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Searching the crowd…

02 Wednesday Mar 2016

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Any time I am in a city, I have a strange habit of expecting to see someone I know. Somehow being around that many people makes me feel like I must surely know someone in the crowd.  Now, when I lived in Wilmington, Delaware, my habit was not unwarranted.  In fact, the better expectation was how many people you would run into and from what connection you would know them.  But in cities like New York City or Washington, DC, the habit is a little silly.  We all say “It’s a small world!”  But I am pretty sure I have never accidently run into someone I knew in Manhattan.

So imagine my surprise this week, while on a quick trip down to the DC area, I ran into a former parishioner while waiting to get on my return Amtrak train.  What I had anticipated as being a long, quiet trip of catching up on work and sleep turned into a fun, vibrant train ride with an old friend.  Being from Delaware, he got off at Wilmington, while I continued on to NYC.  But the unexpected moment of recognition and time together was a tremendous treat.  Suddenly my searching the crowds in DC did not seem so unreasonable!

Though I often make fun of myself about my silly habit, I wondered this week if my practice of searching crowds of strangers for familiarity is, in fact, an exercise in hope.  One of our deepest longings is to be known and loved.  Being known makes us feel valued, affirmed, and comforted.  It gives us a sense of belonging, and harkens back the knowledge that we are beloved children of God.  But asking to be known is a hard thing to do – it requires vulnerability, openness to rejection, and letting down one’s guard.  Most of the time, when I scan crowds, I am sorely disappointed.  But every once in a while, a joyous reunion of recognition and being known happens – not unlike stumbling into Jesus’ open arms.

This coming Sunday in Lent is referred to as “Rose Sunday,” a Sunday of refreshment half-way through Lent.  I wonder in what ways we might take a break for penitence and reflection on our sinfulness and remember to walk in the world as a people of hope.  In what ways are you searching the crowds for reminders that you are a beloved child of God?  Keep an eye out so you don’t miss those gracious moments of recognition, affirmation, and hope.

Sermon – Luke 13.1-9, L3, YC, February 28, 2016

02 Wednesday Mar 2016

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My dad, a retired Methodist Minister, and I have always disagreed about the use of the Revised Common Lectionary.  He always felt that the pastor’s duty was to listen to the movement of the Spirit and select scripture lessons that were relevant to what was happening in the life of the parish.  I argued that his method was rife with pitfalls.  The pastor could end up confusing personal preference with the movement of the Spirit, could push one’s own agenda too far, or could end up avoiding hard texts out of laziness or fear.  Instead, I argued, following the lectionary forces the preacher to be truly open to the Spirit – totally giving up control over what text is offered on any given day, trusting that the Lord will provide the message.

This week, I wished I had adopted my dad’s practice.  I looked at the gospel lesson and immediately, said, “Nope!  No way, now how.  There is no way I am going to preach that text to my people when we are in the midst of transition!”  My list of reasons for avoiding the text from Luke were long and, I believe, well-reasoned.  I did not want to preach about a tree not bearing fruit because in no way did I want to infer that I think St. Margaret’s is not bearing fruit, especially because my pending departure has created a sense of insecurity about the strength of St. Margaret’s.  The truth is, St. Margaret’s is bearing fruit.  There is the literal fruit that we are bearing in our Garden of Eatin’ which is feeding our hungry neighbors.  And then there is the figurative fruit:  the children we are raising up through reinvigorated Christian Education programs, the pastoral ministries we are offering to our cemetery families, and the love and care we offer to each other.

But I didn’t just want to avoid talking about barren trees.  I also had no desire to talk about manure today.  Quite frankly, I could just imagine how in the midst of transition a community could feel like they are getting a whole lot of manure dumped on them.  A gardener knows that to keep plants thriving we have to aerate the soil, pull out weeds, and double up with nutrient-rich manure.  But anyone who has driven by a recently tended garden knows that the stench of manure can make you want to quickly run in the other direction.  As we think about the burdens of a transition, the last thing I wanted to talk about today is the gardener’s suggestion of piling on hot, smelly manure.

Besides wanting to avoid talking about barren trees and smelly manure, I had zero desire to talk about trees getting chopped down.  For all of the conversations I have had with parishioners over the past few weeks, the most common one has been about fear for the future of St. Margaret’s.  Many of you are worried about our viability and fear what the instability of transition and new leadership will bring.  On one hand, your fears are not unwarranted.  We have watched neighboring churches decline to the point of closure.  We also know that we are in a time and culture when churches have to work a lot harder to grow and thrive.  But I do not think St. Margaret’s has to fear the ax in our passage today.  If we were having this conversation five or six years ago, I could see where the damage of past leadership could have been the end of St. Margaret’s.  But even that challenge did not pull St. Margaret’s under.  And we are in a much stronger place – we have changed so much for the better and grown into a tree producing fruit.  Are we in a transition?  Yes.  Is change coming?  Yes.  Is our tree going to be cut down?  I do not think so.

Unfortunately for me, we actually do follow the lectionary.  And since we do not get to pick and choose what scripture fits our needs at a particular time, we look for the ways that a text speaks to us despite our personal preferences.  The good news is that some of our initial reactions to this text are rooted in a misunderstanding of the allegory Jesus gives us.  Many of us assume that the landowner is God and the gardener is Jesus.  But nowhere in Luke’s gospel is God portrayed as an angry, vindictive God that needs to be placated or negotiated with by Jesus. Instead, God is the one who waits every day for the prodigal son to come home.  God is the woman who leaves no pillow unturned looking for her lost coin.  Luke’s depiction is of a God who rejoices over one who repents than over the remaining ninety-nine who need no repentance.

Instead, as one scholar suggests, “Given Luke’s consistent picture of God’s reaction to sin, then perhaps the landowner is representative of our own sense of how the world should work.  That is, from very early on, we want things to be “fair” and we define “fair” as receiving rewards for doing good and punishment for doing evil.  (Except of course, when it comes to our own mistakes and misdeeds – then we want mercy!)”[i]  But our God is a God of justice, not fairness.  When I struggle with these two words, I always remember a cartoon that has floated around.  The cartoon has three people trying to see over a fence.  One is short, one is medium-height, and one is tall.  All three are given two boxes to stand on.  Of course, the tall person can easily see over the fence.  The medium-height person can just barely see over, but the short person cannot see, even with the two boxes.  This frame is called fairness or equality.  But the next frame is called justice.  In this frame, the short-statured person gets three boxes, the medium-height person gets two boxes, and the tallest person gets just one box.  All three people can now see over the fence equally.

I tell you this story not because as short-statured person I totally get this cartoon!  I tell you this story because I do not think our God is an angry landowner demanding results and expecting everyone to figure things out themselves – to produce fruit without adequate help.  No, I think the gardener is actually God – our advocate looking for justice, not just fairness.    Perhaps God is the one raising a contrary voice to suggest that the ultimate answer to sin is not punishment – not even in the name of justice – but rather mercy, reconciliation, and new life.[ii]  So, in the threat of danger and even death, God is a god who intercedes, who demands mercy, and in fact, is willing to get down in the manure to make sure we thrive and bear that delicious, life-giving fruit.

Now, even the gardener is not naïve to think that our window for productivity is unlimited.  Even the gardener submits to the owner that if after a year, the tree does not produce, the owner may cut the tree down.  But I do not think God will let that happen.  God is “all in” with making sure we are redeemed – whether by getting dirty with us to help us grow, or by interceding again, even when the produce is just not there.  Not unlike Abraham who argued and argued with God to spare ten, twenty, even fifty people, our gardener is one of mercy, reconciliation, and redemption.

And that is why I love the lectionary.  Even when I fight, and kick, and say, “No way!” God finds a way to speak despite my reservations.  Where I had feared sending the wrong message about our walk with Christ, God comes through bringing good news of mercy, reconciliation, and redemption.  Bishop Curry says this about our text today, “The task of the disciple is to witness and then wait, to take our best step and leave the rest to God…We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.  Being freed from managing the results of our actions enables us to do something, and do it well.  We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.  We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.  We are prophets of a future not our own.”[iii]  I do not know about you, but I am over the moon that our God is one who is willing to fight to the last pile of manure to encourage and strengthen us.  If our God can do that, we are bound to rise again in hopeful new life.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Lent 3 C:  Suffering, the Cross, and the Promise of Love,” February 22, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/02/lent-3-c-suffering-the-cross-and-the-promise-of-love/ on February 25, 2016.

[ii] Lose.

[iii] Michael B. Curry, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 97.

Sermon – Luke 9.28-36, TRS, YC, February 7, 2016

12 Friday Feb 2016

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Today is a pivotal day in the Church year.  In Advent, we start out the Church year anticipating and then celebrating God taking on human form in the Christ Child.  After Christmas we celebrate the season of Epiphany – a series of moments in which the true identity of Christ is revealed.  We hear first from the magi who devote their lives to finding Jesus.  At Jesus’ baptism we hear God claiming Jesus as God’s son.  In Cana, Jesus reveals his power at a wedding.  And then today, we close out the season of Epiphany with another revelation of the true identity of Christ – the transfiguration.

An epiphany is defined as a sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something; an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure; or a revealing scene or moment – in our case, of the divine.  That is what is happens to Peter, James, and John on the mountaintop:  a revealing of the essential nature of Jesus as the divine son of God.  When they see Jesus standing there with Moses and Elijah, talking about Jesus’ pending departure or exodus,[i] Peter, James and John can finally connect the dots about all Jesus has told them.  And in case the dazzling white light, and the appearance of the ancient prophet and lawgiver are not enough, out of the cloud they hear God’s voice saying, “This is my Son, my Chosen.”  On this last day of Epiphany, we get the epiphany of epiphanies!

Many of us have had our own epiphanies when it comes to God.  Whether we suddenly and clearly hear God’s voice, whether someone says something so profound that it shakes us to the core, or whether we see Christ in the face of a child, we have all had those revealing God moments.  My favorite epiphany story comes from the parish I served as a curate.  The associate had a rare Sunday where he was the only clergy person serving at the altar that day.  Everything had been going along smoothly in the service.  After he pronounced and shared the peace, he started to make his way back to the altar when something caught his eye.  He froze as he realized at the corner of the alter sat a bat.  Panicked, he turned around and looked down the long aisle.  There, he says, standing in the Narthex by the baptismal font, bathed in light from the morning sun stood our Sexton, Walt.  The priest, mesmerized by and grateful for Walt’s presence, briskly walked down the long aisle to Walt.  As parishioners looked on with curiosity, the priest quickly whispered to the sexton about the rodent sitting on the altar.  “Don’t worry,” said Walt.  “I got it.”  The priest walked shakily back down the aisle, giving the bat a wide berth on the other side of the altar.  Before he could even start fumbling at the credence table, Walt mysteriously appeared from the side door with a t-shirt, walked past the priest, swooped the bat up with the t-shirt, and then disappeared out the other side door.  Though Walt would never claim sacred status, the priest that day saw Christ in him not unlike the disciples on the mountaintop.

Most of us have more traditional epiphany moments in life:  baptisms, confirmations, ordinations, or weddings.  Today, we will honor two people who celebrated their wedding twenty-five years ago.  Weddings are not unlike those mountaintop experiences.  The soon-to-be-married couple sees each other bathed in light – if not literally, then certainly figuratively.  That day seems to be a day when the couple sees only the goodness in the other person:  their beauty, their care, their compassion, and their love.  There is a certain clarity that comes on a wedding day:  this is the person who makes the other better.  Together they are better servants of God than apart.  Time almost stands still, noises drop into the background, and suddenly, the couple is offered a moment deep assurance that this is a good and holy decision.  I had fun talking with Bob and Janet about that day for them so many years ago.

I think God knows that we need those sacred moments because God knows what happens next:  we come down the mountain.[ii]  I always like to remind couples about their wedding, especially those married for a long time, because their mountaintop experience may feel far away.  When we come down the mountain, we see the realities of life.  No matter how dreamy someone seems basked in light, all of their imperfections are obvious outside of the light.  In Luke’s gospel, the next verses tell the story of a young man who needs healing.  The disciples fail to heal him and the father of the young man begs Jesus for help.  Jesus is frustrated with his easily distracted disciples and scolds them.  The disciples are definitely not on the mountain anymore.  Jesus is no longer gloriously bathed in light – now he is just a scolding teacher.

We know that feeling too.  For as many mountaintop experiences we have had – whether at a wedding or at a retreat or even in a holy moment of prayer – we also have those experiences in the fields of everyday life.  We may even wonder where that glorious God is in those moments.   In fact, when we stay in the valleys and trenches too long, we sometimes wonder whether we imagined the mountaintop.  How could we have seen things so clearly and radiantly when in everyday life we feel nothing but God’s distance?  We may begin to doubt, to experience anger, or to simply feel like God is absent.

Luckily today’s text gives us some hope in our valley and trench moments.  First, epiphany moments are so strong that they keep revealing themselves to us.  On occasions like an anniversary, we can go back to that mountaintop moment and ask, “Why did I choose this person?”  We do not need long to be flooded with list of reasons.  Suddenly all the little annoyances fade, and what is left are the loving, tender moments, the caring, sacrificial actions, and the joyful, abiding experience.  I imagine that is why Luke tells this story today.  Only three of the disciples were privileged enough to be on that mountain.  But in Jesus’ death, resurrection, and ascension, I imagine they returned to this story again and again, recalling with affirmation how God had said that Jesus is God’s son.[iii]

Second, today’s text also gives us hope through the other part of God’s words.  God says, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”  We are all going to have hard days.  But those hard days are even harder when we refuse to listen.  No matter where we are, no matter how low the valley, Jesus is there speaking to us.  We simply need to listen.  All the answers to our questions, all our cries for support, all our loneliness and aching is answered when we listen.  When we get caught up in the illusion of self-sufficiency and having everything figured out, we forget God’s words.  The epiphany today – Jesus’ transfiguration – reminds us that God is speaking.  We need only to listen.

This week Janet and Bob will bask in the glory of their anniversary and the renewal of their vows.  They may even experience some of the radiance of that initial wedding day.  But eventually, the anniversary bliss will fade as they come down the mountain.  In that journey back to reality, their hope will be in listening to Christ as God commands.  The same will be true for us.  This week we begin the journey of Lent.  As we step into that time of penitence and fasting, God’s words offer us hope, “Listen to him.”  If God is telling us to listen, we can be assured that Jesus is speaking.  Our journey off the mountaintop and into the valley in these next forty days will be blessed and full when we listen to our Redeemer speaking to us.  As grateful as I am for a retelling of that transcendent day on the mountain, I am even more grateful for the reminder that disciples, like us, came back down the mountain.  But even on that journey down, Jesus is still with them, speaking truth, love, and hope.  Amen.

[i] N. T. Wright, Luke for Everyone (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 114.

[ii] Lori Brandt Hale, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 456.

[iii] Fred B. Craddock, Luke, Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990), 135.

The Truth about Weddings…

20 Wednesday Jan 2016

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wedding-cana

Photo credit:  http://www.freebibleimages.org/photos/wedding-cana/

Almost two years ago, we welcomed our second daughter, Cana into the world.  We have gotten countless questions about the choice of her name and we find ourselves telling the story about the wedding in Cana over and over again.  Sometimes the repetition is annoying.  But mostly, retelling the story is a gift in itself.  You see, the story of Jesus’ first miracle is a story of great joy.  There is the setting of a wedding – one already filled with merriment and delight.  There is the wonder of a miracle – the amazing ability of Jesus to convert water into wine.  And there is the shock of abundance – not just the enormous amount of wine that Jesus produces, but also the best wine of the evening.  There are certainly questions in the story:  What is happening between Jesus and Mary?  Is this kind of miracle an exercise in indulgence?  Why does Jesus choose this as his first miracle?  But the questions usually fade in comparison to the joy.  Jesus chooses an occasion of joy to bring forth a miracle of abundance and pleasure.  I cannot help but smile every time I read the story.

Attending a wedding this weekend, hearing the story of Cana in Sunday’s lectionary, and thinking about our own daughter Cana, I cannot help but be left with a sense of gratitude for the gift of abundant joy given to us by Jesus in his first miracle.  There are parts of Jesus’ story that are neither joyful nor abundant.  But this first miracle gives us a taste – a literal and delightful taste – of the abundance of God’s love and kingdom.  I really cannot seem to wipe the smile off my face when I think of any of the three of those reminders of Jesus’ abundance and grace.

Perhaps that is why I am so saddened by the continued discord in the Anglican Communion about gay marriage.  In my country, the occasion of the legalization and blessing of gay marriage in the Episcopal Church has been a source of great joy for my gay and lesbian brothers and sisters, as well as their allies.  That, coupled with the ordination of gay and lesbian clergy, has left many in our church feeling a deep connection to the joy and abundance that Christ brings.  And yet, that joy is bringing great sadness to a large portion of the Anglican Communion.  Here we are at the earthly banquet, and instead of a joyful occasion of abundance, we are at a different feast – one where family drama and strife is overshadowing the joy of some of our members.

The irony of the wedding of Cana being appointed for the same Sunday that the Episcopal Church is grappling with the Anglican Communion Primates’ decision to suspend the full participation of the Episcopal Church in the life and work of the Anglican Communion is not lost on me.  But maybe that is the truth of every wedding – the constant tension between heavenly grace and abundance and human sinfulness and frailty.  Behind every dreamy wedding is some glossed over (or sometimes very obvious) family drama.  But even in the midst of family tension, there are usually moments of grace – glimpses of the abundance Jesus wants to shower upon us.  That is what I am grasping onto this week:  in the midst of pain, and facing the ambiguity of these next years in the Anglican Communion, God will keep breaking through with abundance, joy, and miracle.  Though I do not know all the answers to the biblical or the ecclesiastical story, I am grateful for the gift of Cana.

Sermon – Luke 2.41-52, C2, YC, January 3, 2016

06 Wednesday Jan 2016

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I learned pretty early on to adopt the model of a village partnering with me to raise my children.  We have never lived close enough to parents or siblings who could take our children for the afternoon or in an emergency.  Instead, we learned to lean on babysitters, friends, and parishioners.  And because both my husband and I found fulfillment working, we relied on teachers and daycare workers to support us during working hours.  Though we are our children’s parents, there is an entire village who is helping us to raise our children.

Though not all parents subscribe to that model of parenting, that is certainly the model in Jesus’ day.  Families stick together – but “family” has a much broader definition.  Your extended family and your family’s friends are your village – so you have a lot of moms, pops, grandmas, and aunties watching over you.  That village is the reason Mary and Joseph can travel for a day’s journey without noticing their missing twelve-year old.[i]  In the village, much like at Coffee Hour or a Pancake Breakfast at St. Margaret’s, the watching of children happens in community.  Mary and Joseph have no worry about Jesus because they know that the other moms, pops, grandmas, and aunties will keep him in line and safe.  And Jesus knows his role too – to follow instructions and to stay with the village.

Much like we should not be surprised that Mary and Joseph do not notice missing Jesus for a full day, we should also not be surprised that they are angry with Jesus when they find him.  They have journeyed a full day out of Jerusalem, rushed the day-long journey back to Jerusalem, and have scoured the City for three more days to find their missing child.  When they finally find Jesus, Mary lets Jesus have it.  “Child, why have you treated us like this?!?” she scolds.  But as exasperated as Mary and Joseph must be, I imagine they are furious with Jesus’ response.  I can hear the preteen annoyance and flippancy in Jesus’ words[ii], “Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”  I am sure Luke edited out Mary’s response, “Excuse me?!?  Who do you think you are to talk to me like that?!?”

The interaction between Mary, Joseph, and Jesus is the story of every family experiencing the transition from childhood into adolescence.  I am convinced that the commandment to honor one’s father and mother is rooted in the adolescent-prescribed struggle between family and independence.  In fact, that transition from preteen to teenage years is probably the most difficult of parent-child transitions.  This is the time when parents transition out of being the primary teachers and forces of influence on their child’s life.  Meanwhile, peers transition into being the primary teachers and forces of influence in a child’s life.  That time is a liminal time when the child is no longer solely dependent upon the parent but also is not yet totally independent.  So although the child may want to shed his or her old way of life, he or she is not fully prepared to live parent-free.  The child struggles, but so do the parents.  I remember one of the pieces of advice I received early on as a parent.  The seasoned parent told me that my number one goal was to help my child become self-sufficient.  But the parent warned me:  the preparation was the easy part – the teaching, the modeling, the cheering on of each successive milestone.  The hard part is when self-sufficiency is actually attained.  Feeling no longer needed or an active part in the child’s life can leave a parent feeling bereft or abandoned – whether that happens at twelve or twenty-one or forty.

That is where Mary and Joseph struggle today.  They have been preparing Jesus his whole childhood to be self-sufficient.  They have cared for him, protected him, and taught him.  But they have yet to let go of Jesus.  They are surprised by Jesus’ defensive response – partially because Jesus’ response is a bit rude, but partially because they have boxed Jesus into a role.  Jesus is their child who is to follow their rules.  Not only have Mary and Joseph forgotten that Jesus is growing up, they have also forgotten that Jesus is the son of God, the Messiah for God’s people.[iii]  What is probably the most annoying about Jesus’ response to his parents is that Jesus’ response is also partially true.  No one likes to be reprimanded by their twelve-year old.

What the encounter today between Jesus and his parents reminds us of is that we too can put Jesus in a box.  With a lifetime of hearing and learning about Jesus, we feel like we have a pretty strong grasp of who Jesus is and what Jesus is about.  But the danger in that kind of comfort with Jesus is that we put Jesus in a category as a known, unchangeable entity.  But if we remember, Jesus was not particularly known for doing the predictable.  Jesus was always surprising those closest to him.  He would even sometimes say one thing and do another.  Clearly Jesus’ parents thought they had him figured out.  The disciples fell into the same practice too.  They were constantly suggesting a plan of action they thought was in line with Jesus’ way of doing things, only to be shut down by Jesus himself.

We fall into the same trap.  Being followers of Christ, we sometimes think we can speak for Christ.  I have heard people argue that Jesus would have been a democrat or a republican – an argument that clearly is setup to satisfy a need for self-affirmation.  Our question, “What would Jesus do?” is also a dangerous one, as the question tempts us to put words into Jesus mouth that have never been there.  The conundrum is easy enough to see – how can we make a two-thousand-year-old Middle Eastern Jesus relevant to a twenty-first century American?  Truthfully, as a preacher, I am the most at risk because my whole job is to make Jesus relevant to our lives.

A couple of years ago, I stumbled on a quote from Steve Maraboli.  He said, “Want to keep Christ in Christmas?  Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, forgive the guilty, welcome the unwanted, care for the ill, love your enemies, and do unto others as you would have done unto you.”[iv]  In many ways, we have all we need to know about Jesus.  He taught and showed us how to live.  Our questions about what Jesus would do or what party affiliation he would have are distractions.  We know how he lived his life.  We also know that he was constantly surprising those around him.  Our antidote to falling into the same trap of keeping Jesus in a box is to live the life he called us to live, but also to always expect to be surprised.  I imagine when we feed the hungry, clothe the naked, forgive the guilty, welcome the unwanted, care for the ill, love our enemies, and do unto others as we would have done unto us, we will find that Jesus shows up in all sorts of surprising ways.  And like Mary and Joseph, we may find sharp, annoyed responses from Jesus to our questions.  His response is the same to us today, “Why were you searching for me?  Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”  Did you not know that I would be with the hungry, the guilty, the unwanted, the ill, and the enemy?   Jesus sounds like an impetuous teenager at times.  But he also sounds like a wise a teenager at times.  Amen.

[i] Barbara Brown Taylor, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 167.

[ii] William J. Danaher, Jr. “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 164.

[iii] Danaher, 164.

[iv] Steve Maraboli, Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience.  Quote found at http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/476284-want-to-keep-christ-in-christmas-feed-the-hungry-clothe on January 2, 2016.

Homily – John 1.1-18, C1, YC, December 27, 2015

06 Wednesday Jan 2016

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I know many priests who love to read John’s prologue at Christmas.  They get excited just reading the text and they cannot wait to preach on the text.  I am not one of those priests.  The text is so dramatic and circuitous.  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.”  I know lots of people who love the poetic sound of these words, but to me, they just sound like gibberish.  I always have to read them three of four times to figure out what John is saying.  I struggle in hearing them to know whether John is being repetitive or if he is trying to lead me through some complex logic.  By the time I get to the fourth verse, I tend to mentally check out.  Besides, this is Christmas – can’t we talk about cute babies, loud animals, and singing angels??

Truthfully, John is not to blame for my apathy.  John’s prologue is true to the entire tenor of John’s gospel.[i]  John is not a gospel writer who is interested in telling an enthralling story of intrigue and delight.  John is much more interested in interpreting the story of Jesus.  He does not just want to report the what – he wants to report the why.  The other gospel writers are like that grandpa who always tells great bedtime stories.  John is more like the cryptic college professor who seems to speaking English, but nothing he says makes sense.

I sense my distaste for John says more about me as a consumer than about John as a writer.  As a lover of movies and books, I like to be entertained and drawn in by a story.[ii]  But the truth is, I know that the cryptic college professors have something very important to teach us too.  Today, what that professor has to teach us is to define what has happened in the Christmas event – not just the who, what, when, where stuff of a news feed.  John wants us to know what the who, what, when, where stuff means.  Actually, I think John wants us to know that the who, what, when, where stuff is only scratching the surface of the enormity of the Christmas event.  John wants us to know that although Jesus is born in a particular time and place, Jesus always was, is, and will be.  All that gibberish about the beginning and the Word and the Word being with God and being God is important.  What John does is set the stage for our entire theological understanding of who Jesus is.[iii]  Jesus is not just a special child.  Jesus is not simply a person.  Jesus is both human and divine.  John is outlining the crux of our entire faith in this prologue.

Though I do not suspect that John’s words today would be the best words to use when explaining to a child or a new convert to the faith who Jesus was and what he means to us, John’s words are at the heart of not only the Christmas story, but of our entire faith as Christian people.  When I served at an Anglo-Catholic parish, we did a lot of bowing, genuflecting, and prostrating.  One of the things that took some getting used to for me what genuflecting during the part of the creed that says, “by the power of the Holy Spirit he became incarnate form the Virgin Mary, and was made man.”[iv]  At first I wondered why we genuflected there, but I followed along so as not to stand out.  After two years of that practice though, I came to see the strength in the gesture.  God does something powerful by taking on human flesh.  The incarnation is a game changer.  All that happened before the Christmas moment was transformed when God took on human form.  That is why, despite how wordy or convoluted the words may sound, we read them at Christmas because they help us understand the enormity of this event.   In the end, that realization is much more powerful than the who, what, when, where information.  The why is a much more powerful story today.  The why tells us of the astounding way that God loves us – so much so that God will go to unheard of lengths to be among us, to give us a glimpse of how to live in the way of God, and to redeem us for all time.  The why of this story may not be an engaging bedtime story.  But the why of this story blows our minds when we begin to grasp how insanely the Lord our God loves us.  We could all stand to do a little more genuflecting – either with our bodies or in our hearts – recognizing the tremendous significance of what God has done in the person of Jesus. Our invitation today is to thank and praise our God, and then to discern how that all-powerful love for us will change us to be agents of love and light as well.  Amen.

[i] Robert Redman, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 140.

[ii] Michael S. Bennett, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 142.

[iii] Redman, 142.

[iv] BCP, 358.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CD, YC, December 25, 2015

06 Wednesday Jan 2016

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One of the things I have always found funny about Christmas is the number of hymns that talk about silence.  Our favorite is usually Silent Night.  When we sing the song on Christmas Eve, we dim the lights and enjoy a quiet moment of reflection.  But that holy night was anything but quiet.  Bethlehem is inundated with people coming in for the registration.  The fact that there is no room for Joseph and Mary tells us how crowded Bethlehem is.  But Mary and Joseph not only have to tend with homecoming revelers, they also have to contend with the animals over whose abode they have taken.  Add into the mix a screaming newborn, and the idea of a silent night is almost comical.

But Mary and Joseph get even more noise than that.  You see, nearby shepherds hear a cacophony of praise from the heavenly hosts in the middle of the night.  Their night has been anything but quiet too.  Instead of trying to get the animals and themselves back to sleep, they decide to go into town and see this thing which has come to pass.  And so, they spend the night, talking to Mary and Joseph, maybe taking turns trying to soothe baby Jesus.  When they leave those rudimentary quarters, they leave town praising and glorifying God.  Yes, this is no silent night for the shepherds either.

I think that is why I enjoy our Christmas Day celebration.  Silence is in short supply on Christmas Eve.  We sing carols, we hear the giddy laughter of children awaiting gifts, stockings, and cookies, and we chant the mass, singing our traditionally spoken words.  For those of us with small children, even the wee hours of the morning of Christmas Day are loud – filled with cries of elation, joy, and battery-operated toys.  But on Christmas Day, after a noisy night and morning, we make our way to church and find, perhaps for the first time, the silence for which we have been looking.  We do not sing carols.  We do not have to speak over the hubbub of full pews.  Instead we gather in relative quiet, and tell the old story again – but this time with a softness that cannot be found on Christmas Eve.

What I love about finding true silence on Christmas Day is that our morning is structured a lot like I imagine that first holy morning being structured.  Christmas Eve was full of noise – of animals, shepherds, angels, and crying babies.  But that next morning, the dust has settled.  Gone are the shepherds and angels.  The animals have calmed down after too many midnight guests.  I even imagine baby Jesus has given in to sleep, since most newborns get their nights and days reversed for the first few weeks.  Into this relative quiet is when I imagine Mary treasuring all those words and pondering them in her heart.  The night before was just too loud.  The exhausted, travel-weary, physically and emotionally spent Mary gets a moment in the morning to begin to process what God has done in and through her.  After the break of dawn, as the sun rises and the loud revelers and news deliverers have gone, she can have a quiet moment as she rocks or feeds baby Jesus and ponder in her heart this child at her breast.

I do not think that night was silent.  But I understand why our hymnodists would want to talk about silence.  I think that is why I prefer the hymn, “Let all mortal flesh keep silence.”  Instead of depicting a silent night, that hymn invites us to keep silence as a form of reverence.  The first verse says, “Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and with fear and trembling stand; ponder nothing earthly minded, for with blessing in his hand, Christ our God to earth descendeth, our full homage to demand.”  I like the hymn because that is the kind of pondering I imagine Mary does in her heart this morning.  Unlike most new mothers, I do not think she is worried about the impact of birth on her body or even about her humble surroundings.  I imagine her thoughts that morning are consumed with nothing earthly minded.  Instead, I imagine her heart is pondering the blessing of Christ our God descending on earth through her – and the enormity of the event drives her to pay silent homage as she gazes on Jesus’ precious face.

That is what the church invites us to do today as well.  We structure a morning for worship.  The dust of gift wrap, egg nog, and stocking stuffers has settled.  The noise of carols, singing choirs and priests, and antsy children in pews has faded.  The anxiety of preparing for the big event of this day has eased.  And all that is left is a moment to let our mortal flesh keep silent before the Christ Child.  This morning we take a moment to ponder nothing earthly minded, and instead join Mary as she ponders all that has happened in her heart.  We come to church on this holy morning to ponder the miracle of the Christ Child.  We honor the way in which God is ever trying to honor the covenant God has made with us – willing to go to the extreme of taking on human form to care for and preserve us.  Our God’s love knows no bounds.  Humbled by that knowledge, we come to pay God homage.

The question for us in our pondering is what we will do with that love.  Though we make space this morning for silence, we do not remain here all day.  Like any other Sunday, the priest will dismiss us to go in peace, and serve the Lord.  Anytime we feast at Christ’s table, that is our charge:  to take whatever sustenance we have gained and to go out into the world to do the work that Christ has given us to do.  Certainly that may involve cooking, travel, or more gift giving.  But the news we ponder in our hearts today is much bigger than today.  Today we are commissioned to consider the impact of the birth of the Christ Child on our lives.  What will our response be to the God who is so faithful to God’s covenant with us that God would take on human flesh to redeem us?  We may need still need to ponder in our hearts what that response will be.  I cannot imagine a better day than today to keep pondering what new work God is crafting in our hearts.  Amen.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2015

05 Tuesday Jan 2016

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In many ways, the story that we tell tonight is rather ordinary.  As the story begins, the government is doing what the government does – finding ways to tax the people.  And so the people without influence are herded – herded back to their hometowns to be registered so that the Emperor can be certain he is getting all he is owed.  But anytime you move masses of people, you get overcrowding.  That is what happens in Bethlehem this night.  Though Joseph’s extended family is expecting him, they run out of space.  Though the story says there is no room in the inn, the more likely scenario is that the family guest room was already full.[i]  So Joseph and his pregnant fiancé get the leftovers – the area of the home meant for the animals.  We’ve had those moments – when your delinquent uncle or your slacker friend shows up unexpected.  You grab a pillow and a blanket and offer space on the couch – or the floor if the couch is already taken.  This is just an ordinary night of making the space work.

Of course, no woman would want to give birth under these conditions, but that is the funny thing about birth – births happen all the time, whether people are ready or not.  Though every time a baby is born we marvel at the miracle of life, births are really much more commonplace that we give them credit for being.  Just like any other birth, Mary finds a place to lay the baby, and just like any other mother, Mary finds a way to swaddle the baby so that he can ease off to sleep.  And so in the messiness of managing civic life and familial life, here our story has us working through the ordinary mess of reproductive life.

And in case we were to get too excited about our story, God decides to reveal the occurrences of that night to even more ordinary people.  Enter the shepherds.  These are ordinary men, doing the necessary work of shepherding.  In fact, these men are so ordinary, they are almost invisible to the outside world.  They are not busy heading to their home town to be counted because according to the day, they are not worth counting.[ii]  They are the migrant workers that do the work no one else wants to do.  So while everyone is sleeping, or eating, or enjoying the warmth of a fire, the shepherds are out tending their flocks, focused on the ordinariness of agricultural life.

Of course, the story becomes interesting when we hear about all of the extraordinary parts of this story.  Yes, there is the same greedy government, the same crowded family, the same new parents, and the same business of farm life.  But something extraordinary breaks into the ordinary this night.  In the midst of everyday lives, God breaks in through the ordinary and proclaims good news of great joy.  The Messiah has been born – the long awaited Savior who will change everything.  In fact, the angels are so blown away by this extraordinary moment in time that they break into song, praising God.  That is what we do when faced with the extraordinary.  We praise God for God’s goodness and mercy and grace.  God takes on human flesh for us, and the angels do the only thing they can – they praise God in gratitude.

The shepherds’ initial reaction to the same news is quite ordinary – they go and talk to the family.  They tell Mary and Joseph what they saw.  Again, the scene is quite ordinary – a travel-worn family making due in rustic quarters having a conversation with equally worn shepherds.  No one is out of place in this scene – everyone is equally ordinary.  And yet, the extraordinary lights up the room.  So extraordinary is the night that the shepherds leave, glorifying and praising God.  They echo the response of the angels, expressing their overwhelming gratitude in the only way they know how – praising and thanking God.  Mary too knows how extraordinary this night is.  She treasures this extraordinary moment in her heart, left pondering what new thing God is doing.

That is what we love about this story:  the juxtaposition of the ordinary with the extraordinary.  The ordinary part we know intimately.  We too find ourselves living ordinary lives.  We work, we play, we laugh, we cry.  We pay our taxes, we deal with family, we go through labor pains.  We come to church, we pray together, we read scripture together, and we feast on the holy meal.  With the exception of a few fun vacations, nights out on the town, or the wedding of a friend, our lives are relatively ordinary.  I am pretty sure most of us have not witnessed a heavenly host bringing us good tidings of great joy.

We do not get the extraordinary most days:  except, of course, when we do.  Even in our ordinary lives, God breaks in with the extraordinary.  Just a couple of weeks ago a parishioner was telling me about how our conversations at church had finally worn him down.  When he ran into a homeless person on his walk in the City, he decided to finally give him some money – a practice that he never endorses.  Something about his experience with God was softening his resolve and he was able, in a moment of clarity, to see the humanity of the man.  Or the other week, I was talking to a teacher about the profound things her children sometimes say.  They sometimes say things that stop her in her tracks and make her reevaluate her way of being.  Or a few months ago I was talking to another person of faith about her prayer life.  She confessed rather sheepishly that sometimes in her prayers, especially when she makes room to listen to God, hears a response back.  She felt like she could not really explain the phenomenon well, but she knew the voice must be from God because the words rang so true and were nothing she would have come to on her own.

That is what happens in our ordinary lives – God breaks through again and again, overwhelming us with the extraordinary.  Those moments are gifts that we celebrate an honor, because they are just that – gifts.  That is the same reason we celebrate tonight.  We honor the gift that God gives us in Christ Jesus.  For all intents and purposes, Jesus is just another baby born under ordinary circumstances.  But we know that he is so much more:  God Incarnate, Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.  Tonight is about honoring the extraordinary in the midst of the ordinary.  Tonight is about claiming the joy that can only come from extraordinary acts of God.  But tonight is also about claiming the joy of a community that invites us to praise – to glorify God as we go our own ways this night.  We are blessed over and over.  In the trials and tribulations of ordinary life, we are so blessed by our extraordinary God and the community of faith that gathers with us.  In fact, the extraordinary nature of God hallows our ordinary lives, making them anything but ordinary.  Tonight, I invite you to embrace the extraordinary in our midst, to honor the holiness of the ordinary, and to find ways to share that extraordinary in our ordinary lives tomorrow.  Amen.

[i] Richard Swanson, “Commentary on Luke 2:[1-7] 8-20,” December 25, 2013, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1880 on December 22, 2015.

[ii] Michael S. Bennett, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 118.

Sermon – Luke 1.39-45, A4, YC, December 20, 2015

05 Tuesday Jan 2016

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This time of year, seven years ago, I was about a month into pregnancy.  The season was one of expectation, disbelief, and excitement, but we were not telling anyone about the pregnancy for fear that something could go wrong.  Hiding one’s pregnancy in those first months is a common cultural practice for many women and families who are sensitive about the uncertainty of pregnancy.  But holding a secret like pregnancy can invoke a mixture of emotions.  You may feel anxious that someone will discover your secret.  You may feel afraid that something will go wrong and worry about how you would share the news.  You may feel guilty about telling white lies to hide your ultimate secret.  Holding a secret about ourselves can create an inner tension and an outer isolation that is unsettling and unnerving.

We do not know whether Mary had planned to tell Elizabeth about her pregnancy.  In Luke’s gospel, Mary never gets the chance to tell Elizabeth the news herself.  Luke only tells us that after Mary is told that she is pregnant with Jesus, the angel tells her that Elizabeth, who is past the childbearing age, is six months pregnant.  Mary immediately goes to Elizabeth.  Most scholars believe that Mary goes to Elizabeth to offer care for Elizabeth’s pregnancy.[i]  But we cannot know whether Mary planned to tell Elizabeth about her own pregnancy.  Mary had every reason not to tell her.  To an outsider, Mary’s pregnancy is not good news. She is unwed, young, poor, and pregnant.  This combination would make her an outcast, and typically no man would take her as a wife.[ii]  In Mary’s day, her pregnancy and her resulting un-marriable status is almost a death sentence.  Women in this time depended on a husband for financial support and social acceptance.  Although Mary’s pregnancy is good news from God, in the social context, that joy is negated and forced into silence.  Given her situation, we can imagine that Mary might have wanted to keep her pregnancy a secret.  Although she is rushing to Elizabeth to care for her, Mary may have been dreading the pending time of holding a secret and the inner tension and outer isolation that her secret will cause.

In modern times, we too struggle with sharing information within a community.  One of our most common greetings is, “How are you?”  And the usual response is, “Good.”  But our common greeting is rarely a genuine question about how someone is actually doing.  In fact, many of us have a short list of people with whom we avoid asking that question altogether because we know we will be there an hour later hearing about aches, pains, and their crazy neighbor.  We prefer our short greeting and response because not only do we not want to really hear about someone else’s problems, we do not want to tell others how we are truly doing either.  “Good” becomes our code word for, “I am mostly fine, but I don’t want to tell you how I really am.”  Sometimes “good” is a necessary response for keeping others from prying into our lives.

But sometimes “good” is a way of preventing authentic relationship.  While I was in seminary we were required to serve part-time in local parishes.  At the church where I was serving, Easter Vigil was a big deal.  We had many more acolytes, ushers, and Eucharistic Ministers than normal.  As we prepared to line up the large group for the procession, I noticed one of the acolytes was not as chipper as she usually is.  I asked her if she was okay, and she blurted out that she had had a fight with her parents on the way to church and was still in a bad mood.  I was surprised by her candor, especially in front of all the other acolytes.  But as soon as she shared her frustration, several of the acolytes gave her a pat on the shoulder, or commiserated with her experience.  Somehow, saying out loud why she was in a bad mood allowed her to release some of her tension and start fresh that night.

Preventing authentic relationship is not just something we do with each other.  We also struggle with sharing information with God.  During worship, we model corporate confession to God.  But how many of us really take our personal struggles to God?  Perhaps we have been so ashamed of something that we could not even talk to God about it.  Or perhaps we have been angry about how something is going in our life – the job that we did not get, the unhappiness we are having in a relationship, or the illness that is not healing.  Sometimes our anger about a situation clouds our emotions so much that we cannot imagine lifting the situation to God in prayer.  At times of heightened emotions, we feel the least capable of inviting God into our shame, anger, or grief.

The encounter between Elizabeth and Mary today offers a complete counter to our natural tendencies toward being guarded and resistant to authenticity and intimacy.  Before Mary can offer a veiled “I’m good,” Elizabeth immediately greets Mary with joy and blessing.  If Mary is at all concerned about Elizabeth’s judgment, shunning, or slandering within the community, Mary misjudges.  Instead of the expected judgment, Elizabeth offers Mary warm acceptance and praise.  Elizabeth not only blesses Mary for being the carrier of the Savior, she also blesses Mary for being faithful to God.[iii]  Elizabeth does not tentatively ask Mary if she is going to be okay or encourage her to be quiet about her shameful pregnancy.  Instead, Elizabeth sees the glory of Mary’s pregnancy, ignores cultural norms, and celebrates loudly the magnificence of what God will do through Mary.  Elizabeth proclaims, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”  Elizabeth’s response is the exact opposite of what Mary may have expected.

The countercultural response of Elizabeth to Mary is the same countercultural way that God operates among us.  God chooses Mary, a young, poor, unwed woman to be the bearer of God.  God chooses Elizabeth, a woman far beyond the age of conception, to be God’s prophet.[iv]  God lifts up the poor and oppressed and calls them blessed.  God takes on human form in Jesus, lowering God’s self to come and be among us.  God’s way is almost always countercultural.  God has a way of turning things upside down and shaking up our thinking.  Through the brief encounter between Elizabeth and Mary – two marginal women – God reveals the earthy, authentic, countercultural way that God calls us to be in relationship with one another and with God.  Looking through this very human interaction between two women, we are able to anticipate the very human child of Jesus who will transform all our relationships in a countercultural way.

As we anticipate the celebration of Christ’s birth and we await the coming of Christ again, we are reminded through Elizabeth and Mary of the invitation that we have into authentic, Christian relationship with one another and with God.  Mary and Elizabeth’s encounter reminds us that our church community is a gift.  Our community is a place where we can be vulnerable with one another, share our hopes and dreams with one another, and share our shame, guilt, and fear with one another.  Our community is a place where when someone asks you how you are, we really want to know how you are.  Our community is a place where we can expect beautifully, and often brutally, shared honesty.  Our community helps us model the kind of relationship that Elizabeth and Mary have.

Elizabeth and Mary also invite us into authentic relationship with God.  Most Sundays we open our worship with a prayer called the Collect for Purity.  We pray: Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid…”  Weekly we admit that despite the fact that we do not want to take our shame, our anger, our fear, or our secrets to God, God knows them anyway.  God is the Elizabeth for us Marys.  God greets us with joy and blessing before we can even share our secret.  God already knows and God loves us.  God wipes away tension and isolation and throws upon us the cloak of love.  As we enter into a time with family, friends, and church to celebrate Christ’s birth, I invite you to let go of anxiety and isolation.  I invite you to consider the warmth of Elizabeth toward Mary and God toward us, and to give that anxiety and isolation to God.  Give those feelings to God because perhaps this year, you will find an Elizabeth in your life who can warmly embrace you into the love and acceptance of Christ.  Amen.

[i] Robert Redman, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 94.

[ii] Judith Jones, “Commentary on Luke 1:39-45, (46-55),” December 20, 2015 as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2723 on December 12, 2015.

[iii] Stephen A. Cooper, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 95.

[iv] Charles C. Campbell, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 95.

Sermon – Philippians 1.3-11, A2, YC, December 6, 2015

11 Friday Dec 2015

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This sermon was given on the occasion of our Annual Meeting.

My dearest St. Margaret’s, “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, because of your sharing in the gospel from the first day until now.  I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.  It is right for me to think this way about all of you, because you hold me in your heart, for all of you share in God’s grace with me…For God is my witness, how I long for all of you with the compassion of Christ Jesus.”

If ever I were to write a love letter to St. Margaret’s, I would steal these words from Paul to the Philippians.  You see, Paul saw in the Philippians what I see in you:  a community of faith alive with the Holy Spirit, sharing the Good News of Christ Jesus in our community.  A little over four years ago, I became your rector.  You were bruised and battered, having not only survived a tumultuous relationship with your last rector, but also a strained relationship with an interim, as well as the absence of consistent leadership for over two years through the limits of a supply priest.  Having had years of struggle, I quickly came to realize that St. Margaret’s had some baggage.  But St. Margaret’s also had a sense of tenacity, determination, and a deep-rooted joy that could not be stifled.  You see, as Paul writes, I could see that over fifty years ago, “the one who began a good work among you [would] bring [that good work] to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.”  I knew God was not done with us yet.

And so, over time, I came to love each of you:  not the dreamy romantic love of love birds, but the kind of love that family has for each other.  That is what people usually describe as being so wonderful about St. Margaret’s:  that we are like family.  Now when I first heard that description, I got a little nervous.  I have served at too many funerals and weddings to know that every family has some drama.  Every family has a loud Uncle Carl, crazy Aunt Bessie, or overbearing Grandma Jones.  Every family has experienced sibling drama or tensions between parent and child.  Describing St. Margaret’s as being like a family made me wary.  I began to wonder who the loud uncle, the crazy aunt, or the overbearing grandma were in this community.  But over the years, I began to understand more fully why the description of St. Margaret’s as family works so well.  Don’t get me wrong, we have our loud uncles, crazy aunts, and overbearing grandmas – though I will never tell you who they are!  But like a family, we know each other.  We know each other’s foibles, quirks, and tendencies.  We know each other’s hurts, failures, and embarrassing moments.  We even know how to predict the reactions of each other to any given situation.  But also like family, we love each other anyway.  We love each other in the way that loving mothers, protective fathers, supporting sisters, and encouraging brothers can.  We love each other not despite our weaknesses but because of those weaknesses.  In fact, no matter how much we might annoy each other at times, those foibles, quirks, and tendencies are what we have come to love about one another.  In essence, we have come to see each other with the loving eyes that Christ has for each of us.  We have come to love like Paul.[i]  Somewhere deep in our hearts, we too pray, “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you.”

Paul gushes about the Philippians today:  about how much he loves them, how proud he is of their work to spread the Good News, and how he sees Christ moving and acting among them for good.  But Paul’s letter is not simply a letter of affirmation – a love letter for the Philippians to put under their pillows and pull out when they are feeling low.  Paul’s letter is more.  Paul’s letter comes with a charge.  “And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what is best, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless, having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.”  Paul does not want the Philippians to keep this love to themselves.  He wants them to let their love overflow into action.[ii]

The more and more I read Paul’s charge this week, the more and more I began to see the mission of St. Margaret’s in his words.[iii]  Several years ago, St. Margaret’s took up a mantra.  We want to be a community of faith seeking Christ, serving Christ, and sharing Christ in our community and beyond.  First, we want to be a community seeking Christ – a community committed to learning more about this God we follow, and deepening our journey with Christ.  As Paul says, we want to build up knowledge and full insight to help us determine what is best.  And so that is a part of our work here.  We are teaching our children how to walk in the way of Christ.  We are studying God’s word and challenging one another to grow through prayer, reading, and reflection.  We are engaging in meaningful worship that inspires and delights us, and helps us to connect with our God.  We are a community of faith seeking Christ.

We are also a community of faith serving Christ.  As Paul says, we are letting our love overflow.  St. Margaret’s is a community that cares about others – not just those inside the doors, but outside the doors too.  I see that love in the ways that wallets open as soon as we learn of a need in our community.  I see that love when you think of others when grocery shopping for yourselves, adding in a few extra cans or boxes for people you have never met.  I see that love when we spread peanut butter and scoop jelly, praying that the recipient of that sandwich might know the love of Christ that you have known and be encouraged in their struggle.  Our love overflows into vegetable gardens, into grief support groups, and into the hearts and minds of those who long for love.  We are a community of faith serving Christ.

We are also a community of faith sharing Christ.  As Paul says, we are to let our love overflow so that it might produce a harvest.  What I have loved about this community is that although we are nervous about sharing the Good News – of evangelizing – we share the Good News anyway.  When you gush with friends about the meaningful thing that happened at church, when you tell a stranger about how your church is doing good work, or when you serve as an example of Christ-like love in the world, you are sharing the Good News.  We do that when we walk in the parade, we do that when we put our name on baseball jerseys, and we do that when we wear our St. Margaret’s shirts to the gym, grocery store, or shopping mall.  We are a community of faith sharing Christ.

We are a community of faith seeking Christ, serving Christ, and sharing Christ because the love, joy, and acceptance we have found inside these walls is not just for us.  Fifty-two years ago, God began a good work in us.  God planted the seeds of righteousness in this community, and today we are invited to harvest that work.  And Paul assures us, as he assured the Philippians years ago, that God will bring to completion the good work began in us.  All we have to do is let our love overflow – overflow from us, overflow from our beautiful, complicated relationships with one another, and overflow from our community out into the world.  So tuck that love letter under your pillow when you need affirmation and a reminder that you are doing the good work that God calls you to do.  But also pull out that love letter when you feel weary – when you need to be inspired to get back out there, to seek Christ, serve Christ, and share Christ.  God loves you with a deep affection; and God wants your love to overflow to others more and more.  Amen.

[i] Leander E. Keck, ed., New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 11 (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2000), 484.

[ii] Philip E. Campbell, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 39.

[iii] Edward Pillar, “Commentary on Philippians 1.3-11,” December 6, 2015 as found at  http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2695 on December 3, 2015.