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Sermon – 1 Kings 19.9-18, P14, YA, August 9, 2020

19 Wednesday Aug 2020

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Today’s sermon is offered as the height of irony.  The art of preaching is based on the spoken word.  Fortunately for you, we are Episcopalians, so our sermons are usually under fifteen minutes – and in the times of livestreaming, we shorten them down to less than ten.  In other traditions, the spoken word of the sermon can last thirty minutes to an hour.  In fact, I used to worship at a church where scheduling lunches after worship was nearly impossible because depending on how much the preacher got going, lunch could be a noon, at one, or even approaching two in the afternoon.

I say this is the height of irony because our scripture lessons today seem to point to one instruction:  to stop talking.  Poor Elijah has sunken into a funk.  He shuts down the prophets of Baal in a dramatic, showy display of confidence and trust in God.  But as soon as Queen Jezebel threatens to retaliate by taking Elijah’s life, Elijah flees and becomes so despondent in the wilderness, he would rather the Lord take his life.  Though God shows infinite compassion, tending to Elijah’s needs for food and shelter, when Elijah dejectedly goes all the way to Mt. Sinai, God finally asks a loaded question, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”  Elijah’s response is to start talking – a lot.  He goes on and on, justifying what a great prophet and servant he has been, how he has defended God’s honor, and punished sinners.  Then he complains about how despite his valiant work, his life is threatened, and he is the only one left defending God.

As if to demonstrate how Elijah needs to stop talking and start listening, God makes a dramatic point.  A great wind passes by Elijah’s cave, then an earthquake, and even a fire.  But not until there is the sound of sheer silence does God appear.  Once again, God, in the sound of sheer silence asks, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”  Now this is the point at which Elijah should have gotten the hint:  answers are not in the noise of wind, earthquakes, and fire – not even in endless talking.  Answers are found in the profound silence of God.  But Elijah does not get the hint, and proceeds to answer God with the exact same verbose explanation.

With the exception of those who live in religious orders, most of us struggle with the sheer silence of God.  Our prayers to God are full of words – petitions for loved ones, diatribes of lament over our fractured political state, or words of anger at God when we feel abandoned, anxious, or overwhelmed.  Even our own liturgical tradition is rooted in words.  We are quite good at talking to God.  Our challenge is not in finding words; our challenge in relationship with God is in not using words – in making room for the sound of sheer silence.  Anyone who has been to a Taizé worship service knows that in the long periods of silence – three to five minutes even – the first couple of minutes are filled with the shuffling discomfort of those gathered.  In our resistance to silence is a resistance to God:  perhaps a fear that we will not be able to hear God, or worse, a fear of what we will hear from God.

Professor Christopher Davis says, “One of the hardest lessons we have to learn is that God is in the quiet, the gentle influences that are ever around us, working with us, for us, and on us, without any visible or audible indicators of activity.  We must learn to listen for the God who is quiet and gentle.”[i]  In Elijah’s story, God makes this point dramatically – offering some of the loudest acts of nature to contrast the sound of sheer silence.  Now the good news is God does not see Elijah’s inability to stop talking as justification to abandon Elijah.  In fact, not only does God quietly tell Elijah he is not alone – there are still seven thousand in Israel who are as faithful as Elijah.  But God also provides a solution for Elijah – kings and a prophetic successor, Elisha, who will take up the mantle when Elijah can no longer keep going.

The promise is the same for us.  Even if we are unable to stop talking at God – Lord knows in the middle of this pandemic, with what feels like the world crumbling around us, we have a lot to say to God.  Our invitation though, is to take a pause, maybe even a deep breath, and listen for the sound of sheer silence.  In that silence, God is finally able to speak to us, showing us the signs of encouragement all around us, pointing us to signs of God’s faithfulness in what can feel like abandonment, and helping us physically turn to God when our bodies are much more trained to stay in tense resistance in some attempt to control the chaos all around us.  This week, the Lord reminds us that we cannot always talk our way out of the cacophony of life.  Sometimes only the sheer silence of God’s presence can speak to us.  When God asks us this week, “what are you doing here?” our invitation is not to justify ourselves with words, but to ponder anew with God in the silence.  Whether we speak or manage to stay silent, God is there:  but today, God offers us the gentle reminder that we will find hearing God a whole lot easier if we can simply stand with God in the sheer sound of silence.  Amen.

 

[i] Christopher Davis, “Commentary on 1 Kings 19:9-18,” August 9, 2020, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=4556 on August 7, 2020.

On God’s Humming…

05 Wednesday Aug 2020

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On vacation last week, my family and I visited a “safari park” – basically a drive-through petting zoo where you can roll down your window and feed the animals.  I confess, I was not looking forward to this part of our vacation adventures.  In general, animals make me a little nervous.  They are usually bigger than me, and I find them to be unpredictable and capable of causing harm, intentionally or not.  So, the idea of one of those, sometimes very large, animals poking its head in my safe space terrified me.  But I bit my tongue and took one for the team as we drove into the park.

It turned out most of the family had a good time on the safari, especially as we got further into the park.  But the anxiety in my gut never relaxed.  For a solid 30-45 minutes, I was on edge, trying to put on my “everything’s fine” face for the kids.  It was not until we made our way to the walking zoo section of the park and were feeding a giraffe that the tension in my body slowly eased.  The giraffe’s head was huge, but his eating was calm and collected.  And after all the lettuce was gone, he just hung out – not looking for more food.  My daughter, who is obsessed with giraffes, held a full nonverbal conversation with the giraffe, and even I found my muscles slowly relaxing as I gazed into his calm, soothing eyes.

Later, as we were reading about giraffes, I learned giraffes make a soothing humming-type noise inaudible to the human ear but meant to help them stay connected to their young and fellow giraffes.  Even though I did not hear the noise, I am convinced the giraffe must have been humming for us that day – sensing our anxiety, and longing to offer us a calming peace.

As we journey through this time of pandemic life, I am increasingly aware of the low (and sometimes high) level of anxiety within which we are all operating.  Over time, that anxiety wears on you – whether you find yourself snapping at someone, bursting into tears unexpectedly, or distancing from emotional connections.  In this time of ongoing anxiety, I have been thinking we all need a soothing sound that can help us let go of the tensions in our shoulders, relax the muscles in our jaw, and release the tightness in our chest.  For some of us that happens through yoga, through a phone call to a friend, or through watching a funny movie.  Lately, I have been wondering if God is not providing that soundless, soothing hum we have not acknowledged.  Perhaps God is placing people, animals, or encounters (even virtual ones) in our path that can help us let go of some of our anxiety, take a deep breath of the Spirit’s calming peace, and allow us to refocus on our faith – a faith which can feel adrift in the sea of closed church buildings, social distancing, and self-quarantines. My prayer for you is you hear God’s humming this week as we turn the page on another pandemic week.

On New Songs…

29 Wednesday Jul 2020

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Take Five Speakers-Rev. Jennifer Andrews-WeckerlyThis reflection was offered through the livestream program called “Take Five” at New Zion Baptist Church on July 28, 2020.  This is the text from that talk.

Tonight we turn to Psalm 149, which says, “Praise the Lord.  Sing to the Lord a new song, his praise in the assembly of the saints.  Let Israel rejoice in their Maker; let the people of Zion be glad in their King.  Let them praise his name with dancing and make music to him with tambourine and harp.  For the Lord takes delight in his people; he crowns the humble with victory.  Let the saints rejoice in this honor and sing for joy on their beds.”

Now I know what you may be thinking.  Really?  You want us to talk about praising God?  We’ve got a worldwide pandemic, which our country is becoming one of the worst handlers of in the world, which disproportionately is affecting people of color, and has become so politicized that we are no longer worried about the sanctity of human life, but are instead arguing about rights and the ethics of sacrificing life for some contrived greater good.  Not only that, we are in a crucible around racism, that alternatively gives us great hope for change and makes us despondent about how far we really have to go.  Add to that the emotional, spiritual, financial, and physical toll of this time, a time when we seem incapable of respecting the dignity of every human being, and you want to talk about singing to the Lord a new song?

I don’t know about you, but when I am feeling the weight of the world, and when I am longing for a word from God, an old song is usually where I return.  Every once in a while, when I slow down enough not to just to pray to God, but to actually listen to God, those old timey hymns from my childhood come back.  Their words speak to my ache, or let me wallow in my despair.  They talk about sweet, sweet Spirits, and walks through garden alone with Jesus, and balms in Gilead.  When I talk to Jesus, I want an old song.

But that is not what the psalmist says.  We are not asked to recall the old songs; we are invited to sing a new song.  In fact, seven times in the psalms, we are invited to sing a new song to the Lord.  As a fellow pastor says, “New songs of praise are appropriate for new rescues and fresh manifestations of grace.  As long as God is gracious toward us, as long as he keeps showing us his power, and wowing us with his works, it is fitting that we not just sing old songs inspired by his past grace, but also that we sing new songs about his ever-streaming, never-ceasing grace.”[i]

In this time of utter upheaval, unrest, and unevenness, two things are happening.  One, God is still moving.  The Spirit’s movement may be hard to see or hear in the cacophony of noise.  But I know in talking to New Zion’s leadership, talking to the folks at Hickory Neck Church, and talking to our neighbors here in James City County, Jesus is still moving.  I know that you are finding moments of grace, even in the darkness of this time.  I know that you are seeing shreds of hope, even in what feels like the disappointing failures of our nation.  Two, despite how comforting those old songs are, I am guessing the Holy Spirit has whispering some new songs in your ear.  You may not be sure of the words, and you may be straining to hear the tune.  But in the depths of your heart, where we fear change and we harbor anxiety, we know that only a new song can help get us out of this mess.

So, here’s the good news.  We are not on our own to birth these new songs.  Psalm 40 says, “I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry.  He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.  He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God.  Many will see and fear the Lord and put their trust in him.”  God put a new song in my mouth, says the psalmist.  Not I, out of my genius, wrote a new song.  Not, I worked hard and put in the time, and out of my labor created a new song.  Not, I listened to what others were singing and sang their songs.  No, the psalmist says, God put a new song in my mouth.  Our invitation tonight is to open ourselves to that new song.  Our invitation is to concede that during this time – a time unlike anything any of us has experienced – God is providing something new – new grace and new songs (which might be even better than that old favorite).  Our invitation tonight is to sing the new song God gives us out in the world – to trust in the wisdom of the words and notes Jesus is giving us and shout them out to a world that desperately needs to hear that new song.

Let us pray.  Holy and creative God, we know that you see our suffering and our cries.  We know that you see us patiently waiting on you to lift us up out of the mud and mire, to put us on a firm place to stand.  Help us to trust that you will put a new song in our mouths – a song to give voice to your ever-streaming, never-ceasing grace.  When we finally hear your new song, help us to sing that song – help us to praise your name with dancing, and make music with tambourine and harp.  Help us to remember that when we sing your new song, we shine your light into the world, helping your transformative, life-giving love take root, and disrupt the injustice of our day.  We praise you, Lord, and we bless you, and we sing a new song with you.  Amen.

[i] David Mathis, “Sing a New Song,” May 4, 2014, as found at https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/sing-a-new-song on July 27, 2020.

Sermon – Mt. 13.24-30, 36-43, P11, YA, July 19, 2020

22 Wednesday Jul 2020

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The parable in our gospel lesson today is a story about weeds – actually, one weed in particular, called the darnel.  The darnel is a nasty weed, wrapping its roots around the roots of good wheat, totally indistinguishable from wheat until producing seed, and life-threatening if allowed to mix in with wheat once harvested.[i]  Jesus tells the disciples that this menacing, evil, life-threatening weed is metaphorically planted in the field of the world.  These evil weeds are planted, growing, and thriving side-by-side with the nutritious, filling, wholesome wheat, intimately intertwined, impossible to separate without destruction to both.  And this, Jesus tells the disciples, is our world.  In one short parable, we have the reality of the enemy or devil, the problem of evil in our lives, and an accounting or judgment at the end of life.  Happy Sunday, huh?

In order to find some hint of grace in this parable, we first have to explore the bad news.  The bad news in this parable is like a funnel of evil, which starts out with a wide, removed description of evil, and as the funnel narrows, the evil comes closer and closer to home.  At the wide mouth of the funnel, we find the evil of the world.  We see evil in the world everyday – as people are kidnapped, tortured, and murdered.  We see evil as people are denied basic human rights, work in sweatshops, and are forced to flee from their lands.  We see evil as people live without shelter, food, or medicines.  And although we recognize the outcomes of evil, we get uncomfortable identifying “evil” because we hope for some hint of goodness in everyone and, secretly, we know that we too sometimes participate in the world’s evils.

Our funnel narrows as the master’s field becomes defined as not only the world, but also our church community.  Here is where the notion of “evil” weeds becomes even more uncomfortable.  Jesus experienced evil in the midst of his community, as individuals constantly sought to kill him.  The early Church also experienced evil in the Church’s midst.  And the evil within the Church is still with us today.  There is no perfect church.  I love this parish and the beautiful ways we care for and love one another – but I cannot claim that we are perfectly good.  In fact, each us has at some point been like that nasty weed, capable of choking the nutrients and life-giving water out of true goodness among us – a reality that makes us uncomfortable, both with the idea of judging each other, and with the potential of being exposed ourselves.

Then comes the tightest, most compressed area of the funnel – the spout through which evil finally flows.  The field in which evil is planted is also the field of ourselves.  Paul articulated this evil in his letter to the Romans, “For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.”[ii]  Paul’s words perfectly capture the inner turmoil of being human.  Imagining the weeds and the wheat growing up together in our own beings is not difficult.  We are constantly an intertwined field of great deeds and hurtful wrongs.  We pray that the good seed will yield fruit and the weeds will eventually be burned, but we know both weed and wheat are inside of us.  And so, the funnel shows us that evil is in our world among us, in our faith community beside us, and in our very beings.

The grace is that the funnel also works in reverse.  Grace spews out of the same funnel.  When the servants ask the master about whether they should go ahead and pull out the weeds, the master tells them to wait, letting the two grow side by side, entangled and indistinguishable.  This waiting time is the grace for our own selves.  Recognizing that both good and evil are in ourselves, God gives us time:  time to continue to nurture the good; time to avoid killing the good in our efforts to kill the evil in ourselves; and time to allow God’s grace to work in and through us, so that the goodness in us might be gathered into that barn.  As God is patient with us, so we are to be patient with ourselves.

The same grace moves out of the funnel, out of ourselves, and into our Church.  God gives us time as a faith community too.  The gift of time gives us the opportunity to live into God’s grace – witnessing goodness to one another, so that the evil among us might be overwhelmed and eventually discarded.  The gift of time for the Church also allows us to make amends for those times when we are the agents of evil in the church, confessing our faults weekly, repenting and returning to goodness.  The gift of time for the church allows us to learn and grow in God’s goodness, to marvel in the mystery of God’s grace, and to prayerfully lift up the Church to God.  God is patient with the Church just as God is patient with each of us.

Finally, the funnel of goodness spills over into the world through the gift of time.  The gift of time allows us to work on spreading goodness in the world.  We have time to give one more meal to a hungry person, to comfort one more grieving person, to advocate one more time for a just society.  And we realize in this gift of time that we are not responsible for sorting out the weeds and the wheat.  God will do that.  We can only work to cultivate goodness in our lives, in our community, and in the world – and the rest is in God’s hands.

When we realize that each of us is some mixture of wheat and weed, of holy and unholy, of potentially fruitful and potentially destructive, we can then turn away from God’s work of judging, and turn toward our work of attending to that which increases the potential for holiness.[iii]  In other words, the grace for us in this parable is that we can leave the judgment to God, and do our work of promoting goodness in ourselves, in our community, and in the world.  This is our work.  Let anyone with ears listen!

[i] Talitha J. Arnold, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 260.

[ii] Romans 7.19

[iii] Gary Peluso-Verdend, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 264.

On Haircuts, Darkness, and Light…

15 Wednesday Jul 2020

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One of the inconveniences of this pandemic was that I was due for a haircut right as salons were closed.  I decided quickly this was a superficial, somewhat vain, concern, and I could simply wait until things reopened.  As the months passed, my growing hair became a symbol of this time – our need to stay-in-place, to stay socially distanced, and to make sacrifices for the sake of the community.  Eventually, as I did daily online prayers, it became a running joke that people were measuring the length of quarantine by the length of my hair.

So, when my hairdresser finally came back to work last week, I was equal parts thrilled and nervous.  My hair had not grown that long since college, and I longed for the ability to look properly groomed.  But I also was anxious – there is no way to stay six feet away from someone cutting your hair, and even with us both wearing masks, getting my hair cut was taking on a risk.  I tentatively booked the appointment, feeling both relief and guilt.

That tension did not dissipate during the experience.  My nervousness made my entire body tense.  I realized half-way through the cut I was subconsciously praying for both of us – that neither of us would get sick (then, guiltily realizing I probably ought to be praying for my hairdresser daily!).  As three-inches curls of hair fell to the ground, I had flashes of the Sampson story we had just read in our 90-day Bible Reading Challenge.  Had this been a mistake?  Was shedding all this hair a symbol of my failed ability to lead others with the example of compassion and care?

As I got back into my car though, the lightness of the weight of my hair created a lightness on my spirit too.  I suddenly realized that in addition to all of the suffering and death this pandemic has brought, it has also given us an invisible weight on our shoulders – the angst of making decisions about communal versus personal behavior, the load of constant cycles of grief, and the burden of a system crumbling around us.  Losing my hair was akin to losing a bit of the weight on my shoulders – remembering that despite all of the bad that has come out of this pandemic, so has a lot of good.  For me, cutting my hair (done with all the safety precautions possible) was a reminder of the light in the darkness of this time.  I say that not as an endorsement of getting one’s hair cut in general.  I say that because we all need reminders of the light trying to shine through during this time of darkness.  If you are finding you need help finding that light, I am here.  If you need help finding that light, Hickory Neck Church is here.  If you need help finding that light, God is surrounding you with light on every side, even if you cannot see it yet.  My prayer for you is you find hints of light today to sustain you in this darkness!

Sermon – Matthew 11.16-19, 25-30, P9, YA, July 5, 2020

15 Wednesday Jul 2020

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In Compline, one of the prayers is for “we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life.”[i]  I have been feeling that prayer these last several weeks – or even months.  The longer we stay in our homes, the longer this pandemic wages illness and death upon us, the longer the spread of virus takes away the everyday privileges we never fully appreciated, and the longer civil unrest forces us to look at our demons and sinfulness, we become more and more weary.  We do not have to ponder too long why cases of the pandemic are soaring this summer.  People who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life are so grief-stricken they are becoming reckless, self-centered, and indignant.

So, you can imagine my full-bodied relief when I heard the last verses of our Gospel lesson today.  “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”  Those words from Jesus are sweet comfort to us, who just want a break, who just want some semblance of normalcy, who just want peace.  Jesus’ words are a warm embrace in a time of touchlessness.  Jesus’ words are a balm to our country who this very weekend honors a liberty that many of our neighbors are reminding us is not felt by all our citizens.

But as scholar Thomas Long says, “What Jesus offers, however, is not a hammock, but a yoke.”[ii]  I know we want to linger on verse 28, but immediately after that comforting embrace, 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.”  In the shift between these last verses, Jesus does a bit of a bait and switch.  He beckons us into his comforting arms, but also places a burden on our shoulders.

I confess, I have been a bit cranky about that switch.  Can’t we just have one week, one Sunday, one moment, where we abdicate responsibility, where we take a sabbath from all this work, where we binge watch television and eat crappy food?  Isn’t that what Jesus means when he says he will give us rest?!?

Fortunately for all of us, I had my tempter tantrum early in the week, and have had some time to sit with this yoke of Jesus’.  You see, when I am being honest, I know binge watching television or eating junk food is not actually restorative.  I feel stiff and tired after sitting for hours.  And when I eat unhealthily, the lingering stomachache or sluggishness is not actually as comforting as the comfort food implies.

What Jesus is suggesting today is not a restful, self-centered, time of abdication.  What Jesus is suggesting is we find rest in the things of life that matter.  As one scholar suggests, “we will find rest for carrying the burden of the gospel by living out the unique mission to which Jesus calls each of us.”[iii]  That yoke we may be skeptical of this week, is not actually a ploy or a trick by Jesus.  The reason Jesus says his yoke is easy and his burden is light is “because [his yoke] is the way of God, and [his yoke] is profoundly satisfying to the human soul.”[iv]

Jesus uses some strong imperatives today:  come to me, take my yoke, learn from me.  But Jesus is not being bossy.  Jesus is reminding us, in his ever so firm, but pastoral way, that the ways we are seeking rest and relief from weariness are not the ways to life.  The way to life, of true refreshment, of renewed spirits is through the yoke of Christ.  How is that possible?  As one scholar reminds us, “The easy yoke means having something to do:  a purpose that demands your all and summons forth your best.  [The easy yoke] means work that is motivated by a passionate desire to see God’s kingdom realized.  [The easy yoke] means work toward a certain future in which all of God’s dreams will finally come true.  To accept the yoke of the gentle and humble Lord is to embrace the worthy task that puts the soul at ease.”[v]  Jesus reminds us today that the rest we seek is not mind-numbing, emotion-numbing, spirit-numbing relief, but purposeful, meaning-filled, reward-making clarity.  When we harness ourselves to Christ, the burdens no longer feel like burdens, the work no longer feels like work, and the desire to be done turns to a desire for God’s delightful sense of purpose and meaning.  That is the kind of profound satisfaction Jesus offers today.  Thanks be to God!

[i] Book of Common Prayer, 133.

[ii] Thomas G. Long, Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 1997), 132.

[iii] Emilie M. Townes, “Theological Perspective,”  Feasting on the Word, Year A, Volume 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 214.

[iv] Long, 132.

[v] Lance Pape, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Volume 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 217.

Sermon – Matthew 10.40-42, P8, YA, June 28, 2020

01 Wednesday Jul 2020

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This summer, several parishioners are participating in our 90-Day Bible Reading Challenge.  In supporting each other in our reading, one of the patterns we have noticed is the break-neck pace of reading twelve pages a day means we do not have a lot of time for traditional Bible Study – looking at the original Hebrew or Greek, discerning the historical context of the book, studying the cultural norms of the community, or even delving into the literary devices of the book.  Instead we are drinking from the fire hose of Scripture – capturing the larger narrative God’s covenantal relationship with humankind, but not indulging in the intriguing details.

With a passage like the one we hear in today’s gospel from Matthew, we could easily do the same.  There are only three verses in the text, and they are somewhat repetitive in pattern.  A quick skim brings up an old adage we have learned by heart – welcome the stranger because you may be welcoming Christ himself.  Maybe your mind immediately leapt to a time you saw Christ in a stranger.  Maybe you began thinking about the ministry of hospitality, particularly how strong that ministry is at Hickory Neck.  Maybe you even started to wonder what you could do to be more hospitable, especially during this time of social distancing.

But here’s the thing:  when we slow down our reading, we realize Jesus does not say, “whoever welcomes the stranger welcomes me.”  Jesus says, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me…”  Often when we think of hospitality, we think of hospitality from the perspective of the host.  Whether we acknowledge the reality or not, we are people of power and privilege, and our notion of hospitality is rooted in how we can offer hospitality to others.[i]  There is nothing inherently wrong with this dynamic – in fact, our sense of obligation to offer hospitality is an answer to Jesus’ call to love neighbor.  But Jesus is not talking about offering hospitality to others from a position of power.  Instead, Jesus is inviting us to give up power and receive others’ hospitality.

If you remember, we have been in the midst of Jesus’ Missionary Discourse[ii] the last several weeks.  Jesus told the disciples to go out, without resources, to do the work of discipleship.  He warned them they would face persecution, and family members would turn against one another.  And today, as Jesus concludes his discourse, he tells them whoever welcomes them, welcomes Jesus.  So not only are the disciples to make themselves vulnerable to the hospitality of others, they will be mirroring Jesus to others.  In other words, in every moment, every interaction, every relationship, encounter, conversation, and conflict among the disciples –the disciples will be witnessing Jesus.[iii]

I do not know about you, but that is a lot of pressure.  Making oneself vulnerable is hard enough.  Making oneself vulnerable means opening up all our flaws, weaknesses, and doubts.  And now, Jesus is saying while we are vulnerable, our homes, our marriages, our workplaces, our extended families, even our friendships are windows into Christ for others.  As Debie Thomas asks, “When we know Jesus is visible in and through us at every moment…[will] we tread more lightly on the earth?  Speak less and listen more?  Reconsider our grudges and grievances?  Choose our words with greater care?  Examine our motivations more closely?”[iv]

There is a lot about this pandemic that has been absolutely awful – devastating, painful, and full of death.  But one of the things that has happened to Hickory Neck in this pandemic represents new life too.  Before we closed our buildings in March, we offered hospitality from our comfort zone – hospitality unparalleled once you walked in those doors – hospitality that made most of us join this church.  But once we moved everything online, the doors and walls of this place lowered – we went out, showing who we are and what we are about to a much broader audience.  Here in this exposed setting, we are carefully, thoughtfully, intentionally showing others what Jesus looks like.  The work is hard and scary, but the reward is great too.  In letting down our walls, we are helping people to see Christ – the same Christ who redeems us, gives us strength, and makes us whole.  But the work of discipleship is not just happening on livestream.  I see this work happening in you – as you call to check in on people in the parish you have not met before because you attend a different service, as you don a mask and attend a rally in support of our African-American brothers and sisters during this raw time, and as you have socially-distanced conversations with neighbors about the power of Christ in your life.  The promise Jesus made at the beginning of his Discourse is still lingering today.  Christ is with us always, even to the end of the age.  His promised presence will allow us to keep letting down walls and being Christ’s mirror in the world.  Our job is to take up the challenge we will hear in our dismissal today:  Go.  Receive God’s love and hospitality.  Serve the Lord as Christ’s mirror.  Amen.

[i] Debie Thomas, “Welcome the Prophet,” June 21, 2020, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay on June 26, 2020.

[ii] Eugene Eung-Chun Park, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Volume 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 189.

[iii] Thomas.

[iv] Thomas.

Sermon – Matthew 9.35-10.23, P6, YA, June 14, 2020

17 Wednesday Jun 2020

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Last Sunday afternoon, I attended a rally in Colonial Williamsburg to renew the covenant between our Historical area police departments and the African-American community.  Established just three years ago, initiated by faith leaders in the African-American community, the covenant was established to proactively create collaborative relationships with our local police in order to prevent some of the racial divides that have occurred in other cities.  Although I was there to witness the support of the local clergy for this covenant, what I heard was the testimony of a community of people who have been harassed and feel helpless right here in our community.  Though we may have avoided some of the violence we have seen elsewhere in our country, the African-American community here in Williamsburg still feels the heel of racism pushing down on her neck.

Last week, we heard Matthew’s Great Commission, and we talked about the juxtaposition of civil unrest exploding around the issue of systemic racism and Jesus’ call to go out into the world doing works of justice, mercy, and love.  As some of the heat from protests simmered down a bit this past week, we could easily come to church today and long to turn down the heat too.  But our collect appointed for today, which you will hear later, holds our feet to the fire.  The collect says, “Keep, O Lord, your household the Church in your steadfast faith and love, that through your grace we may proclaim your truth with boldness, and minister your justice with compassion…”  Now the Collect of the Day is not just a random prayer, meant to sound good.  The Collect of the Day pulls themes from the scripture lessons appointed for the day – in essence, the Collect of the Day tries to articulate the thesis of our lessons.

After watching weeks of protests (maybe attending some yourself), hearing countless stories about unrest, reading articles or starting books about systemic racism, and praying diligently for peace, you may have come to church today hoping for some respite or reassurance.  But Jesus’ message to “Go!” from the Great Commission last week does not fade today.  Instead, Jesus’ words from Matthew’s gospel from almost 20 chapters earlier shows us our work is ever before us, beckoning us out into the world.

Years before his cross, resurrection, and ascension, we find Jesus teaching, healing, and proclaiming the good news to crowds of people.  In the midst of this work, we are told Jesus looks at the crowd and has compassion for them because they are harassed and helpless.  When Jesus sees the harassed and helpless, he does not simply fix the problem or strike down the system with godly power.  Instead, he turns to his disciples with a charge.  Jesus calls the twelve disciples by name (Simon Peter, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, Thomas, Matthew, James, Thaddaeus, Simon, and Judas), those who have been following him, learning from him, studying and praying with him, and sends them out, telling them how hard the work of showing compassion will be:  they will go without financial support, will be dependent upon the hospitality of strangers – some of whom will show them scorn rather than hospitality, will be persecuted and beaten, and will be betrayed even by their closest relatives.  This is the sobering work of love – of proclaiming God’s truth with boldness, and ministering God’s justice with compassion.

So how do the disciples hear such a sobering commission and still take the first step?  They take the first step because Jesus empowers the disciples.  Jesus gives the disciples power to heal and care for the oppressed; Jesus teaches them how to dust off their feet when they are scorned; Jesus promises when they need words, the Spirit of God will speak through them.  In other words, they just need to go, and God will take care of the rest.

Several of you have reached out to me over these last two weeks, longing for something to do in the midst of this important moment.  We have exchanged ideas and resources, and many of you have already begun to take specific action.  The content of how we respond in the coming weeks and months will vary widely, given our different gifts and abilities.  But our Collect today is not a prayer asking God to empower others to do the work of love or for God to just “fix it.”  Our Collect today is a request to God to help each one of us – called by name (Sue, John, Linda, Bob, Lisa, Bill, Tori, Don, Terri, Jim, Beth, and Dave) – to proclaim God’s truth with boldness, and minister God’s justice with compassion.  Jesus has already given us everything we need to do this work.  God is already keeping us in God’s steadfast faith and love; through God’s grace we can proclaim God’s truth with boldness, and minister God’s justice with compassion.  Amen.

Sermon – Matthew 28.16-20, TS, YA, June 7, 2020

17 Wednesday Jun 2020

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We have had a week.  For most of us, the Coronavirus alone would be enough – the suffering of those infected, the over 100,000 deaths in our country from the virus, the economic hardship on our communities, and the chafing reality of staying distanced from one another.  But in the midst of a pandemic, our country has also exploded with civil unrest as we grapple with the death of another man of color under the hands of a police officer.  We have witnessed daily peaceful protests, violent, destructive rioting, unsettling debates about the extent of national executive power over state’s rights, renewed conversations about systemic racism, and vivid images of police officers and National Guard members trying to balance their genuine support for the content of the protests with needing to keep crowds safe.  And whether he meant to our not, by the aggressive clearing of peaceful protesters in order to take a photograph in front of an Episcopal Church with a Bible in hand, our President has forced Episcopalians and all Christians to take a hard look at what being a Christian means and what Christian witness looks like.  Like I said, it has been a week.

At the end of a week like this, I had been hoping for a comforting word from scripture – maybe something about the Good Shepherd, or some pastoral scene of Jesus gathered in loving community.  Instead, our gospel lesson today from Matthew is the Great Commission – the very last words of Matthew’s gospel – which are not words of comfort and rest, but words of sending out.  Jesus says, “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you.”  These are not words of retreat and rest.  In these last words of Jesus, Jesus sends us out into the world, encourages us to do work that requires relationship-building, listening, and teaching.[i]  These are words of engagement, witness, and connection.

I do not know about you, but I was not ready to hear these words today.  The idea of venturing out in public still feels fraught with danger in this time of pandemic.  The idea of witnessing Christ’s love, particularly with our brothers and sisters of color, feels fraught with danger because of the volatility and justified anger of many of the protestors.  The idea of relationship building required in the act of “making disciples” feels fraught with hypocrisy as our brothers and sisters of color remind us how deeply our own racism runs.  When Jesus says, “Go!” to us today, I find myself hesitating at the door.  Go how?  Go where?  Go to whom?

So how do we go?  The good news is that Jesus tells us how we will go.  After the words of the Great Commission, Jesus says, “And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”  We can cross that threshold because Jesus is with us – always – to the end of the age.  And where shall we go?  Jesus says we should go to all the nations.  In other words, everyone needs God’s message of love and hope.  The good news today is going to the nations is, surprisingly, still possible.  Even in this pandemic’s limitations on our movement, we can still share God’s love – in our prayers from home, in our words to our neighbors, in our letters to elected officials, in our public witness on social media, and in our calls of support to police officers trying to do the work of reconciliation in their own sphere.  And to whom shall we go?  To our neighbors of color who need our support, to our political opponents (and yes, I recognize those opponents are different for each of us) who need us to stay engaged in honest, calm, productive relationship, to our political allies, who need us to not be an echo chamber, but need us to hold up a mirror to ensure we are actually sharing truth with love.

I know many of you may be thinking, “I can’t.  Even with Jesus’ promise to be with me, I just can’t.  It’s too hard.”  But here’s what I can tell you:  you already are.  I watched this week as over twenty parishioners reclaimed the gospel message of love on the front porch of our historic chapel.  I watched this week as many of you offered up your prayers – for peace, for understanding, for love.  I watched this week as many of you joined peaceful protests – witnessing Christ’s love for all.  I watched this week as many of you searched for reading materials – whether you were looking for books and articles about race, or whether you were ordering your Bibles to join in our 90-day Bible Reading Challenge, looking for ways to hone your ability to make disciples, to build relationships.  Jesus’ Great Commission today may feel like more work instead of the salve you were hoping for today.  But I can tell you the fact that you are already living the Great Commission in your own way, with your own gifts, and your own abilities, is your salve today.  Keep going.  Keep building relationships.  Keep witnessing God’s love.  It’s not too hard – because Jesus is with you always, even to the end of the age.  Amen.

[i] Thomas G. Long, Matthew (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1997), 326.

On Wanting to Go Back…

02 Tuesday Jun 2020

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The whole congregation of the Israelites complained against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness.    The Israelites said to them, “If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.”  (Exodus 16.2-3) 

The rabble among them had a strong craving; and the Israelites also wept again, and said, “If only we had meat to eat!  We remember the fish we used to eat in Egypt for nothing, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic; but now our strength is dried up, and there is nothing at all but this manna to look at.”  (Numbers 11.4-6)

 

One of the cries we are prone to in these days is “I wish we could just go back to the way it was!”  I just did it myself in a sermon a few weeks ago, when I talked about how at the beginning of the pandemic, we were all chipping in and helping each other, but then slowly our demons had taken back over and we are becoming fractured and partisan again.  But we do it all the time.  The most famous may be our President’s campaign slogan, “Make American Great Again.”  I have heard the cry from former Senators and Congressmembers who have talked about the time when people worked “across the aisle” with compromise and collaboration.  As we have mourned social distancing and stay-at-home orders, this has especially become the cry of many of us in the Church.  And as violence rocks our country, many are asking protestors to quieten down and find other ways to make changes.

Of course, we are not alone in our lament and longing.  Our ancestors, the Israelites, were famous complainers in the wilderness, longing to go back to Egypt – the very place of their enslavement – because “at least they had food,” or they remember with longing the savory foods.  The hardness of the wilderness made them romanticize a life marked by brutality, oppression, and death.  Keeping an eye on the Promised Land was not so easy after years in the wilderness.

We are not unlike of ancestors.  In hoping to make America great again, we forget that any era of our history has been marked by darkness – whether the subjugation of the Indigenous peoples of this land, the enslavement, segregation, or oppression of African-Americans, the disenfranchisement and sexual subjugation of women, and on and on go the examples.  When we look at our current inability to work across party lines, we forget the ways in which women and people of color were wildly underrepresented in leadership – if represented at all!  Our current mourning of how Church used to be forgets the incredible ways technology has connected us to our neighbors, our extended community, and even strangers.   And both this pandemic and the protests about the treatment of persons of color are pulling back the curtains on disparities around wealth and opportunity for African-Americans.

What we learn from our biblical ancestors is that the wilderness is hard:  hunger, thirst, discomfort, and disagreements over power are real.  And yet, only in the wilderness did the faithful learn to trust God, to restructure leadership in shared ways, and find ways to govern themselves marked by justice and mercy.  As a person of privilege, I certainly have the option to turn off news coverage, wait this pandemic and the protests out, and stay ensconced in my place of power.  Or I can use this wilderness to learn, to be vulnerable, to use my power for goodness (or even better, cede some of my power), and to pray for God’s help on the journey.  It may be quite some time before we arrive at the Promised Land.  But we do not have to flee back to Egypt.