Photo credit: Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly; use with permission only
This week my older daughter and I volunteered with a local agency that is providing weekday meals to children in our community experiencing food scarcity. These are children who qualify for free lunch during the school year, but when school is out of session, lose their one steady source of food for most of the week. On our volunteer day, we packed about 260 meals – including a protein-packed sandwich, juice, fruit, a salty snack, and a homemade cookie.
As the smell of those freshly baked cookies wafted from the brown paper bags, I found myself wondering about the countless details of these children. In that mass of children spread around our county, I wondered how they were getting the food from those drop-off points, knowing that many of their care providers likely work during the day. I wondered if they took joy in the unknown contents of their bag, or if those five items felt rote for them after a summer of brown bags. I wondered if they had siblings or friends also receiving bags and whether they traded food items like my kid does sometimes at school. I wondered if a temporarily filled belly eased any emotional strain they may be experiencing without the socialization of school.
Wondering about those 260 stories was an important reminder to me of how irregularly I see the world as God does and instead get lost in my own slice of the world. As I juggle transportation of children, writing the next sermon, facilitating a church meeting, and planning meals, I totally lose the stories of those who struggle with those basic things I take for granted. I think that is why I longed so much to know at least some of the stories of those children – so that I might more tangibly be mindful of the wideness of our community and those God loves that I have the privilege to be unconcerned about most days.
I wonder what stories you have been missing lately. Who in your community have you forgotten – not out of malice or lack of generosity, but more out of the busyness of life? Whose stories might help you see your family members and coworkers with a bit more compassion? What stories might make you view politics a bit differently or impact where you give your time and resources? My prayer for you is that you seek those stories this week – and that those stories find you.
I realized recently that one of things I often say when I am asked how my family is doing is to offer a halfhearted compliment, “Everyone is staying in their lane.” I think I started adopting that minimum standard, “staying in your lane,” because I have learned over the years how little control I have as a parent. I may not be able to control what things my kids are interested in, I may not be able to control how well they perform in school, and I may not be able to control how they handle interpersonal relationships. But if each family member is “staying in their lane,” then that means I have at least controlled their meddling with one another, their active misbehavior, or their making a scene anywhere else.
That is what seems to be bothering the folks in Jesus’ hometown of Nazareth – Jesus is not staying in his lane. At the beginning, there seems to be a modicum of respect for what Jesus is teaching in the synagogue – they compliment the wisdom he seems to have gained and the healing acts he has performed. But the compliments end there. Then the questions begin. Where did he get this wisdom? Isn’t he the carpenter’s son? Isn’t he the son of Mary – a question dripping with criticism, as you would usually only refer to someone’s parentage through the father, not the mother.[i] In other words, the people of Jesus’ hometown are basically saying, “Stay in your lane, Jesus!”
Passages like this can be so tempting for us. We read about Jesus’ hometown and think, “Those silly folks from Nazareth! They cannot see what God is doing right in front of them!” As if “those” people and finger pointing is what the gospel calls for. But when we start wagging our fingers at “those” people, we forget one kernel of truth about scripture: we are always “those” people.” Anytime something someone does in scripture makes us uncomfortable or sanctimonious, scripture is speaking straight to “us” not “those people.” So, the people of Nazareth aren’t the only ones telling Jesus to stay in his lane. We tell that to Jesus all the time. When the Holy Spirit is calling us try a new ministry that feels daunting, we are tempted to tell Jesus to stay in his lane and let us do things our way. When Jesus puts people in our lives that push us out of our comfort zones, we grumble to Jesus to stay in his lane and stop sending us prophets – I mean, annoying people. When we hear that still, quiet voice speaking truth to us in places we like to keep in a box, we cut Jesus some nasty side-eye and tell Jesus to stay in his lane.
But as scholar Debie Thomas says, “The call of the Gospel is not a call to stand still. It is a call to choose movement over stasis, change over security, growth over decay.”[ii] Just last Sunday, we started a movie series about changemakers. Last week, the film was The Philadelphia Eleven, the story of the unsanctioned ordination of the first eleven women in the Episcopal Church. The vitriol of the bishops, clergy, and lay people who were opposed to those women’s ordination was shocking to the ears. From the clergy person who stated with confidence, “Women can be anything they want – except a priest in God’s holy church.” From the woman who lamented the ways those women had violated what God calls women to be and do in the world. To the bishops held a public, scathing trial of the three male bishops who dared to ordain the first eleven. The Philadelphia Eleven had waited time after time for the Episcopal Church to change – to chose growth, change, and movement instead of decay, security, and stasis. And when the church refused to let these women out of their lane, the stepped out of their lane anyway.
Scholar Thomas concludes, “The scandal of the Incarnation is precisely that Jesus doesn’t stay in his lane. God doesn’t limit God’s self to our small and stingy notions of the sacred. God exceeds, God abounds, God transgresses, God transcends. The lowly carpenter reveals himself as Lord. The guy with the tainted birth story offers us salvation. The hometown prophet tells us truths we’d rather not hear… [Jesus] will call out to us, nevertheless, daring us always to see and experience him anew.”[iii] Our invitation today is let Jesus out of his lane in our life: to not hold his lane as sacred, and to open ourselves to the ways his transgression of lanes is helping us to experience Jesus in new and fresh ways. Maybe we do that in weekly worship, opening ourselves through song, prayer, and scripture to fresh experiences of God. Maybe we come to the film series or Bible study this summer to see where God is exceeding, abounding, transgressing, and transcending. Or maybe we let go of whatever boundary we are holding here at Hickory Neck to see what happens when we ask Jesus to please cross out of his lane. The promise for us is a fresh experience of Jesus in our own day, time, and place. Amen.
[i] Efrain Agosto, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 215.
This weekend, Episcopalians will descend upon Louisville, Kentucky, for our General Convention. The General Convention is the governing body of The Episcopal Church. Every three years (or in this case, two years, due to a delayed GC during COVID), General Convention meets as a bicameral legislature that includes the House of Deputies and the House of Bishops, composed of deputies and bishops from each diocese. In the House of Deputies, which includes elected lay and ordained deputies and alternates, over 1000 people will gather, and about 140 bishops will gather in the House of Bishops. This year, we have a shortened Convention of six days of legislative sessions, covering everything from governance, justice issues, ecumenical and interfaith issues, evangelism and church vitality, liturgy, stewardship, formation, and mission. In those six days, we will review over 275 pieces of legislation.
Of course, General Convention is not all business. It is a place of innovation and collaboration. An exhibit hall of vendors is place of ideas, resources, and connection. The legislative halls and common spaces are places of reunion with former seminary classmates, dioceses where one has served or worshiped before, and friends from professional connections. It may be a chance to meet people in person that you have only known online, people you have admired the work of from afar, or a place to make new friends. And then there are the opportunities to gather in worship in unfamiliar and familiar styles, the deep conversations and sharing of best practices, and the inspiration that can come from being steeped in the wideness of God’s church.
Ultimately, General Convention can be a place of great tension: of trying to accomplish a great deal of business while honoring and developing relationships across difference, of challenging and trying to correct the failings of the Episcopal Church while learning and being inspired to renew our ministries, of taking a step back to clarify mission, purpose, and priorities while narrowing in and aligning decisions with that clarity. Add in doing all that with over 1100 people, and that we get anything accomplished is a minor miracle.
Knowing all that, I invite your prayers for the Church as we gather: that we root ourselves in God’s grace and power, that we ground ourselves in the love of Jesus and serve as faithful disciples, and that we undergird our work with the creative, life-giving, wise movement of the Holy Spirit. And then ultimately, I invite your prayers that our work will mean something: to the country church in rural America, to the beleaguered inner city church, to the bustling suburban church, and to churches whose primary languages are not English; to the churches who are shrinking and the churches who are thriving; to the person who is struggling with their faith, the person excited about a new ministry, to the person who is worried about the future of the church, and the person who is entirely unchurched. We bring each of you with us in our prayers as we gather. I hope you will surround us in prayer as well – that God is working for good in all of it.
Many of you know that I grew up in the United Methodist Church. Growing up in the Methodist Church meant that I was steeped a particular set of hymns, many written by John and Charles Wesley themselves – John being attributed with the founding of the Methodist movement. I can be at a retirement community or an ecumenical service and one of those songs will come up, and I am instantly transported back to the old country church where my dad was the pastor. There is something about that music that almost feels like the music is a part of my DNA. So, imagine my surprise when I found out in seminary that much of the music settings for those old timey hymns I love were actually pub songs – tunes that anyone who had spent time at the pub would know, just set to new words about Jesus. Charles and John did that because they knew it would make the songs deeply familiar, while becoming teaching tools for the church. No wonder those hymns are so catchy!
In some ways, parables from Jesus are similar. Jesus uses story to teach truth. Teaching through parables makes the teaching engaging, accessible, and memorable. I bet that even today, two thousand years later, when we heard Mark’s gospel today, we probably thought, “Oh yeah! The one about the mustard seed. That’s about just having a little faith is all you need!” And in part, you would be right. But as catchy as pub songs are and parables seem, unfortunately, Jesus’ parables, while memorable, are not always simple in meaning.
Our trouble starts with the fact that we have two parables together today – not just the one about the mustard seed. In the first one, Jesus says the kingdom is like a guy who scatters some seed and then does literally almost nothing – he does not even know how the growing of seeds into plants works. And then he just goes out to harvest. So, that’s parable number one. Parable number two compares the kingdom of God to a tiny little mustard seed that, when planted, grows into a huge bush big enough where birds can make nests. So, this is not exactly a set of stories about just having a little bit of faith. And quite frankly, if you take these two together, they seem to be saying that basically we do not really have much of a hand in the fruitfulness of the kingdom – that maybe we do not even understand the kingdom. So, is that the message? Just sit back because God does all the work to bring about the kingdom – oh, and the kingdom will be really big?
As much as I would like to send you all home today thinking you can just kick up your feet and sit back while God does the heavy lifting, especially as summer gets into full swing, unfortunately, we have summertime work to do. You see, in both of these parables, while the miracle of growth happens through God, the planting in both stories has to be done by a person – by us, namely. Scholar Amy-Jill Levine explains that in these parables, the seed still has to be planted. She confesses that certainly some things need to be left alone – notice the man in the first parable. And sometimes we need to get out of the way – notice the planter in the second parable. But most importantly, Levine argues “The kingdom is present when humanity and nature work together, and we do what we were put here to do – to go out on a limb and provide for others, and ourselves as well.”[i]
That doing something, that lack of passivity in the bringing about of the kingdom, is what we are talking about when we talk about stewardship. Often when we talk about stewardship, we think of that as the church’s codeword for our money. But we were made stewards long before there was a church. Even in the moment of creation way back in the book of Genesis, God created us to steward God’s creation – to tend to the blessings given to us. Now that may feel daunting – as if not only are we to tend to this church but now we must tend to the whole world!
But before you panic, let’s go back to that mustard seed parable. I do not know how many of you have actually been around mustard plants, but mustard plants are a lot like kudzu – they tend to take over an area where they are germinated. Jesus is telling us all we do is plant one of those teeny-tiny seeds, and suddenly we will have kudzu spreading everywhere. In other words, our work of stewardship is like kudzu[ii] – we invest our time, our talent, and our treasure here in this place – and the results will spread like wildfire. Suddenly, we have whole hillsides full the love of Christ, spilling over into the neighbor’s yard, draping everything in goodness. We do not have to micromanage the growth – we do the planting, and God partners with us to bring the growth – even growth we sometimes do not understand. Our job is simply to plant.
Our invitation today, then is to ponder what seeds we can plant here at Hickory Neck. What gift of time can you place here that can spread to your fellow parishioner? What gift of your unique talent can you plant here that can grow into powerful ministry? What gift of your financial resources can you gift here that reach beyond these walls to share and spread God’s love? Jesus’ familiar story reminds us that whatever we give, our giving allows us to participate with God in helping manifest the kingdom of God.[iii] And God will spread our gifts like kudzu! Amen.
[i] Amy-Jill Levine, Short Stories by Jesus: The Enigmatic Parables of a Controversial Rabbi (New York: Harper One, 2014), 182.
[ii] Ronald J. Allen, “Considering the Text: Week Two, Fourth Sunday After Pentecost, 16 June 2024,” Center for Faith and Giving, 11, as found at centerforfaithandgiving.org, 2.
This morning, we get two powerful stories from scripture. In our story from first Samuel, we hear the story of how the people of Israel come to demand a king to rule over them instead of God and God’s appointed judges and prophets. They figure if they have a king like the other nations, then they’ll never have to worry about their safety and security. A king will defend them in a way that looks familiar – like the other nations – than a way that feels like trusting a God you cannot see. Of course, Samuel warns them – you pick a king and the king will take your daughters and sons into his service, will steal your land and produce as his own, will take your property and use it to his own benefit, will basically enslave you (not unlike the days in Egypt). But the people insist none of that matters – as long as they have a king like everyone else.
Meanwhile, in Mark’s gospel, Jesus has been healing people, driving out demons, saying some things, and generally making a raucous. Here, two groups insert themselves – the scribes, who try to claim Jesus is possessed by a demon himself, and his family, who are concerned he has lost his mind and want to restrain him. Jesus is so frustrated by their behavior, especially of his mother and brothers that he loudly states, “Who are my mother and my brother?” In other words, he denies his very own family because they cannot see the truth in what he is doing. In these two stories – of the Israelites wanting a king and of Jesus’ family demanding he behave in a certain way, we have people thinking they know better than God – taking matters into their own hands thinking they know how things should be.
I was talking to another parent recently about how parenting is probably the hardest job of all the vocations I have – particularly as a person who likes to imagine she has a modicum of control in her life. In the beginning, although parenting is physically exhausting, parenting is also manageable in a way that is not so obvious. For those infants and young children, you have a lot of control – what the child will eat and drink, what the child will wear, when the child will rest, where the child can go. But as the child ages, they make more and more of the decisions – what they will wear, where they will go, with whom they will spend time. This is, of course, how parenting should be – the raising up of an independent child. But the more your child becomes independent the more you realize how the younger years were the “good ol’ days” – the days where you felt like you were in control (or at least convinced yourself you had more control than you probably did). Parenting feels like the ultimate test for those of us who like a sense of control.
But the truth is, the ultimate test for those of us who like a sense of control is being a person of faith – following a God whose logic sometimes feels illogical, following a savior who says and does things that really push our buttons, and following a Spirit who takes us places we really do not want to go. And so, we find ourselves, much like the Israelites, accepting slavery, abuse, and the loss of freedom just to get those things we think will make us happy and whole. We find ourselves, like Mary and Jesus’ brothers, bossing around God, insisting God behave in ways that make us feel comfortable. Instead, God tells them and us to trust – to trust that God will provide leaders who will guide us in the ways of justice and truth; to trust that even the things we cannot understand will lead to good; to trust that even though we cannot know what God knows, our wholehearted trust in the will of God is all that matters.
So how do we do that? How do we, people of free will, in a country of democracy where “we the people” make decisions, in a time when choices are boundless and we must make them, how do we become people of trust – people of faith? Well, I like to go back to that story of Jesus in a crowded room from Mark’s Gospel today. Scholar Debie Thomas says, “…I can’t help but imagine what it must have felt like to be inside the house with Jesus that day. I know intimately and well, as perhaps you do, the hunger to belong, to have someone safe and loving to belong to. Regardless of our circumstances, we all know what it’s like to yearn for someone who can hold all of who we are, and love us still, without flinching. That’s exactly what Jesus does for the crowds that day. He invites them in, he asks them to stay, and he makes them family.
Yes, Jesus divides the house, and that process hurts. But he doesn’t divide [the house] to make us homeless. He divides [the house] to rebuild it. To make [the house] more spacious, more welcoming, and more beautiful. The Spirit of God is neither insane nor evil; the Spirit completes the good work he begins. His will be a house of healing for the whole world.”[i]
Holy Scripture today is not inviting us to become some mindless, fluff who walk around without aim or purpose just “trusting that God will work everything out.” God did give us freewill, and God does want us to use that freewill for good. But what the Holy Spirit is trying to remind us of is that we do not have the whole story. We cannot see the way in which Jesus is rebuilding the house. We cannot fully know the feeling of being inside that home where true healing may be. We cannot understand the fullness of the implications of our desires – which seem reasonable and justified to us. But what we can see and know and understand is that Jesus is building a house of healing for the whole world. And if we can stop trying to parent God, we can start beginning to see that God is constantly doing a new thing and inviting us into the family. We just do not get to be the parent in that family. And that is a very good thing indeed. Amen.
One of my fitness routines includes attending “barre” – a class that combines yoga, Pilates, and ballet. When you enter the studio, you remove your shoes and put on special socks to prevent slipping during the class. You then enter the actual classroom and procure any fitness aides required for the class, such as hand weights, bands, or balls, and proceed to setup up your space at the barre. I tend to take classes in the 5:30 am hour, so most of the time I am pretty groggy and operating on auto pilot as I prepare my space for class.
Knowing my routine for class, imagine my surprise the other day when, as I somewhat sleepily entered the classroom, I found myself bowing. I was immediately shocked and a little embarrassed by my body’s instinctual movement. As a priest, I bow all the time – as I reverence at the altar, as the processional cross passes me, at certain points in the Creed, or at the name of Jesus in the liturgy. But I have never reverenced an exercise classroom.
The strange appearance of such an out-of-context movement got me thinking about Holy Scripture. In Exodus, we hear how Moses receives his call at the site of a burning bush. When God calls out to Moses amid the flames, God says, “Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.”[i] Now I am not sure I would call the barre classroom sacred ground – though the Lord’s name is often called upon, especially during long plank series. But something about that room made my body respond to its holiness the same way I respond to the holiness of Church. So how exactly do we define a holy place – or sacred ground?
In the instance of barre class, perhaps what my body was responding to was the way I do find holiness – in the care and compassion of teachers, in the camaraderie of classmates on a shared journey of health and wholeness, in the individual experience at the barre when you feel like you cannot go on and something or someone pulls you through doubt. Though I think the sacred ground of worship space is unrivaled as a place of encounter with God, the community of Jesus, and the movement of the Spirit, I certainly have found other sacred places – the mountain community where my family gathered every summer with the wider church; the edge of crashing waves, where the vastness of the Creator is palpable; the coffee shop where someone pours out their heart’s burdens to another and blessing is proclaimed. Perhaps regularly attending Church, with its preserved sacred ground, is what allows us to see and hear God on the sites of sacred ground all around us. Where are you finding unexpected sacred ground these days? Where is God inviting you to take off your shoes and give reverence to the mightiness of our God?
Yesterday I attended a meeting that requires riding a ferry to attend. I have always found the ferry a bit of a nuisance. If timed incorrectly, one can spend almost thirty minutes just waiting to board the ferry. But even timed correctly, once upon ferry, one must sit for the twenty-minute ride – certainly progressing toward the destination, but not nearly as quickly as it feels when driving. Something about the taking the ferry feels like a mandatory suspension of time and progress.
Knowing that reality, I try to plan ahead – with a call to make, emails to read, or a podcast to finish. I talked to a fellow traveler who has young children at home who used the twenty minutes for a coveted power nap. And certainly, when I have traveled with my own children, one has the opportunity to go to the upper deck and take in the wonder of creation – an imposed moment of awe and wonder.
Thinking about the various ways one occupies oneself on the ferry had me thinking about the gift of time. My method of busying myself on the ferry is certainly one of attempting to master control of the uncontrollable. That mother of young children saw the gift of time as just that – a blessed gift she had not realized she needed. And my children remind me that every moment is ours to steward – that productivity might include making room for the sacred too – that the sacred might feed my moments of productivity just as much as powering through times of tangible productivity.
I wonder what moments God is gifting you today. Sometimes our schedules are so full, we may believe that there is no room for a “God moment.” But that is the funny thing about God. God permeates all our moments – being there when we are hustling to make a deadline, there when our child is seeking care and compassion – or even just a ride from practice, there when the aging customer in front of us needs a little assistance, and there when a blue bird flutters by seeking the creation we rarely notice. How might you adjust your senses today to acknowledge the sacred all around you? How might you give thanks and gratitude for God’s blessings so easily unnoticed? My prayer is for your awakened senses to the blessing of God’s presence today.
In a few moments, we will baptize Abby and Laela, sisters who are ages 6 and 7 respectively. What’s interesting about a baptism for candidates who are not infants is there is much more cognition, curiosity, and craving. In a sense, Abby and Laela understand more profoundly that their baptism is a sacrament of belonging – a welcoming into full membership in the body of Christ. One of Hickory Neck’s strongest gifts is the powerful gift of welcome. You talk to any newer or longer-term member, and they will likely tell you that Hickory Neck’s warm welcome was what drew them in and made them linger. There was a sense of inclusion and care that made them want to stay.
For a community so skilled in welcoming and especially as a community who will be welcoming Abby and Laela today, we hear a powerful word from John’s gospel about life with the Good Shepherd. For people familiar with the lectionary, the fourth Sunday of Easter, affectionally known as Good Shepherd Sunday, is a favorite Sunday. Every year on this Sunday we hear about Jesus’ proclamation of being the Good Shepherd. This year’s text from John tells us how Jesus the Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep; how Jesus will protect the sheep; how he knows the sheep and the sheep know him; and that there are other sheep that do not even belong to the fold that Jesus will bring into the beloved fold. When we hear a text like this, we get a warm-fuzzy feeling[i] – the kind of feeling of protected belonging that we want Abby and Laela to always feel with Jesus and the church community. That feeling of care and belonging has inspired artwork, song, liturgies, and sermon alike. This Good Shepherd Sunday reminds all of us of what inspired us to keep coming back to this modern incarnation of the Good Shepherd’s fold here at Hickory Neck.
The challenge about the warm-fuzzies that come with belonging is that chasing a sense of belonging can become consumeristic: a pursuing of a feeling that is received without any expectation of reciprocity. The pursuit of belonging makes sense. As one scholar suggests, “Forming authentic and holistic community is hard work – we dole out parts of ourselves in stingy bits and pieces, avoid being vulnerable with each other, hold back our feelings and thoughts, are afraid to confront each other, judge each other without mercy, hold grudges, set impossibly high standards for ourselves and each other…We have a difficult time trusting each other,” making real and life-giving community hard.[ii] But belonging with Jesus and within the faith community is not something that is just received. Belonging comes with obligation. No longer are we individuals feeling alone – now we are a part of a larger whole. Though beautiful, that whole does not work without each of its members. Receiving the warm-fuzzy feeling of belonging results in the action of giving: of contributing in your own right to the community.[iii]
The good news is that although we use language about welcome at Hickory Neck, we actually mean belonging. Yes, we were likely greeted warmly, maybe given a welcome gift or sent a greeting by mail soon after our first visit, and often we were recognized and engaged after the service or at Coffee Hour. But I cannot tell you the number of people at Hickory Neck who have also told me about how accessible involvement and even leadership are here. From stories of being recruited to lead Fall Festivals within the first year of membership, to hopping in as an usher or reader, to being invited to a Bible Study, service opportunity, or a Foyer Group, to becoming a financial supporter of programming: you are not just welcomed here – you are invited into belonging here. Though we may not use the strong word of “obligation” or “responsibility,” we teach through our behavior that warm welcome means full membership in the body of Christ. We join in not because we have to, but because the warmth of the Good Shepherd’s inclusion of all overwhelms us into wanting to give back – both here inside these walls and outside these walls in the wider community.
And that is what we have been teaching Abby and Laela about baptism. Today, as the water is poured over their heads and the oil rubbed into their foreheads, they will be welcomed into full membership in the body of Christ. And even though age six and seven might seem too young for the “obligations of membership in the body,” we need their gifts just as much as they need the gift of belonging. So, when they bring forward the communion elements, or participate in Godly Play, or join in singing and song, they make our community complete. They remind us of the broadness of God’s inclusion, the power of being known, and the resultant discipleship that springs out of all of us – no matter size, age, or ability. Today, the Good Shepherd welcomes Abby and Laela into the fold – into the body of Christ. Today, Abby and Laela invite us to renew our sense of belonging in that same fold and all that belonging entails. And for that, we give thanks to God. Amen.
Photo credit: Hickory Neck Episcopal Church. Reuse with permission only.
For those of you who have worked with me for a while now, you know that I am easily excited by new ideas. So, when Ed and Tyler suggested the Sunday after Easter for Quinton’s baptism, I excitedly said, “Yes!” I knew we would be still experiencing the high of Holy Week and Easter from last week, I knew that baptisms are traditionally celebrated throughout Eastertide, and I knew having another reason to celebrate this Sunday would be fun. What I failed to double-check was the lectionary. As soon as I saw the gospel for today, I groaned. Who wants to talk about Doubting Thomas when we are performing a sacrament of belief and belonging?!?
At first glance, John’s Gospel text today, is in fact, a terrible text for baptism. First of all, the disciples are making a very poor showing about what the community of faith is supposed to look like. You would think after seeing the empty tomb and hearing Mary Magdalene’s testimony, “I have seen the Lord,” the disciples would be hitting the ground running, doing the work of spreading the good news, or at least throwing a raucous party. Instead, we find the disciples huddled in a locked room, cowering in fear. The text says they are afraid of the Jewish leaders, perhaps afraid the same people who killed Jesus would try to kill them too. But I think there is more to their fear. I think they are afraid to face others, because they feel they have failed. Perhaps they believe their pick for Messiah did not seem to be the Messiah after all. I think they are also behind those locked doors because they are ashamed that they failed to protect Jesus, to keep him alive.[i] Those locked doors are not just for safety – those locked doors are for hiding the shame, the disappointment, and the fear of facing others that the disciples have.
And then we have the famous Doubting Thomas. That we even call him “Doubting Thomas” is indication enough of the communal disapproval of his behavior. Why couldn’t he just believe? If not Mary Magdalene, at least his fellow disciples, who use the same words as Mary’s own testimony, “We have seen the Lord.”[ii] Even Jesus seems to disapprove when he asks, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”[iii] We do not exactly seem to be setting the stage well for little Quinton, or anyone new to the Church today.
But the more I thought about this text, and the more I read, the more I realized this is actually the perfect text for someone new to the community of faith. As little Quinton grows up, I do not want him to think that faith is about perfectly believing, perfectly behaving Christians, who perfectly go to Church. And although I want Quinton to know about doubt and to have a super healthy sense of curiosity and questioning, the truth is our labeling of Thomas as “Doubting Thomas,” gets in the way of what John is trying to teach new believers. Instead, New Testament scholar Karoline Lewis explains, “The primary definition of the term doubt, however, has to do with uncertainty. Uncertainty, as a category of belief, does not really exist in the Fourth Gospel. One is either certain or not certain; in the light or in the dark. Jesus invites Thomas to move from darkness to light, from lack of relationship to intimacy. There is no middle ground with it comes to believing in Jesus.”[iv]
Now, stay with me on this, because I realize that dichotomy sounds even worse than doubting. Instead, what John’s gospel is doing is not about exclusion, but about radical inclusion. John is not conveying something about belief but about incarnation: “to be incarnated demands relationship. As a result, you are either in one community or another, but you cannot be not in community. Life, especially abundant life, is dependent on the reality of multiple expressions of connectivity and belonging, whether that be on-on-one or in various sizes of communities…Even God was not alone in the beginning…” So, when Thomas says, “My Lord and my God,” he is not talking about his own belief or even an individualized theology, but rather “the intimacy this Gospel imagines between believer and Jesus…” As Lewis goes on to say, “To give witness to a personal relationship with Jesus is immediately to enter into a community of intimacy between Jesus, God, the Paraclete (a fancy word for Holy Spirit[v]), and the believer and between the believer and the new community, the flock, that Jesus as the Word made flesh has made possible for the world.”[vi]
One this day, when Thomas the Twin teaches us all about what belief really means – that is, incarnate, intimate relationship with God and with one another – I cannot imagine a better word for us today. When we baptize Quinton today, we invite him into the relationships already present in this community – the real ones that sometimes cower in shame and doubt – but also the ones that lead to abundant life and blessing. When we pour water over his head and rub oil on his forehead and commit to supporting him and one another in this journey of faith, we are claiming him not as someone who will always have things figured out – because we do not always have things figured out. But we do commit to the intimacy of relationship: with the three persons of the Godhead, with one another, and with the community of faith. I cannot think of a better reminder on this second Sunday in Easter as we deepen our own intimacy with the risen Lord than to baptize and reaffirm our baptisms – as we acclaim today, “I will! (with God’s help).” Amen.
[i] M. Craig Barnes, “Crying Shame,” Christian Century, vol. 121, no. 7, April 6, 2004, 19.
Holy Week is a funny time for liturgical churches. Growing up in the United Methodist Church, I remember one Sunday (Palm Sunday), we put nails in the cross, and the next Sunday (Easter Sunday), we would put flowers in the same holes where those nails had been. But services between the two Sundays were rare, if not nonexistent. Once I became an Episcopalian, a whole world of liturgical wonders opened up. Each church did Holy Week a little differently, but invariably, there was some kind of worship every night of Holy Week. There were the traditional Triduum services: Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Vigil. But then there were a whole variety of others things: Taizé worship, Compline, Evensong, Healing Services, Tenebrae, Lessons and Carols, Vespers, and even special concerts.
Among ecumenical clergy, I often get looks of skepticism, as if they wonder why we do that to ourselves (i.e. work so many nights in a row). They are not wrong (it is certainly taxing), and I also do not promote the kind of martyred attitude many clergy assume while doing it. For most of us though, there is something deeper happening. Fellow clergyman Tim Schneck said it best in a recent post, “When you hear clergy strongly encouraging you to attend the services of Holy Week, especially the Great Three Days (Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, the Easter Vigil), it’s not just because they like to see more people in the pews, or it’s good for their egos, or they want parishioners to see how much effort goes into these liturgies. It’s because they believe in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ and the transforming power of the Christian faith. It’s because they love you and want nothing more than for you to have such a moving encounter with our Lord, that it will change your life. It’s an invitation rooted in profound love, and a recognition that there is literally nothing more important in the entire world than to participate fully as we collectively journey from the Upper Room to Calvary to the Empty Tomb.”
I know life is full and stressful. I know in my area, many families are rapidly approaching Spring Break and have a load of things to do to prepare. But as a pastor – maybe your pastor – I want to gift you this most sacred week for your spiritual journey. Whether you tune in online or join us in person at my church, let yourself be stirred by liturgies you do not often see, by actions you rarely do, and by music your rarely hear. In what can easily feel like just another week, make a point to find yourself a church that can stir your curiosity about faith or your longing for meaningful connection or a sense of belonging. But mostly, know that whatever you can do – even if it’s just Easter, know that there is a place where everyday this week, you can be reminded that you are loved – deeply, profoundly, and unconditionally. And if you want to hear, taste, smell, see, and touch that love, the Church is waiting for you.
Seeking and Serving 