Tag Archives: Lent

Sermon – John 12.20-33, L5, YB, March 22, 2015

01 Wednesday Apr 2015

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Early this past week, my daughter and I were watching an anti-bullying video.  Not only did the video talk about how to handle bullies, the video also talked about how to avoid being a bully.  The video described ways in which to handle anger so that the anger would not be deflected towards others.  My favorite suggested method was to take several deep breaths to help calm oneself.  I have tried teaching my daughter deep breathing on various occasions, so I was proud to learn that I was using an endorsed method for dealing with anger or stress.

Two days after watching our video, I was rushing off to the post office, and took what I thought would be a faster shortcut.  Midway through my shortcut I had to stop in the middle of the road for a tractor trailer that was backing into a loading dock.  The truck was taking up the whole road, but I figured he would be out of the road momentarily since he probably does this work all the time.  Much to my chagrin, I must have encountered a newbie truck driver because I swear the man must have backed up and pulled forward five or six times.  A line of cars was backing up on each side, and I found my aggravation and frustration rising quickly.  There may have even been some grunting or choice words offered in the safe confines of my car.  I had just given a huge exasperated groan when I remembered the video I had watched with my daughter less than forty-eight hours earlier.  So I started breathing deeply.  As my chest filled and my diaphragm rose, my mind began to quickly clear.  I began to see how ridiculous I was being – surely the extra three to five minutes were not the end of the world.  And if they were, I needed to seriously rethink my priorities.  And then I began to feel empathy for the driver.  I know when people are waiting for me to parallel park, I often panic and mess the parking job up a couple of times.  And then, a really funny thing started to happen – I began to pray.  I began to think about all those people who have been weighing on my heart, and I thanked God putting a literal roadblock in my way so that I could connect with the One through whom all things are possible.

In some ways, I have been thinking that suggestion about breathing is exactly what Jesus does in our Gospel lesson today.  In order to understand what is going on, let’s look a little more closely at the text.  Jesus has already raised Lazarus, Mary has anointed Jesus’ feet, Jesus has triumphantly entered into Jerusalem, and now the festival of Passover is underway.  Needless to say, there is a lot of noise around Jesus right now, as the responses to these events are intensely divided – from attraction, to anger and frustration, to reverence.[i]  In the midst of this chaos, some Greeks come up to Philip and say, “We wish to see Jesus.”  A phone tree of sorts starts – the Greeks talk to Philip, Philip talks to Andrew, and Andrew and Philip talk to Jesus.  Then Jesus answers with what seems like a non sequitur.  Instead of telling the Greeks yes, they can see him, or no, they cannot see him, Jesus launches into a speech about how his hour has come, how he must die in order bear fruit, and how those who want to follow him must be willing to lose their lives.  In the midst of this jumbled response, Jesus breaks through the chaos – the chaos of losing a friend and raising him from the dead, of having a friend extravagantly anoint him, of having the masses both shower him with palms and plot to kill him, of never having a moment of peace from people who want to see him, of trying to get the disciples to understand the price he is about to pay and the price they will also pay to follow him.  Into this chaos, Jesus stops and confesses a truth to God.  “My soul is troubled,” says Jesus.  Though he knows he cannot ask for his burden to pass, he at least asks God to intervene by glorifying God’s name.  In other words, Jesus cries out to God, “I am burdened God.  My soul is troubled.  Speak a word to your servant.”

Who among us has not gotten to this point with God?  Your boss is asking for more changes to something, your coworkers are not pulling their weight, you are still processing the argument you had with your mother or child, and the copier machine breaks down.  You stayed up late trying to finish your science project, you forgot one of your assignments at home, your best friend’s parents just told her they are getting divorced, and the teacher gives a pop-quiz on that book you did not have time to read.  Or you fought the alarm to get up in time for Church, in your rush to leave the house you forgot your wallet which means you cannot put money in the offering and you are driving without your license and credit cards, you get asked about the meeting minutes that you have not had time to type up, and before you walk in the door to Church, you get a call saying that your friend who had been fighting cancer died that morning.  In these moments we cry out to God, “I am burdened God.  My soul is troubled.  Speak a word to your servant.”

When Jesus cries out, when Jesus takes that deep breath, Jesus is given the gift of clarity.  In the hubbub of life, in the midst of people clamoring for his attention or trying to bring him down, everything falls away and Jesus hears God as clear as a bell.  In fact, that word to Jesus is so loud that even those gathered hear something like thunder in response.  In the thunder, in the clarity of calm breathing, Jesus is able to remember things of utmost importance.  Jesus is able to see with clarity that the noise does not matter – only what God has intended for Jesus matters – only who God intends for Jesus to be matters.  Jesus could have snapped at those Greeks wishing to see him.  Jesus could have taken on more burdens and agreed to let more people in to his overburdened life.  But instead, in the face of being totally overwhelmed, Jesus stops, takes a breath, and is reminded with great clarity what is really important.

In many ways, that is what Lent is all about.  Lent is a time to take a deep breath to re-center on what is most central in life – on the God who created you, who sustains you, and who beckons you out into the world.  Now many of us are quite good at centering ourselves.  I know many people who are able to identify in themselves when their anxiety or frustration has gotten too high, and who can within themselves take a deep breath and refocus on what God is calling them to do.  But many of us struggle with that practice.  We just keep pushing harder or start lashing out, assuming we can muscle our way through the anxiety.  Those of us with those struggles are like the ones in our gospel lesson who hear God’s voice like thunder.  God has to almost shout at us before we are able to really give attention to God.  That clap of thunder is like God’s clapping hands in our face saying, “Wake up!  I am talking to you!”

The good news is that either way – whether we are able to actually stop and quiet our minds and listen, or whether we are the ones who need God to more dramatically shake us up, God will speak to us.  God will remind us of whose we are.  And God will remind us of what we were created to do and be.  Now if you do not prefer being shouted at with the force of thunder, there are certainly easier ways to find that clarity.  Perhaps you work on that meditative breathing – either with a yoga class, by joining our new Contemplative Prayer Group, or just by committing to finding moments to breathe.  Perhaps you work on that meditative breathing by just showing up to church.  There are moments, especially in Lent, where you can find those quiet moments to listen to God – at the confession, during an especially moving song, or maybe as you sit in your pew before or after communion.  But just taking that hour for church can be your first step toward hearing God more clearly.  No matter where you make room for God, the promise is that when you do make room, the gift is a sense of calm that can make everything else melt away.  Those deadlines, those clamoring people in your life, that burden you have been carrying all fade into the background.  And your purpose – perhaps that part of you needs to die so that you might bear much fruit – becomes not only clear, but also refreshing, calming, and burden-lifting.  That is the promise for us today.  Whether you can take a deep breath or whether you need the jolting thunder – either way, God is breaking into our lives today and giving the gift of clarity.  Amen.

[i] Margaret A. Farley, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 140.

Lenten hope…

11 Wednesday Mar 2015

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Today is a day I have been longing for for at least a month.  The church bells are playing, the sun is shining, the temperature is rising, and I can see bits of grass under mounds of snow.  In some ways, the dreariness of winter has been most appropriate.  We are in Lent after all, so the feeling of weariness seems appropriate.  Any hint of spring would only tease us into a sense of relaxation – something we do not associate with Lent.  And yet, today feels like a little taste of Easter – a promise of what is to come in just a few short weeks.  For some reason, I really needed that taste today.

Of course, we always live our lives in a state of “already and not yet.”  As Christians we understand that the kingdom of God is already present and not yet fulfilled.  We live in a strange state of in between – of knowing that the Savior has come, and yet a time of waiting for the return of the Messiah.  It is an odd reality, and yet how we also understand this odd time.

Lent can be that way too.  We already know what happens after the crucifixion of Jesus.  Therefore staying in the moment, staying in the state of repentance and thoughtfulness about our sin feels contrived or forced – like pretending those birds aren’t chirping when we clearly hear them.  But that is also the beauty of Lent.  In fact, I think that is why we can experience Lent at all.  How else could we agree to delve into the depths of our sinfulness, our separation from God and others, without the promise of the Resurrection.  The Resurrection does not excuse us – it simply anchors us so that we can do the hard work that we need to do during Lent.

So today, I will breathe in the little promise of Easter.  I thank God for the gift of sun on my face and the trickle of melting snow.  And then I will get back to Lent with a little more energy and hopefulness.

Tea time…

04 Wednesday Mar 2015

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This Lent, I am reading the book The Way of Tea and Justice by Becca Stevens with a book group.  To be honest, I am not sure it is a book I would have picked up on my own.  I am not super passionate about tea; I am more of a coffee drinker myself.  Tea always seems to be so labor intensive.  When I think about the time it will take to heat the water and then let the tea steep, I usually just move on to something else.  I also get a little overwhelmed with all the accoutrement: tea pots, bags verses loose tea, special teacups, etc.  A cup of tea just seems to involve the luxury of time – a luxury I have very little of these days.

The funny thing about reading this book has been the fact that my other Lenten discipline has been slowing down and paying more attention to the movement of the Spirit in my life.  The irony of being a person who chose a discipline about slowing down and yet has no time to slow down and have a cup of tea is not lost on me!  I can only imagine that God is equally amused by my constant inconsistencies and unwillingness to relent and return to God.

The good news about the dual practices is that reading about tea has reminded me of the many occasions that drinking tea has been quite special in my life.  As a young adult, my dad introduced me to Earl Gray tea.  To this day, something about the smell of bergamot creates an automatic sense of nostalgia and calm.  In college, one of my closest friends introduced me to all sorts of teas.  She loved the accoutrement of tea – she even had a collection of tiny dishes that were simply meant for holding your used tea bag.  We had many a long conversation over cups of tea, and those memories have been flooding back this Lent.  And of course, one of my favorite memories from my Choral Pilgrimage in England was the afternoon that I enjoyed high tea with three of my fellow pilgrims.  That afternoon hangs in suspension for me as a moment of deep connection with the other pilgrims as well as sacred rest from an otherwise hectic schedule.

Sometimes we choose Lenten disciplines, but sometimes they choose us.  I think I had the right idea about slowing down this Lent and being more attentive to the voice of God.  But it has been my fellow readers who unintentionally pushed me to keep that work through reading.  Though I am certainly enjoying reading about the tea industry and one woman’s quest to bring a sense of justice to her ministry through tea, I am also enjoying the way my reading is bringing me back to God.  The time it takes to brew and enjoy a cup of tea has become an apt metaphor for the time that I need to carve out for God.  Well played, Holy Spirit.  Well played!

Sermon – Mark 8.31-38, L2, YB, March 1, 2015

04 Wednesday Mar 2015

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How many of you have taken on a discipline for Lent?  I have been talking to many parishioners and most of us are taking on something.  Either we have agreed to say our prayers more regularly, we are reading a book or scripture more often, or we are doing some kind of community service or good deeds.  Many of us have committed to playing Lent Madness, which sounds like fun, but still involves reading about the saints each day.  In this way, our Lenten disciplines are burdens – things that we might not make time for normally or are just things we don’t really enjoy doing, but we do them hoping to learn something.  Or perhaps, as we hear Jesus say in our gospel lesson, we are denying ourselves, taking up our crosses, and following Jesus.

To be honest, I am not sure most of us know how to deny ourselves.  We are trying to deny ourselves by following Lenten disciplines.  We are denying ourselves chocolate.  We are denying ourselves more time on Facebook or Instagram so that we have time to learn about saints.  We are denying ourselves extra sleep so that we have time to get up and exercise.  But I am not sure that is what Jesus means when he says we should deny ourselves.  I think what Jesus means when he says we need to deny ourselves is that we need to realize that life is not all about us – our needs, our wants, our plans.

Several of our teens and pre-teens are going through a program called Rite-13.  One of the parts of that program is a liturgy in which we bless a transition they are facing in life – from being shaped primarily by their parents to being shaped by their peers and community.  In that liturgy they will stand on one side of the church with their parents at the beginning, but then they will move over to the other side of the church with their peers – symbolizing this change.  For the teens, I think they often enjoy this part because the move toward their friends feels like freedom – finally getting rid of their overbearing parents.  But what many teens do not realize is that although the freedom is indeed fun, that freedom is also scary.  They are stepping out of a place of safety and protection – out of a situation where it is “all about you” – into a place of vulnerability and trust – into a situation where it is not going to always be about you.  In fact, very often they will need to tend to the needs and concerns of their friends more than their own needs and concerns.

This is what taking up our crosses and denying ourselves really means.  Taking up our crosses means finally seeing that our faith is not just about us and God.  Our faith involves a community that needs us.[i]  And as we learn more, we will find that not only does our church community need us, but the community outside of these walls needs us.  So denying ourselves and taking up our cross means that we might need to be the Christ-like person who helps someone without enough food.  Taking up our cross is going to mean that we might need to be the Christ-like person who stands up for someone else, either by stopping a bully or by advocating for systemic change.  Taking up our cross is going to mean that we might need to be the Christ-like person who talks about their faith even when talking about God might make you seem un-cool.

Julian of Norwich, who was actually one of the saints who almost won Lent Madness a few years ago, once said, “If there is anywhere on earth a lover of God is always kept safe, I know nothing of it, for it was not shown to me.  But in falling and rising again we are always kept in that same precious love.”  We are not guaranteed a carefree and safe path just because we are a part of a community and because we offer love.  But love, which we find in the gift of community, will be with us whether we succeed or we fail.[ii]  One of my favorite pictures is from of a friend of mine who has two boys.  When the second was born, the older brother came to the hospital to see his new younger brother.  My friend took a picture of her older son holding the younger son.  The look on the older son’s face was priceless – the look was a look of utter distain.  In his grimace you could see anger, jealousy, and a sense of betrayal.  That one picture captured perfectly what most of us feel when we realize we are not the center of universe.  For many of us, that is what taking up one’s cross feels like.  We deny ourselves, valuing the community over ourselves.  When we do that, we will often feel the same way that older brother felt.  But what I also know is that eventually, the older brother came to love the younger brother – he found a playmate, a confidant, and a friend.  Like Julian explained, in loving outside of himself, that brother was not always protected from getting bruised up from time to time.  But he has always found love – in others, and especially in God.

That is our invitation today:  not to deny ourselves the simple pleasures in life, but deny ourselves the privilege of being the center of universe.  That work is not always fun, and sometimes we will feel like that older brother with a grimace on our faces.  But sometimes, when we really let go of our focus on ourselves, we find something a lot greater – a love that we could never experience alone – a love that can only come through God and our neighbor.  In that way, taking up our cross and denying ourselves does not seem so bad.  Amen.

[i] Karoline Lewis, “A Different Kind of Denial,” February 22, 2105 found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=3542.

[ii] Becca Stevens, The Way of Tea and Justice (New York: Jericho Books, 2014), 46.  Stevens quotes Julian’s words found in Revelations of Divine Love and adds her own commentary.

Forever empty?

25 Wednesday Feb 2015

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I was talking to a parent recently about the challenges of raising children.  She reminded me of an awesome interview by Louis C.K. with Conan O’Brien.  The interview itself is funny and, as fair warning, quite crass (do not watch it with impressionable ears nearby – the link can be found here).  But what struck me about the interview is what I would label as pretty powerful theology by Louis C.K.  In his interview, he argues that we use technology to fill our time so that we can avoid the reality that there are parts of life that are tremendously sad and times when we feel utterly alone.  He further argues that by filling up that dark space and not allowing ourselves to fully experience that deep sadness, we never get to true happiness.

I was struck this week about how appropriate Louis C.K.’s words are for the Lenten experience.  I have a couple of parishioners who really dislike Lent and find it horribly depressing.  In some ways I agree with them.  Lent is somewhat depressing, and for some odd reason, that is what I like about Lent.  I never could fully explain that reality until I heard this interview.  What Louis C.K. points out is that sometimes we really need to go to those dark places.  Otherwise, we can never really find the true, deeply abiding happy places too.

In the Episcopal Church, The Catechism in the back of our Book of Common Prayer says this about sin:

Q:  What is sin?
A:  Sin is the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God, thus distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation.
Q:  How does sin have power over us?
A:  Sin has power over us because we lose our liberty when our relationship with God is distorted.
Q:  What is redemption?
A:  Redemption is the act of God which sets us free from the power of evil, sin, and death.
(BCP 848-849)

Lent gives us the opportunity to really examine our own sinfulness – the ways in which we have distorted our relationship with God, other people, and all creation.  Many of my friends have given up some form of technology for Lent – by not checking Facebook, taking Sabbaths from TV or the internet, or putting down their cell phones at certain points of the day.  My guess is that their discipline will create room for them to contemplate their sinfulness, or as Louis C.K. might say, their “forever empty.”  My prayer for them is that their practice leads to an ability to find their way back to God, who redeems us and helps us find that true happiness.  I am curious about how you are journeying into your own “forever empty” this Lent, and I look forward to hearing how that journey leads to the light.

Sermon – Mark 1.9-15, L1, YB, February 22, 2015

25 Wednesday Feb 2015

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Lent is a funny season.  Lent gives us all these seemingly horrible things and calls them gifts.  We kick things off with a bang on Ash Wednesday.  We gather in the church and kneel before God while someone tells us that we are dust and to dust we shall return.  In other words, we come to church to be reminded that death is real, death is unavoidable, and death is coming.  With the exception of people facing severe illness or people beyond a certain age, death is not typically a part of our everyday conversations.  Rarely are you drinking a latte with a friend who casually says, “So you know we are going to die, right?  Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, but we will both die.”  That is because death for us is one of those conversations that we do not really like to entertain because death brings down the mood and makes us feel sad.  And yet, that is how we kick off the season of Lent.  “Happy Lent!  We’re all going to die!”

And if that were not sobering enough, the Church takes the next forty days reminding us of our brokenness, of our sinfulness, and of our failures.  We kneel more, confess more intentionally, and pray to reconnect with God.  The season seems to gather us up, place us sackcloth, and then let us wallow in our own sense of unworthiness.  Why in the world would any of us make a commitment to come to Church in Lent with the promise of such guilt and sobriety?

Actually, I think most of us have a love-hate relationship with the wilderness we find in Lent.  We do not want to do the hard work that Lent requires, and yet we also desperately long for a place that acknowledges the reality of all that is hidden behind our perfectly constructed masks, and invites us to just be still and present with our LORD.  In a world that Photoshops, creates whole lines of anti-aging products, and fights death tooth and nail, the church creates a season where we look at ourselves without enhancements and work towards contentment, peace, and even joy.  Lent is a season of honesty, “when the church reminds us of what our culture denies – that our days are limited, and that we’ve made a mess of things.”[i]

Of course, the church did not really invent Lent per se.  The people of God have been experiencing the same concept for years, most frequently in the wilderness.  We know the stories well:  Noah completing his forty days on a ship, floating in his own, albeit probably very loud, watery wilderness; the people of Israel wandering the desert wilderness for forty years; and, as we hear on this first Sunday in Lent, Jesus, led out to the wilderness by the Spirit for forty days immediately after his life-changing baptism.  Each of those experiences are full of Lenten themes:  being taken out of the comforts of life; wondering whether there will be relief from suffering, whether there is dry land, food in the desert, or Satan himself; and glimpses of hope, whether from an olive branch, manna from heaven, or tending angels.  These wilderness experiences, or Lenten-type journeys, pave the way for renewal and reinvention.

This winter, one of our Movies with Margaret features was called The Way.  In the film, a father and his adult son have become somewhat estranged.  The son decided to travel the world to find himself, and the father scoffs.  Months into his son’s travels, the father gets a call.  His son had decided to walk the Camino – the pilgrim’s path in France and Spain that pilgrims have been walking since the ninth century.  Unfortunately the son died while walking the Camino, and the father now needed to pick up the body.  While going through his son’s hiking pack, the father replays their last conversation – about how his Dad is too rigid and never travels anymore since his wife died.  Untrained and unprepared, the father straps on his son’s pack and begins to walk.  He confesses he has no idea why he is walking, but he walks anyway.

The movie goes on to document what might be described as the father’s own wilderness journey.  He deals with getting lost, trying to sleep in noisy hostels, not being able to get rid of talkative fellow pilgrims, losing his bag briefly in a river, getting arrested, and later having his bag stolen by a gypsy.  When he gets to the end of the journey, he takes his documents to the pilgrimage office to have the paperwork authorized and get a certificate of completion.  Before the official will sign his paperwork, he asks a question that stumps the father.  “What is your reason for walking the Way?”  The father stammers.  He cannot put into words why he grabbed his son’s bag and started walking.  Recalling the last fight he had with his son, the best he can come up with is, “I thought I needed to travel more.”

Mark does not give us many details about Jesus’ journey in the wilderness.  Unlike the other gospels, we do not hear the details of his encounter with Satan.  We do not really understand what happens with those wild beasts – whether they were friends of foes.  We hear about some angels at the end, but we do not know how much they are present.  All we really know is that Jesus is in a wilderness for forty days and that those days happen after he is baptized and proclaimed the beloved and before he can begin his earthly ministry.

We too start a wilderness experience today.  At the beginning of our liturgy we confessed many things.  We confessed blindness of heart, pride, vainglory, hypocrisy, envy, hatred, and malice.  We confessed our inordinate and sinful affections and our fear of dying suddenly and unprepared.  We confessed our loneliness, our suffering, and our ignorance.  And we prayed for our enemies.  The ashes from Ash Wednesday and their message of the inevitability of death still linger in our subconscious.  Like the father in The Way, we put all of those confessions and acknowledgments in a pack, put the pack on our back, and we begin to walk.  None of us knows what will happen on this forty-day journey.  We do not know how our Lenten disciplines will shape us, or what external factors will impact our lives.  But we begin the Lenten journey anyway.

The promise for us is refreshment at the end of the journey.  For me, that refreshment is the Easter Vigil.  At Easter Vigil, I put down my pack full of my forty days’ worth of experiences.  I hear the piercing words of the Exultet and the old stories of our salvation told in the darkness.  I watch candles flicker as we sing hymns.  And then I watch the church explode with light and the sound of bells.  We say the forbidden “A-word” after a forty-day hiatus.  We feast on the Eucharistic meal after fasting from that meal since Maundy Thursday.  And we rejoice in our risen Lord.

In the movie, The Way, the father reaches the end of the pilgrimage and has a sacred moment in the church at the Pilgrim’s mass.  He decides to keep journeying further to spread his son’s ashes into the sea.  And at the end of the film, we see him traveling to other places – finally taking up his son’s challenge to see more of the world.  That’s the funny thing about journeys.  They are not the end of the story.  Our Lenten journey will be a true pilgrim’s journey.  But our journey will not end at the Vigil.  Just like Jesus’ journey did not end with angels tending to him.  As Barbara Brown Taylor says, “Even after he left the wilderness, [Jesus] carried [the wilderness] inside him, and far from fleeing [the wilderness] later in his life he sought [the wilderness] out.  Without the wilderness he might not have been the same person.  Because of the wilderness he was not afraid of anything.”[ii]  We all need the wilderness to shape us and mold us.  Our Lenten pilgrimage will change us, both as individuals and as a community, because in the church, we do not journey alone.  Your fellow pilgrims are here in the pews beside you – perhaps to annoy you, or send you on a detour – but maybe also to bail you out of jail from time to time.  Together we are pilgrims on the way, being transformed for new life beyond Lent.  Amen.

[i] Dan Clendenin, “To See Death Daily,” posted February 16, 2015 at http://www.journeywithjesus.net/Essays/20150216JJ.shtml.

[ii] Barbara Brown Taylor, “Four Stops in the Wilderness,” Journal for Preachers, vol. 24, no. 2, Lent 2001, 4.

Sermon – Joel 2.1-2, 12-17, AW, YB, February 18, 2015

25 Wednesday Feb 2015

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For those of us who have been around the church for any amount of time, we have become quite accustomed to the season of Lent.  We dutifully find a Lenten discipline:  buying that book we are going to read, ridding the house of chocolate, or purchasing new athletic gear for the exercise we plan to take up.  Or if we are feeling particularly uninspired, we may ask our friends and family what they are giving up for Lent this year, in the hopes that something will inspire us too.  We do all these things because we feel obligated.  We take up a discipline because that is what we are supposed to do, not because we particularly want to take up the discipline.  Lenten disciplines have sort of become the second-chance for New Year’s Resolutions.  Whatever failed then might have more luck if we do the discipline in the name of Jesus.  Then we can feel doubly good because not only did we give up red meat for Jesus, but we also lost four pounds.  In that way, Lent is great!

The challenge with that kind of engagement with Lent is that our practices become more about giving up something for the sake of giving up something instead of giving up something because that sacrifice will drive us into the arms of God.  When we choose a Lenten discipline, we choose that discipline not out of habit, or out of peer pressure, or even in the hopes of the secondary benefits (like losing weight or finally getting through our pile of books).  To get to the true heart of Lent, we choose our Lenten disciplines out of a sense of urgency – out of a sense that something needs to change and something needs to change now.

That is what the prophet Joel was trying to say to the people of Israel in our Old Testament lesson today.  You see, “Tradition held that on the Day of the Lord, God would come to vindicate Israel, to judge the nations that had opposed and oppressed her, and to reverse the status quo in favor of the people of Jerusalem”[i] The Israelites had come to believe that the Day of the Lord would be a day of celebration and vindication.  Any sacrifices they made or disciplines they assumed were because they were anticipating a reward.  But Joel tells them that their very identity as the chosen people of God is what brings them up short.  Instead of favor, they will receive a harsher judgment than anyone.

As a parent, I tend to read a lot of parenting blogs and articles.  One of the on-going conversations is about whether children should receive compensation for their chores.  People make arguments that children should never be given money for chores, because paying children for chores teaches them that they should only participate in the life of the family if they will receive something in return.  Instead, many critics argue that chores should be presented as work that is simply expected of all capable members of the family.  In doing chores out of membership instead of reward, the critics argue that children learn a sense of pride and belonging.  Their argument is similar to Joel’s:  favor and belonging in God’s eyes comes with expectations, not prizes.

But Joel’s critique of Israel goes even deeper.  Joel reminds the people of God that not only do they need to repent, they also need to repent with their whole heart.  Joel says they are to rend their hearts, not their garments.  The rending of garments was a ritual practice of repentance.  But Joel insists that God does not simply want ritual repentance.  God wants the kind of repentance that is felt deep in one’s heart.  They are to “approach God in sincerity, rather than by ritual; to beseech God’s mercy through genuine mourning for sin, rather than by cultic rite.  Joel calls for true repentance, the complete turning away from destructive patterns, selfish, inclinations, and self-righteous expectations.  God wants the whole person, not some outward sign…”[ii]  To rend one’s heart was not simply an emotional response.  As one scholar suggests, “Since the heart was considered the seat of thinking and willing, [a commitment of the heart] implied total dedication.”[iii]

That is the kind of discipline we are invited to take up this Lent.  Disciplines that reflect on the ways that we have separated ourselves from God, the ways that we have become so wrapped up in ourselves that we have pushed God away, and the ways that we have simply neglected our relationship with God – those are the disciplines that will create meaning and substance.  When we think about rending our hearts, our disciplines will make space in our lives for us to stop in our tracks, to turn around on our current paths, and to journey back to God’s open arms.

The good news is that we do not do this work alone.  In fact, Joel insists that God not only wants the whole person, God wants “the whole people, the whole city of Jerusalem, indeed, the entire nation.  This is not a call to the pious, or to the willing, or to those who are expected to make offering to the Lord, but to all.”[iv]  When Joel says to gather the aged, the children, the infants, and the newlyweds, he means that even those who normally would not need to repent need to come into the fold.  God is interested not simply in a personal relationship with the people, but with a communal one.

This year, I invited the parish to join me in the solemn practice of playing Lent Madness.  Most of you have wondered why I invited us to play together, especially in something that seemed so silly.  Some of you complained that the process seemed too confusing, or just were not sure why we needed to do something as weird as a sports and saints hybrid.  Part of my motivation in getting us to do a discipline together is that I know how hard isolating Lenten disciplines can be.  When we set a goal of praying or reading scripture for an hour a day during Lent, no one should be surprised when we fail ten days into the practice.  Perhaps we fail because we are doing the practice out of a sense of obligation to be holy.  Perhaps we fail because we have not really done the hard work of rending our hearts – searching for the ways that we are deeply separated from God and need to return to God.  Or perhaps we fail because we were too prideful to repent in the context of community.

Now I am not insisting that you play Lent Madness.  I am simply suggesting that sometimes our piety is so about ourselves that we forget the community of saints sitting right beside us who long to rend their hearts too, but cannot seem to do the work alone.  Together we can do the hard work of rending our hearts.  We can do the hard work of repenting, of truly turning back to the God who longs to be in communion with us.  We can do the hard work of being a vulnerable, loving, supporting community.  Our encouragement in all this work comes from Joel too.  Joel affirms for us that for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing.  Joel even conjectures, “Who knows whether God will not turn and relent, and leave a blessing behind.”  The expectations are high.  The work is hard.  The community works together.  Because our God is gracious and merciful.  And who knows whether God will not turn and relent, and leave a blessing behind?  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 3.

[ii] Lose, 5.

[iii] Dianne Bergant, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 5.

[iv] Lose, 5.

An invitation…

25 Wednesday Feb 2015

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In my line of work, I deal with death a lot.  The first two calls a family usually makes when a loved one dies are to the funeral home and to the priest.  I have done funerals for people I have known and loved, and for people who I have never met.  I have done funerals for people who were deeply involved with and committed to the Church, and for people who actively avoided the church.  I have done funerals for grandmothers, husbands, sisters, and children.  I have held the hand of a shallow-breathing senior who had lived a long life but was approaching the last hours, and have touched the tiny hand of a stillborn.  Death is ever present in my life, always a phone call away.

So you would think that Ash Wednesday would not be that jarring to me.  A day meant to remind us of the fragility of life, that we are dust and to dust we shall return, really should not be that extraordinary.  But every year it gets me.  Though I deal with death when it comes my way, Ash Wednesday is a little different.  Ash Wednesday involves reminding people who may be nowhere near death to ponder the shortness of life.  Each time I spread gritty ashes on a forehead, my whole being shutters.  I think of the many laughs I have shared with the person my age; I think of the illness someone in their 50s overcame and the fullness of life they have enjoyed since then; I think of the bounding energy of the six-year old and how much joy they bring; and I think of the quiet confidence and wisdom of the grandmother figure.  Every time I say, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” I feel like I am whispering a dark truth into each person’s ears.  There is nothing more sobering than those words, than those grainy ashes, than those shared moments of eye contact.  And no matter how well I clean up afterwards, a little black residue remains on my thumb, reminding me how close death lingers.

Though the reality of Ash Wednesday is sobering, and perhaps something one might want to avoid, I find that most people who come for ashes are relieved.  They are relieved for the gift of a church that will remind them of things of ultimate importance.  They are relieved for some perspective and levity in a world that tells them if they push more, do more, achieve more, they will somehow be happier.  They are relieved to be shaken out of the distractions or the fog of life and to be invited into a sense of clarity and purpose.  I certainly am relieved in that same way.  Because I am the solo priest at my parish, I usually have a parishioner also spread ashes on my forehead.  No matter who I end up asking, there is always a moment of shared humility and connection.  I am grateful to the church for the gift of Ash Wednesday and the invitation for a holy Lent.

Sermon – Genesis 12.1-4a, L2, YA, March 16, 2014

19 Wednesday Mar 2014

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I remember when I got accepted to Duke for my undergraduate education.  The invitation felt like a dream come true.  I was so ready to leave home and start my “adult” life, I was beyond thrilled to be able see Duke basketball games in person, I was eager to start my studies so that I could take on that big job, and I knew I would have a ton of fun.  As I packed my bags, I felt like the world was full of promise and hope and I just knew I was going to have an awesome college career.  And truthfully, my college experience was one of the best experience of my life on so many levels – one where I learned so much more than I expected, I made lifelong friends, I experienced my first sense of call to ministry, and I did in fact enjoy many a basketball game.  But that first year of college was nothing like the picture looking back now.  I had an awful freshman roommate, I struggled with the rigor of classes at first, I had a hard time finding a group of friends I really liked, there were multiple things I either tried out for our wanted to be invited into that I was not, and there were times that I wondered what in the world I was doing there.

As I listened to our Old Testament lesson today, I wondered how much Abram felt the same way about his own journey.  The very short passage from Genesis says, “The Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.  I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.  I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.’”  At first glance, Abram’s invitation sounds awesome!  He is invited on a journey with God and he is promised that God will bless him, will give him plenteous offspring and power, and that he will essentially be famous.  Who wouldn’t want to pack up their earthly belongings and hit the road with that kind of invitation?  The upcoming journey sounds like one full of promise, hope, and abundant joy.

Of course, there are a few slight indicators of how hard this journey might actually be.  First God tells Abram to leave his country, his kindred, and his father’s house – all without a map of where they will be going.  “In traditional societies the kin group is the source of identity, economic benefit, security, and protection.  To leave such a fundamental social network is to put a great deal at risk.”[i]  And then there is the text that we do not read today.  In the verses immediately preceding this text, we are told that Abram’s father has just died.  We all know what the death of a parent can do to a person, and can at least imagine the intense grief Abram is working under when he says yes to God.  And there is more that we do not read today.  The text immediately after where we stop also tells us that Abram is about 75 years old at this point.  So a man well beyond the prime of life, who is in the midst of grief, who has probably long sense lost hope of bearing any children should be able to guess that this journey would not be all roses and rainbows.

And in fact, we know that the journey is not as hope-filled as our lesson makes the journey out to be today.  This man whom God says will be blessed and be great hits all kinds of bumps along the way.  If you remember, Abram passes off his wife as his sister several times so as to avoid danger to himself.  When he still does not have any offspring, Sarai eventually convinces him to sleep with her handmaiden Hagar.  Though she bears him a son, Abram eventually casts Hagar and Ishmael out into the wilderness when his wife Sarai gets jealous.  And of course, we cannot forget that Abram is also forced to take his one son by Sarai, Isaac, up on a mountain to be sacrificed – believing all along that God intends for Abram to kill his only heir.  Sounds like a real journey of blessing, right?

That is the funny thing about journeys.  We are not often promised that our journeys will be blessed.  But even when we hope that they will be blessed, the blessing never comes immediately and is often masked by long intervals of pain and suffering.  We have lived that life here at St. Margaret’s.  Fifty years ago, God told the people of Plainview to, “Go.  Go from your current town, your church community, and the building you are familiar with to the land that I will show you.  I will make of you a great church, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.”  At least, that is how the histories read about St. Margaret’s.  Full of hope and expectation, large groups of people gathered first in an American Legion Hall and then in a semi-completed church building.  It was a time of anticipation and promise, and the people went.  Of course, no one could know what the next fifty years would hold – a slew of clergy, some staying longer than others; church growth and church decline; building challenges and times of construction to fix old problems; new adventures like a church cemetery; painful arguments with severed relationships; new friendships that will last a lifetime; a young rector who is not only a woman, but who also gets pregnant while she serves.  When God said, “Go,” who would have ever guessed the journey would play out the way the journey has.

Sometimes our Lenten journeys have that same feel.  We fill ourselves with pancakes, and then the next day, kneel with resolve to take on some discipline.  We look forward to the blessings of Lent – the intimacy with God the journey will bring, the learning will we do, the peace we will gain, or even the couple of pounds we might lose.  And when we hear a story like the Old Testament lesson today, we feel pumped up and ready for an exciting journey.  We may even imagine God making similar promises to us:  You will be blessed in this Lenten journey.  And yet, if we think back to any Lent in the past, we might remember how difficult our discipline became by week four or five.  We might remember how that cool discipline we chose did not really turn out to be as great as we imagined.  And depending on how stable we were at the time, that sense of failure could have brought more of a sense of curse than blessing.

How do we know that blessing awaits and what do we do in the meantime?  What do we do when those days come – because they will – when we feel discouraged and lose that sense of promise and hope that God gives today?  If we look to Abram, we see that our only option is to go – to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  The lesson today says, “So Abram went, as the Lord had told him.”  The journey for Abram is risky, full of potholes, and ultimately full of some wild twists that might have turned Abram back at any point.  And yet, “Abram went.”  We are lucky enough to know that Abram becomes Abraham – the man that would eventually become a father of entire people – in fact of several faith traditions.  But Abraham never got to see the fullness of that blessing.  His life was more one of blessing in hindsight, not really an everyday blessing-fest.

In some ways, that is all we can do too.  God constantly calls us into a journey – whether during Lent or in whole phases of life.  God promises to bless us and love us along the way.  But we know the journey will be hard at times, and leave us feeling discouraged.  And when that happens, all we can do is put one foot in front of the other, and keep on going.  Of course, we have each other along the way, much like Abram had Lot.  In fact, the last words of today’s lesson are, “and Lot went with him.”  So whether you are in that blessed state of bliss, or you are already struggling in your steps, God still tells you to go.  Our response is difficult, intimidating, and profound, but also extremely simple.  We go, knowing God is with us.  Amen.

[i] Carol A. Newsom, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 53.

Sermon – Matthew 6.1-6, 16-21, AW, YA, March 5, 2014

06 Thursday Mar 2014

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As many of you know, Lent is my favorite season of the liturgical year.  I love the spiritual discipline Lent encourages, I love the liturgical uniqueness of Lent, and I love the ways that Lent encourages us as a community live life differently, even if only for a little while.  By Ash Wednesday every year, I usually have a set discipline in place, and I am eager to get going.  But this year, I find myself in a situation in which I have never been.  With the pending birth of our second child, I find myself hesitant to commit to any spiritual discipline this Lent.  I have no sense of how tired I will be, or how upended my home routine and family life will be; I have no idea whether I will be too exhausted to stay connected digitally to the world, or whether technology will be my way of escape when everything else is disjointed; and besides the desperate prayers of an exhausted, weary mother, I have no idea how to tend to my spiritual life once I step away briefly from my churchly life.

I confess this sense of being lost about Lent because I imagine some of you may be feeling that same sense of being lost as well.  We have been buried in an awful winter, longing more for spring and the joys of Easter, than preparing for burrowing deeper into the depths of penitence and discipline.  Our news feed is full of local and global disaster, making even the normal joy of international events like the Olympics feel a bit hollow.  And we have a growing itch to be more settled here at Church – as we trip over one another trying to find adequate space for normal activities while our undercroft is under construction, as our Vestry makes changes to better equip us for ministry, and as our Rector steps away for a time, making us all have to assume responsibilities that burden our already full plates and sparking concern about how we can thrive without our leader at the helm.  Who has time for figuring out a Lenten discipline when we feel like we are just barely managing our lives?

Into this sense of discombobulation, Jesus comes at us in the gospel lesson today with a scathing critique of our spiritual lives.  Jesus wants us to give alms, but to do so with such secrecy that even our own selves are unaware of our sacrifices.  Jesus wants to take our prayer to our private rooms, so we are not tempted to bring attention to ourselves in public.  Jesus wants us to gussy ourselves up daily so that no one notices the longing and discomfort our fasts are creating for us.  To be honest, his words are a bit confusing and seem contradictory to Jesus’ other messages.  This is the same Jesus who later in Matthew says, “What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light; and what you hear whispered, proclaim from the housetops.”[i]  So which are we supposed to do?  Are we to keep our faith humbly hidden so as not to be seen as braggadocios, or are we to shout about our God on the mountaintop, or at least in the local diner, so that others might see the goodness of what God has done for us, and want to join us in that joy?

Perhaps a better place for us to begin is to imagine Jesus offering this teaching with a bit of sarcastic humor.  This past stewardship season we showed a video about the ways in which people give to church with muddled intentions.  The video has a series of clips with people doing things like using their generous giving to garner the decisions they want made in church or dramatically holding up their pledge envelopes before dropping them in the plate.  Imagine the person who would rather put coins in the offering plate for the noise they make than put in bills which silently but strongly support ministry, and you have the idea.  This is the kind of ribbing Jesus is doing when he describes the showy alms giver.

In high school, I was friends with a girl whose father was an evangelical pastor.  I remember going out to dinner with her family once, and being mortified before our meal began.  Once our plates of food arrived, her father stood up in the middle of the dining area, and very loudly began a prayer that, I promise, was easily five minutes long.  My cheeks began to redden as he went on and on.  I could feel the shifting of people near us as they became equally uncomfortable.  As I peeked mid-way through his prayer, I could see a waitress approach our table for drink refills and the recoil back to her station.  I was so relieved the next week at school when my friend apologized for her dad and made a joke about how much she actually hates eating in restaurants because her food is always cold by the time the prayer is over.  This is the kind of prayer Jesus jokes about too when he sends us to our rooms to pray.

And we all know examples of that complainer who has taken up fasting or whatever form of denial they have chosen for Lent.  They regale you with stories of how they almost fainted, or how they had to avoid their favorite activities in order to stay faithful.  You almost want to give them a handkerchief so that they can more dramatically tell their tale of woe as the lift their hand dramatically to their heads.  These are those whom Jesus teases when he says to put some oil on your face – so that even if you cannot keep your mouth quiet with complaints, at least you will look good.

The challenge with us in Lent is not that our spiritual disciplines need to be so rigidly hidden away.  The danger comes when our disciplines become more about ourselves than about our relationship with God and one another.  Jesus is not telling us not to exercise our piety.  Jesus is trying to jokingly help us to see the ways in which our piety can become a stumbling block to others seeing the goodness of God.[ii]  Think of the person who gives generously, who prays prayers that always seem to touch you, or who shares with you what fasting has done for them in a way that inspires you.  Jesus is telling us to be more like them:  not to dramatically hide away our almsgiving, prayer, and fasting, but to do that almsgiving, prayer, and fasting with a genuine humility that invites others to want to know more.  And at the end of the day, Jesus is also telling us to chill out – to enjoy whatever discipline you have chosen and not to worry so much about performing that discipline, but humbling trying that discipline within a community of people who can laugh at themselves as they try to do the same.

This Lent, as I begin this journey with you, my discipline is going to be about giving myself a break, and not taking myself so seriously.  I am trusting that by not pushing myself to take on some discipline that will only make me feel like a failure by week two of newborn sleep deprivation, that God will be present, revealing God’s self to me and showing me that God can work in spite of me and in spite of what promises to be a very unique Lent in the life of a priest.  I am trusting that God, the faith of this community, and my intentional letting go this Lent will work in harmony to make this time a time of holy connection to God.  Jesus invites you into the same trusting release this Lent.  No matter what discipline you assume, or what battles you face in the coming forty days, God will give you moments of insight and blessing, and even a bit of humor to keep you going.  Amen.

[i] Mt. 10.27

[ii] Patrick J. Willson, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 25.