Tag Archives: God

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

08 Wednesday Apr 2020

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

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

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

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

Sermon – Ezekiel 37.1-14, John 11.1-45, L5, YA, March 29, 2020

01 Wednesday Apr 2020

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Today would be an easy day to skim the lessons and declare a victory.  We come to these texts today with cases of Coronavirus rising, deaths increasing, schools closing, jobs ending, and life stopping.  A simple drive down Richmond Road, and the restaurants and tourist stops whose parking lots are usually filled reveal a ghost town.  Even when we do venture out to grab necessities, the faces of people in stores are filled with anxiety, and bodies tense when spacing gets a little too close with others.  In this bizarre reality, we want nothing more than a breath of fresh air, a promise of hope and resurrection.

In many ways, that is exactly what we get in our lessons today.  Ezekiel shares a vision of resurrection and restoration.  The valley full of dry bones – presumably representing the people of Israel in exile in Babylon[i] – are brought back to life.  Through Ezekiel’s prophesying, God’s breath is breathed into the bones.  Bones reassemble, sinews and flesh come upon them, and even breath fills their lungs.  Reassembled, the bodies feel bereft in a strange land, but the Lord our God promises them they will be returned to Israel – to their land.  The same can be said of John’s gospel.  Lazarus is dead.  Four days dead.  The common Jewish understanding of the time was that the soul hovered near the body for three days, hoping to return; but after those three days, the soul departed for good.[ii]  There is no hope for Lazarus.  And yet, in Jesus’ deep love for this man, he weeps.  And then he raises Lazarus from the dead.  Into the next chapter, we even find Lazarus reclining on Jesus – not just alive, but living a life of abundance.

These are texts we want to hear today.  We want Holy Scripture to say, “Everything will be okay.  Everything will go back to normal.  You’re okay.”  And in some ways, that is what the texts seem to say.  The exiled people of Israel will be returned to their land.  The lost brother of Martha and Mary is returned to them in health and vigor.  Suffering is ended for both.  Life is restored for both.  We get to go back to normal.

And yet, I am not sure our texts today are saying things quite that simply.  For the people of God in exile, Ezekiel’s words are a bit more complex.  The breath God breathes into them helps them remember that even in exile, God is with them.  God is animating them in a foreign land.  Yes, there is a promise to return to the Promised Land.  But we know that any great journey into suffering means that even when we return to “normal,” we are not “normal.”  We are changed.  Health may be restored, land may be restored; but we are forever changed.  The news for Lazarus is a bit more complex too.  Although Jesus brings Lazarus back from the dead, to live an abundant life in the here and now, Lazarus’ resurrection is not forever.  Someday, Lazarus will return to the ground.  We know, like the people in exile, Lazarus’ life after the tomb will not be like his life before.  And we also see in Jesus’ conversation with Martha that Lazarus’ death not just about Lazarus.  Lazarus’ death is merely a foretaste of the resurrection of Jesus.  This return to life is limited to one person.  Jesus’ return to life will change a people.

All of this is to say that today’s good news is good news indeed.  There will be life after this virus.  There will be restored health and community after this virus.  There will be renewed strength and vitality after this virus.  But we will also be forever changed by this virus.  We will see life and the gift of life differently than before.  We will come back to our life rhythms and routines a changed people.  We will understand the gift of resurrection in new and deeply moving ways.  The promise of these passages in not simply a return to normal.  The promise of these passages is a journey that will change us all – of valleys with dry bones, of weeping by bedsides, of crying out to Jesus.  The promise of these passages is the destination of Easter.  Not a return to normal, but a new, profound understanding of resurrection in Christ.  In the meantime, Jesus weeps with us.  God is breathing life into us.  And soon, we will know the depths of resurrection life like never before.  Amen.

[i] Kelton Cobb, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 122.

[ii] Leander E. Keck, ed., The New Interpreters Bible, vol. ix (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 687.

On Singing in a Strange Land…

27 Friday Mar 2020

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saul-raskin-on-the-rivers-of-babylon

Paul Raskin, “On the rivers of Babylon.”  Photo credit:  http://www.artnet.com/artists/saul-raskin/on-the-rivers-of-babylon-CQj4JGZtS9eQctXb-beJg2

In some ways, I suppose I could have predicted it.  We spent hours luxuriously debating how to safely distribute communion, being able to consider every detail:  imagining how hard this new reality would be for our parish, who is a loving, “touchy-feely” parish; researching burgeoning new practices in other parishes and dioceses; and prayerfully considering how to model safe behavior.  And in the end, our parish engaged beautifully, the pain of their sacrifices obvious on their faces, but also the determination to protect and care for one another equally obvious on their faces.

But then the bottom dropped out.  It was two weeks ago, and I was in the family surgical waiting room, already letting my wardens know I would have to miss a Vestry meeting because my daughter’s surgery had been more complicated than expected, and I had yet to see her.  But just as the nurse was telling us our daughter had been moved to recovery and we could go back soon, our Bishop sent out a communication, cancelling all church campus activities, including worship – including that Vestry Meeting we had planned to hold.  The next several days were a blur – sleep in three-hour bursts as I tended my daughter; texts, emails, and calls to figure out how to still hold worship virtually; pastoral letters to be written to the parish explaining what was happening and how this would all work; and the reality of this even newer normal sinking in slowly.

I have never had a long conversation with a refugee, but I have watched enough news coverage, read enough human-interest stories, and seen enough movies about refugees to have a tiny inkling of how upending, world-changing, and scary it must be to be a refugee.  I would never argue my life in the midst of the Coronavirus is as brutal or devastating as a refugee, but there do seem to be some parallels.  Within moments, our world has been upended.  We went from being totally free to do whatever we desire, to being confined to our homes, having our jobs be totally changed (or sometimes ended), having the schooling of our children and the social support system schooling represents stripped away, worrying about the scarcity of necessities and the wisdom of going out to obtain what we could find, feeling the anxiety of financial insecurity, and losing the comfort of physical touch and community.  As a parent and priest, it has meant taking on the impossibility of two full-time jobs, knowing everyday you could do more, and yet being limited to the constraints of 24 hours a day.  And none of that even touches the emotional, psychological, and spiritual weight of upheaval that our bodies are processing, whether we try to stifle it or not.

Unlike most refugees, I know this new normal for us is relatively temporary.  Someday, we will be able to go back to some modification of the old normal.  But for now, this new reality is foreign, disorienting, and unnerving.  I was just yesterday reminded of that song “Rivers of Babylon,” which pulls from Psalm 137 and 19.  The echo of the verse, “How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?” has been lingering with me.  And yet, that seems to be the only thing holding me together these days – singing the Lord’s song in a strange land.  For all the upheaval, all the disorder, all the anxiety and confusion, rooting myself in daily prayer – having people join in watching on Facebook Live, leaving their comments or greetings, or just seeing their names pop up, has felt like a balm to my heart.  I have not been able to bless or consume the holy meal, I have not been able to embrace my beloved parishioners, and I have not been able exchange physical signs of the peace.  But I have been able to hear the prayers of not only our parish’s heart, but also the hearts of our neighbors, friends, and even strangers.  I have not been able to gather physically with our community, but I have felt the connection of virtual community so palpably, I thought I would cry.  I do not know how long this new reality will last, but I am grateful for the opportunity to sing the Lord’s song in this strange land.  You are most welcome to join me in this singing.  And if you do not know the song, I’m happy to teach you or sing it for you for a while.  May God bless you all, and I’ll see you sometime today as we gather virtually to sing the Lord’s song!

Sermon – John 9.1-41, L4, YA, March 22, 2020

27 Friday Mar 2020

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I must confess to you:  I have been dreading talking to you about this text all week.  The presence of cause and effect in this text is overwhelming.  The text says multiple times that the reason the blind man is blind from birth is because he sinned (and since it was from birth, there is the implication his parents sinned, and the blind man is being doubly punished and exists in double sin).  Those gathered insist that Jesus must be sinful too because he does not follow the law – he heals on the Sabbath, and he cannot possibly speak for or act for God as a sinner.  Jesus also says those gathered are sinners for they cannot see God.  Even at the beginning of John’s story, even Jesus says, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.”

I have not wanted to preach this text today because I do not at feel comfortable with the cause and effect nature of this text, especially what that cause and effect nature seems to imply about suffering.  Can Jesus really be saying this man was made blind so that God could be revealed?  Is this text saying God causes suffering – pain, disability, ostracizing from community, poverty so deep that only begging will ensure survival?  That concept is a huge hurdle for me because that is not at all my theology of suffering.  And I especially do not like hearing that theology of suffering this week – a week when we are watching the cases of Coronavirus creep up in our country and double in our county and have begun asking the same sorts of questions the people in this passage are asking:  Where is God in this?  Why is God allowing not only this terrible virus to happen, but the accompanying societal upheaval?  Is God causing this suffering for some greater good?  This kind of health crisis pulls at all of us and in our innermost, private places, and makes us wonder, even if we cannot say the words aloud, “Did God have something to do with this virus?”  Or sometimes we find ourselves not embarrassingly asking the question, but boldly shouting at God, “What in the world are you doing?  Why aren’t you here fixing this?  How could you do this?!?”  The absolute LAST passage I want to hear when we are asking these bone-deep theological, desperate questions is a text that seems to imply God causes suffering for God’s own glory.

That is why I am especially grateful for biblical scholars who can journey with us in interpreting scripture.  Biblical Scholar Rolf Jacobson took a look at that same verse that has been nagging me all week, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.”  Luckily Jacobson is better at Greek than me.  He explains that the writers of the New Revised Standard Version inserted text into the English translation that simply is just not there.  In the original Greek, the words “he was born blind,” are not there.  Instead of the text saying, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him,” the text actually says, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned [period].  In order that God’s works might be revealed in him, we must work the works of him who sent me…”  According to Jacobson, Jesus is not saying the man was blind so God could be revealed.  Jesus is saying no one sinned.  But given the situation, God has given his disciples the opportunity to do something good to reveal God’s goodness.[i]  In other words, God does not cause suffering.  But God can use us in the midst of suffering for good.

I don’t know about you, but that has shifted my understanding of this text completely.  All of the arguing about who sinned, what laws you must follow to be holy, and who should be in or out are a distraction.  The same can be true of us.  When we start trying to logic our way through fault, or sin, or blame – even blame on God, we lose our way; we become blind like those gathered and arguing in our text today.  Instead, this text is inviting us to ask different questions.  Instead of whose sin caused this virus, we can ask, “How can I be a force for good in the midst of this virus?”  Instead of why God is doing this or allowing this to happen, we can ask, “Where are the opportunities to see God acting for good in the midst of suffering?”  Instead of where is God in this, we can ask, “Where am I finding moments of God’s grace in this?”  I am not arguing our questions and demands of God are not valid at this time.  In fact, I think our quiet doubt of and our raging anger at God are perfectly normal – and maybe even necessary for honest relationship with God.  What I am arguing is this text is not a reinforcement of our sense of darkness, but instead an invitation into light – an invitation to seeing when we may feel blinded.  My prayer this week is that we stumble into those moments of light this week – that we find those moments of grace upon grace that give us renewed comfort, hope, and faith.  May God bless you in the journey toward the light.  Amen.

[i] Rolf Jacobson, “Sermon Brainwave #713 – Fourth Sunday in Lent,” March 14, 2020, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=1240, on March 19, 2020.

Sermon – John 4.5-42, L3, YA, March 15, 2020

19 Thursday Mar 2020

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Today’s gospel lesson is one of those lessons that can be so full of intrigue that we miss what is happening in the text.  Most of us have heard this lesson hundreds of times, and have probably lingered on the part of the conversation where Jesus calls out the woman for living with someone who is not her husband, after already having had five husbands.  The conversation sounds straight out of Jerry Springer or Dr. Phil, where in the next scene we expect the other husbands to arrive, and a fight to break loose.

The problem with that kind of reading is we have the tone all wrong.  By narrowing in on what sounds like a “gotcha!” statement from Jesus right in the middle of about 40 verses, we forget all of the words and actions surrounding this event in the middle.  We have clues all along in the reading:  Jesus going through Samaria (when most Jews avoid Samaria); a woman appearing at a well at noon (when most of the woman have come and gone); Jesus (a Jew) talking to a Samaritan woman in broad daylight (a triple no-no); disciples appearing and engaging in conversation that sounds like The Three Stooges; talk of prophets, messiahs, disciples, and evangelism.

When we step back and take the broad view of this lesson, we are able to not be distracted by the sweep of the narrative, the scandalous and the absurd details, and the confusing stream of thought.  When seen broadly, we find a story that illuminates what having an incarnate God really looks like.  Too often, when we talk of the incarnation, we think of the baby Jesus, or the bodily, gruesome crucifixion.  But we sometimes forget the everydayness of the incarnation:  the fact that Jesus is thirsty and needs something from another, namely this Samaritan woman; the fact that Jesus initiates an intimate relationship, where two people can talk about the pain, suffering, and societal rejection of a widow and/or divorcee, who is simply trying to get by in a community that ostracizes her, even from drawing water from the well in the cool of morning; the fact that Jesus understands barrenness and empowers her to instead birth new believers.[i]  As Karoline Lewis says, says, “To take the incarnation seriously, to give it the fullest extent and expression, demands that no aspect of what it means to be human be overlooked.  To do so would truncate the principal theological claim of [John’s] Gospel.  At stake for the fourth evangelist is that Jesus is truly God in the flesh and every aspect of what humanity entails God now knows.”[ii]

I find this reading immensely meaningful today, because we are living in a moment when being flesh and bone is particularly precarious and unnerving.  A pandemic has gone all over the world and landed in our schools, our churches, our gathering places, and our homes.  Our lives have been upended by the threat of the Coronavirus, knowing the vulnerability of some in our community, and understanding suddenly how intricately intwined our lives are, even at a time when we have opined about how socially distanced we are.  This is a time when we feel very fleshy and vulnerable and here is Jesus talking to a vulnerable woman about his own fleshiness.

I don’t know about you, but I find this strange, circuitous conversation very comforting today.  In a time of anxiety, fear, and upheaval, Jesus is right there, in the midst of everyday messiness, and saying, “I feel you.  I understand.  I, your God, am incarnate, and I see and know you.”  And in response, the woman who is seen, known, and heard in turn goes to her community and becomes Jesus for others.  As Lewis says, “The woman at the well is not only a witness.  She is Jesus, the ‘I AM’ in the world, for her people.”[iii]

This is our invitation today too.  In the midst of upheaval, of disorientation, of anxiety, we are invited to be fully enfleshed Jesuses for others – to see their pain, their suffering, their uncertainty, and offer solidarity, comfort, and encouragement.  Even in a time of physical separation, we are invited into intimate relationship with one another, into relationships that honor the holy in one another, and help us all move forward.  This is what the Messiah does for us.  This is what we can do for one another.  Amen.

[i] Karoline M. Lewis, John:  Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2014), 64.

[ii] Lewis, 55.

[iii] Lewis, 65.

On Signs and Listening…

26 Wednesday Feb 2020

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Every once in a while, someone will ask me to whom my sermon was directed.  I think most folks who ask this think I somehow got into their minds and was preaching about them.  But I always assure people that the primary person I am preaching to is myself, something on which I need work.  I share my struggle because I often hear echoes of my struggle in others’ struggles as well.

Well, this past Sunday I preached a sermon directed at myself, without even realizing it!  On Sunday we celebrated Transfiguration Sunday, this year using Matthew’s Gospel[i].  In Matthew’s Gospel, God says, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”  In my sermon, I talked about one of the things we all need to do this Lent is listen to Jesus.  Sunday night, by the time three services and one concert was over, my voice was gone.  By Monday, I was diagnosed with laryngitis.

Now, we can all get a laugh about how the preacher who reminded us all to listen is now mute and forced to listen to Jesus.  But I must be hardheaded, because I think Jesus was already asking me to listen just a few days before.  The week prior to my sermon, I had just returned from a pilgrimage, and was frantically trying to meet deadlines, follow up on pastoral care, and catch up on emails.  But we got a snow on Thursday night that cancelled school on Friday, and I had to clear my entire calendar so I could be at home with my kids.  Instead of making all my appointments, I sat down and did other things from my home office that were also being neglected.  I am convinced the snow day was God’s way of trying to get me to slow down, and listen to Jesus.  Apparently, I need more than one sign from God before I listen!

I wonder what signs you are finding in your faith journey?  Where are you having ah-ha moments of God speaking truth that finally click?  I believe God is speaking to us all the time:  sometimes in words directly to us, sometimes through the words and actions of others, and maybe even sometimes through creation!  As we take our ashes today, and as we begin a season of intentional relationship with God, I invite you to take time this Lent to listen.  I cannot wait to hear what God is saying to you!

[i] Matthew 17.1-9.

Sermon – Matthew 17.1-9, LE, YA, February 23, 2020

26 Wednesday Feb 2020

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On this last day of Epiphany, as we prepare to enter into Lent this week, we are given the text of Jesus’ transfiguration.  The text in and of itself is mesmerizing:  Jesus and three disciples go up a mountain, which is a hint to all of us that something dramatic is about to happen; Jesus is transfigured, his face shining like the sun and his clothes turning dazzling white; Moses and Elijah appear, two giant figures in our tradition – so giant we heard about Moses’ mountaintop experience today too; a cloud comes down around them and God speaks; and when the experience is all over, Jesus gently touches the disciples and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”  We could easily get lost in this spellbinding moment, longing to stay on the mountaintop this morning.

But as many scholars point out[i], this mountaintop story, situated at the end of the Epiphany season, is not told in isolation.  Because we tell this story when we do, we have to take a wider view today.  The end of this season is bookended by the end of the season we are about to enter:  Lent.  That season ends on a mountain, of sorts, too – the hill of Calvary, where we see a very different kind of scene.  In this Sunday of transition, we hold the two mountains in tension together.  As scholar N.T. Wright reminds us, on Transfiguration Sunday, “…on a mountain, is Jesus, revealed in glory; there, on a hill outside Jerusalem, is Jesus, revealed in shame.  Here his clothes are shining white; there, they have been stripped off, and soldiers have gambled for them.  Here he is flanked by Moses and Elijah, two of Israel’s greatest heroes, representing the law and the prophets; there, he is flanked by two brigands, representing the level to which Israel had sunk in rebellion against God.  Here, a bright cloud overshadows the scene; there, darkness comes upon the land.  Here Peter blurts out how wonderful it all is; there, he is hiding in shame after denying he even knows Jesus.  Here a voice from God himself declares that this is his wonderful son; there, a pagan soldier declares, in surprise, that this really was God’s son.”[ii]

Looking at the transfiguration of Jesus in that way as opposed to a momentous, isolated event feels like riding a rollercoaster – seeing the glorious and the disastrous all in once glance, feeling the high of sweet affirmation and comfort and the low of betrayal all in one breath, knowing the promise of victory and reality of failure all in one moment.  When you take the expanse of the mountaintop transfiguration, the journey through Lent, the culmination on the hill of Calvary, you can almost feel dizzy from the range of emotions.

In some ways, that sensation of being on a rollercoaster of emotions has not been dissimilar to the experience of emotions lately at Hickory Neck.  In the course of one week recently, we said goodbye to a beloved curate, labored intensively with our homeless neighbors, and then had the Presiding Bishop rock this very Nave.  In the course of these next months, we live into the reality of switching from a staff with two full-time priests, to one full-time priest, and will discover how that will shape and shift not only our experience with our staff, but our experience with caring for one another.  In the course of these next forty-plus days, we will go from the high of pancakes and talent shows, to ashes and repentance, back to alleluias, butterflies, and Easter eggs.  I can feel viscerally that rollercoaster of Transfiguration to Calvary right here in the life and ministry of Hickory Neck.

But that is why I am also deeply grateful for Matthew’s transfiguration text today.  We get two instructions today – one from God and one from Jesus.  God speaks first, with words we heard earlier at Jesus’ baptism.  “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased.”  Those words are another declaration and reminder of Jesus’ identity.  But God adds something else today.  “Listen to him!” God says.  In those three words, God tells us what to do when caught in the whirlwind of life and transition:  listen to Jesus.  For a people who live in a culture marked by the spirit self-determination and can-do attitude, we are not necessarily the best at listening to Jesus.  Listening takes time and patience and discernment, and we just want to get on with the “doing.”  But today, God’s words are for us.  Listen to Jesus.

I used to be a part of a group who opened our gatherings with prayer.  One particular leader had a unique method of prayer.  He would introduce the prayer normally, saying, “Let us pray.”  But then he would say nothing.  For a long time.  So long was the silence, that the first time I experienced his prayer method, I kept discretely peeking through my eyelashes to make sure nothing was wrong.  I wondered if something had happened, or if he was struggling for words, or maybe even if he had fallen asleep.  But he remained sitting in a serene body posture, in silence as we waited.  When I finally conceded he must be doing this on purpose, I tried to relax and just sit in the silence.  Eventually his spoken prayer began and was lovely.  But I needed several more times praying with him before I could settle into the silence he created.  In that silence I began to stop talking in my head, and began to do what God commands today.  Listen to Jesus.  That is one of our invitations as we enter this Lent, and as we settle into this liminal time of transition at Hickory Neck.  We are to listen to Jesus.  Listening will not feel like doing.  Listening will sometimes be frustrating.  But in listening, we will be equipped to hear Jesus speaking to us and guiding us.

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

But then, Jesus speaks.  Jesus says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”  For those of us who are doers, these words are anchoring today.  God tells us to listen to Jesus, Jesus gives us a reassuring touch, and then Jesus tells us to get up and not be afraid.  In other words, Jesus is speaking to us, Jesus is reassuring us, and then Jesus is telling us to get up and get going.  I hear in Jesus’ words today more modern words for Hickory Neck, “You’ve got this!”  As we enter into the season of Lent, we commit to what we always do in this season – to returning and repenting, to listening and discerning, to seeking comfort and renewal, and then getting back in there.  In what can feel like a rollercoaster of emotions, today’s lesson offers us grounding, comfort, and encouragement.  In a season of journeying from one mountain to another, we have the promise of a comforting hand, soothing words, and inspiring action.  We are not off the rollercoaster yet, but we have each other, and the promise of those unknown to us who join us in this journey.  As we stand here on our hill in Toano, I am grateful for good companions on what promises to be an awesome ride.  Amen.

[i] Thomas G. Long, Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Pres, 1997), 194; also, Rolf Jacobson, Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#708 – Transfiguration Sunday,” February 15, 2020,  http://www.workingpreacher.org/brainwave.aspx?podcast_id=1232, as found on February 20, 2020.

[ii] N.T. Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 14.

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

On the Pilgrim’s Way…

21 Friday Feb 2020

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Last week, I joined fifteen other pilgrims in the pilgrimage of a lifetime.  We made our way through the minsters, cathedrals, and colleges of England, hearing Evensong and Choral Mass, saying prayers, lighting candles, learning our history, discovering our present, and reveling in our walk with God.  You can see the daily reflections originally posted on Hickory Neck Church‘s Facebook page reprinted on this blog.  In the meantime, I am grateful this week for this incredible group of people who opened up new spiritual discoveries for my own journey!

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The Pilgrim’s Way…Day 8

14 Friday Feb 2020

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Sixteen pilgrims from Hickory Neck Church traveled to England for 8 days of pilgrimage.  Our focus was on choral music, hearing Evensong or Choral Mass at a Cathedral, Minster, or college everyday.  This is the last entry, initially posted on our church Facebook page.  For those of you who do not follow us on Facebook, I am repeating the journey’s daily entries here.  Enjoy!

London – Westminster Abbey

The full last day of our pilgrimage was a free day until Evensong. What was fascinating was how varied our experiences were. Some pilgrims chose museums, some did tours of government-related buildings (historic and modern), some did touristy things, and some rested or visited local friends. I was surprised by the limited overlap in our choices, and realized how diverse our interests really are.

That is part of what has been so beautiful about this experience. We represent a variety of ages and phases of life, backgrounds, and spiritual journeys. And yet, we all had a longing for something – a desire to know God more fully, to walk with Christ more intentionally, and experience the Holy Spirit more playfully. The commonality in our diversity made Evensong even more beautiful tonight. We gathered back in from our wandering and settled into the prayers, canticles, and songs that have rooted us this entire pilgrimage. As the boys and men artfully played one another’s voices against each other, sounds seemed to be all over the place, and yet majestically all together. Our journey mirrored the singing at Westminster Abbey in profound ways.

As we return from our pilgrimage, I encourage you to ask questions, to hear stories, and to grow with us. Our pilgrimage may feel like it is ending, but our pilgrimage is just beginning with you.

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The Pilgrim’s Way…Day 7

13 Thursday Feb 2020

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Sixteen pilgrims from Hickory Neck Church traveled to England for 8 days of pilgrimage.  Our focus was on choral music, hearing Evensong or Choral Mass at a Cathedral, Minster, or college everyday.  This is the seventh entry, initially posted on our church Facebook page.  For those of you who do not follow us on Facebook, I am repeating the journey’s daily entries here.  Enjoy!

London – Westminster Abbey/St. Paul’s Cathedral

Today’s journey highlighted a truth about our spiritual lives in general. One of the tricky dynamics of being a pilgrim in cathedrals, minsters, and colleges is you need a guide to teach you and create a depth of learning and growth. What the naked eye sees only gets you so far. Then you need someone who can explain how many years worship has happened there, why you are only one pilgrim in centuries of pilgrims, and how our history informs our present. Our guides are not just historical guides; they are spiritual guides too.

But the other part of pilgrimage is experience. No three hour lecture can replace the experience of staring at beautiful arches, stained glass windows, modern art, or a flickering prayer candle. No amount of talking can help you hear God more than just sitting and listening. No lesson on the historical period of a composer can help you hear the intricacies of Evensong that can sometimes take your breath away. Sometimes pilgrimage is about making space to hear and feel God in profound ways – in ways that are hard to access in the hubbub of everyday life.

Today was such a day. The morning was full of kings, queens, murder, theft, and a lot of royal history as it relates to the faith. This afternoon was about making room for God. And Evensong was a breath of fresh air – with sounds of comfort, of embracing gentleness, of the maternal nature of God. Today was about finding a spiritual guide and then letting go in order to meet God on your own.

Where are you on your journey? Do you need a guide, or perhaps a faith community, to start enriching your spiritual life? Or do you need to let go of learning for a time and simply bring yourself to God’s house for either new connections to Christ, or to recall richer spiritual times, waiting for enlightenment? I can’t wait to hear about your pilgrimage!

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