’s Prayer, then pray the Lord’s Prayer.  The vehicle of the Lord’s Prayer has the power to take us to that point of vulnerability with God.  The vehicle of the Lord’s Prayer has the power to push us to action, seeking God by asking for those basic needs, knowing that God provides beyond those needs.  The vehicle of the Lord’s Prayer has the power to remind us of the abundance we already experience – of daily food, of forgiveness of sins, of salvation.  Jesus’ words for you today are words of encouragement.  Your relationship through prayer with God is going to require you to be vulnerable and to engage, but your relationship through prayer with God will be marked with abundance.  And if you feel overwhelmed by that promise, then start today with these words, “Our Father, hallowed be your name…”  Amen.

[i] James A. Wallace, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 291.

Sermon – Mark 7.1-8, 14-15, 21-23, P17, YB, August 29, 2021

08 Wednesday Sep 2021

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My mom and stepdad have been longtime members of what many of us would call a megachurch – a very large United Methodist Church in Alabama. Having worshiped with them many times, the church truly is “mega”:  multiple services of varying styles, a professional band, a TV production company, a large youth center, an indoor playground, a coffee shop, a gym with fitness classes, and a big campus.  But the thing that impresses me most about their church is their clear sense of identity.  When my family started attending regularly, two people came to visit them in their home, and they had a very frank conversation about expectations for membership.  At that meeting my mom and her husband were asked to commit to at least one ministry each, were asked about what kind of education they wanted to join, and they were asked to tithe – to make a commitment to give 10% of their earnings to the church, as is the Biblical tradition. 

I remember when my mom told me this story having a visceral reaction:  that would have felt WAY to “pressure-y” for most Episcopalians.  But as time has passed, I have come to admire their church’s clarity.  The Episcopal Church does a poor job of defining membership.  Our commitment to professing “All are welcome!” seems to translate into no defining characteristics of membership.  In fact, as a priest, one of the questions I dread the most is “How do I join your church?”  That should be a very easy question, and yet when I talk to new members, the answer has to be two-fold:  the technical answer (as long as you attend three services a year and are a financial contributor, you’re considered a member – the answer from the wider Episcopal Church which I loathe!), and the more practical answer we have crafted here at Hickory Neck:  you fill out a form, you commit to supporting the church financially, you commit to feeding yourself (through study, prayer, regular worship), and you commit to feeding others (through giving your time to the church and to the wider community on behalf of the church). 

Our gospel lesson today seems to be wading through a similar debate.  The Pharisees and scribes are totally perplexed by how some of Jesus’ disciples are not washing their hands before eating – a totally valid concern in these days of COVID!  But handwashing was not just about hygiene.  The ritual washing of hands was about identity, or “membership” as we understand it today.  The Jews of this time are in an “oppressed minority, living in an occupied land.”  Their question is asked with the backdrop of colonialism, cultural and religious diversity, and competing claims on identity.[i]    Their question is both simple and complex:  why aren’t the disciples living like members of our community? 

For many a reader of this text, all sorts of erroneous conclusions have been drawn – primarily the antisemitic understanding that the laws of the Jews are superseded by laws of Jesus.[ii]  But that is not what is happening in this text.  Jesus does not have any issue with ritual cleansing:  he of all people understands the consequences of following God.  But Jesus is saying something more nuanced about identity and membership.  Jesus is saying that no matter how we traditionally mark ourselves as “other,” even if something is “the way we’ve always done it,” what is more important is how we live our faith.  So, if we are doing all the right things:  washing our hands the right way, bowing at all the right times, crossing ourselves when we’re supposed to, saying “Amen” during the sermon – or avoiding saying “Amen” during the sermon – none of that matters if our insides are defiled.  As Jesus quotes from Isaiah, “This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me…”[iii] 

Today’s invitation is to ponder what membership in this body of faith means.  Are we honoring Jesus with our lips, but our hearts are far from Jesus?  Are we following the external “rules” but fostering evil intentions in our heart?  Our work this week is making sure that when we go out into the world to love and serve the Lord, we love and serve the Lord in ways that show people Christ through our words and actions; that when we wash our hands, we do not wash them simply to keep ourselves safe, but to keep our neighbors safe; and that when we talk about how much we love this church on the hill, we do so in a way that does not show mask our individual struggles with avarice, deceit, slander, pride, and folly.  Telling the world you are a proud member of Hickory Neck Episcopal Church is just fine; but our invitation is to be clear with others that, as that old tune says, “He’s still working on me,” is also a part of membership in the body of Christ.  Amen. 

[i] Debie Thomas, “True Religion,” August 22, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2944 on August 27, 2201.

[ii] Idea suggested by Matt Skinner on the Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#799: 14th Sunday after Pentecost (Ord. 22B) – Aug. 29, 2021,” August 22, 2021, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/799-14th-sunday-after-pentecost-ord-22b-aug-29-2021 on August 25, 2021.

[iii] Mark 7.6b.

Sermon – Acts 1.15-17, 21-26, E7, YB, May 16, 2021

26 Wednesday May 2021

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I have sometimes daydreamed about the experience of liturgical freedom:  picking and choosing the scripture for a given Sunday (particularly when I need to address a specific issue), praying an extemporaneous prayer on a Sunday to address a certain topic in the church, or drafting our own liturgical experience to address a particular need.  However, as crazy as the idea may sound, I more often find freedom within our Episcopal constraints than within the endless possibilities of what could be. 

This past week was a classic example.  Last Sunday, totally unaware of the announcement I would be making on Tuesday, Bob preached about the invitation of the Resurrection being an invitation into discernment – discernment about what each of us needs to do to bring about the kingdom here on earth.  On Tuesday night, our regularly scheduled Discover Class topic, which was scheduled months ago, was focused on the structure and leadership model of the Episcopal Church, including who bishops are and how they are elected.  Then today, we get this lesson from the Acts of the Apostles in which Peter and the other apostles are attempting to replace the twelfth spot Judas left open through his death.  All that daydreaming about constructing our spiritual experiences went out the window this week when I remembered the Holy Spirit does a much better job at constructing those experiences than I ever could!

To say that this portion of the Acts of the Apostles is a divine gift is not necessarily because we happen to be talking about a bishop’s election this week just as the apostles are talking about an election of sorts.  In fact, what the apostles are doing is the opposite of an election.  No one asks Matthias or Justus to go through an interview process or offer their vision of leadership for the next decade.  Instead, their criteria are pretty simple.  First, the replacement should be someone who knows Jesus personally.  Second, they want to honor their ancestral roots in the twelve tribes of Israel – eleven apostles will not suffice.[i]  Third, their decision is rooted in prayer.  And finally, their decision is based on trust in the will of God.  Nowadays, we might think the casting of lots is a little too random and could lead to a poor appointment of leadership – I mean when was the last time we selected a Rector, Warden, or Committee Chair by flipping a coin?  But according to New Testament scholar Kathy Grieb, the casting of lots is “an ancient biblical practice for determining God’s will…”[ii]

Hearing about all the coincidences in our last week, from talking about discernment, to the structure of the Episcopal Church, to the selection of the last apostle, may be intriguing or even amusing, but may also leave you asking, “So, what?  What does all of this have to do with me or my experience of Hickory Neck, or even more broadly, with Jesus?”  As I have reflected on these coincidences – or as Carl Jung referred to them as instances of “synchronicity” or “meaningful coincidence”[iii] – I see an invitation for all of us from Peter.  First is an invitation to recall our identity.  We are a community whose historic identity has been about weathering change – whether it was the identity crisis created by the Revolutionary War, the replacement of a faith community by schools and hospitals for over a century, to reclaiming and expanding our land to become a church again, to surviving a global pandemic.  The possibility of a change in clergy – a very small possibility at that – does not alter the fact that we are a community rooted in Jesus’ love, shining our light on this Holy Hill for almost three centuries.  Second is an invitation into prayer:  prayer for the Hickory Neck Community, prayer for your Rector, and prayer for the Diocese of Iowa and the other candidates.  Our hurt, our frustration, our fear, and our joy can be left at the feet of Christ in prayer.  When given the space, prayer can do much more than we can imagine.  And finally, our invitation this week is to trust in God.  We may not always like what God does – I am pretty sure the apostles would much rather have not been trying to figure out a leadership model in Jesus’ absence.  But we do know that God is faithful, and, in time, God leads us to goodness and grace.  I do not know where the next couple of months will lead us.  But I do know if we can stay rooted in our identity, in prayer, and in our faith in God, we will come out stronger disciples for Jesus, strengthened to take on whatever “meaningful coincidences” the Holy Spirit throws our way.  Amen.

[i] Noel Leo Erskine, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 528.

[ii] A. Katherine Grieb, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 531.

[iii] Carl G. Jung, Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle (Princeton:  Princeton University Press, 2012), 44, as cited at https://artsofthought.com/2020/05/30/carl-jung-synchronicity/ on May 14, 2021.

On Hugs and New Realities…

28 Wednesday Apr 2021

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Photo credit: https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/hugging-for-20-seconds-a-day-may-reduce-your-stress-2zck2d7h6

A few weeks ago, we met friends for an outdoor playdate with our kids and each other.  We had not seen them in a long time, and all of us had received one or both of our COVID shots.  Excited to see each other, there were lots of squeals and warm words of greeting.  Then my friend did something that shocked my system.  She came in close and said quietly, “I’m going to hug to you now.”  We were both masked and I have always been a “hug person.”  But when she pulled me in for a hug, I realized I have not hugged anyone outside of my immediate family for thirteen months.  I felt simultaneously anxious and comforted, tense and overwhelmingly relieved.  Feeling the conflicted reactions flooded me with a sadness for all that has been lost in this last year and a hopefulness for what is to come.

A year ago, I remember thinking that as soon as this pandemic were over, we were going to have a huge party at church.  As I think back to that sentiment now, I see how naïve it was.  I had no idea how long this would take.  I had no idea we would need vaccines, and when they finally became available, some people would refuse to take them.  I had no idea that even with adults fully eligible, children would not immediately be eligible for vaccinations.  I had no idea there would be no neat and tidy “end” to this pandemic.

And so, instead of a huge party, we are making tentative, slow steps toward a semblance of normalcy:  gathering for Eucharist, but socially distanced, masked and with only about 50 people; outdoor funerals with similar restrictions; thinking through modified baptisms and weddings that will not be the same, but at least can happen; carefully considering how we might sing together, following exceedingly stringent guidelines and regulations; and seeing faces we have missed all year, even if we cannot embrace. 

Watching all of this unfold in Eastertide somehow seems so appropriate.  We often think of Eastertide as the time we joyfully celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, a seven-weeklong party of sorts.  But that was not anything like what Eastertide was for the disciples.  There was fear, disbelief, confusion, denial, and hesitancy.  Even as Jesus offers his body as a proof text, the disciples are more often cowering in upper rooms than throwing parties in the streets.  Coming out of trauma – either of the death of your Messiah or out of a worldwide pandemic – is not instantaneous, straightforward, or clear.  This Eastertide, I have been especially grateful to journey through Eastertide with the disciples.  Somehow, their muddled, messy behavior has been a comfort and sign of solidarity during these strange times.  I hope you are finding similar companionship this Eastertide.  And if you want some modern disciples to walk with you, you are always welcome at Hickory Neck!