Tag Archives: light

Sermon – John 3.14-21, Numbers 21.4-9, L4, YB, March 14, 2021

17 Wednesday Mar 2021

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Our scripture lessons today offer two contrasts:  a story from the Hebrew Scriptures which might be unfamiliar to you or at least may seem wildly strange, and a story from John’s gospel that is so familiar, you can probably quote a portion of the text if I simply tell you the citation, “John 3.16.”  What is strange about this combination is the unknown, uncomfortable story is a window into the overly familiar, commonplace story.  If we have any hope of understanding either of them, we need to dive into both.

At the point where we join the story from Numbers, God has been infinitely patient with God’s people.  Some might argue too patient.  God has saved God’s people time and again, wresting them from brutal slavery, miraculously helping them flee through the Sea of Reeds, helping sweeten bitter drinking water when they murmured, granting them manna when they complained of being hungry, giving them water out of a rock when they grumbled about being thirsty, offering them birds to eat when they whined of manna-fatigue.  Grace and patience abound with God.  Until this day.  The Israelites throw yet another fit, and God snaps.  This time, God sends poisonous serpents among the people, and many of them die.  When the people beg for help to Moses, God instructs Moses to put a bronze serpent on a pole; if people gaze upon the serpent, they will live.  For a God who asks the people have no idols or gods before God, a serpent on a pole is, quite frankly, just weird.

Meanwhile, we have a super familiar text from John.  “For God so love the world that he gave his only Son.”  We love this verse because the verse reminds of our abundant, loving, graceful God.  Of course, we sometimes gloss over the rest of the troublesome parts of this text.  The rest talks about how Jesus saves the world – as long as the world believes.  Here is where the questions start to pile up for us.  Do we really believe that some people are condemned?  Is God’s love conditional?  What happens if we doubt?  Does that count as not believing?  Can eternal life be given and taken away based on the seesaw of my behavior?  The trouble is if we focus on God’s grace, we can make salvation seem arbitrary, with no essential place for human response.  But if we focus on human faith, we may be in danger of making salvation a human accomplishment, restricting God’s initiative universally.[i]  The only thing that seems to be clear is that God gives us a choice.  When we commit evil deeds, when we deny God through our behavior, when we linger in the darkness, we are making a choice.  And the text tells us today that the consequence of that choice is condemnation.

The answer to so much in these texts seems to lie in verse fourteen of John.  Jesus says, “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.”  As scholar Debie Thomas writes, “In the Old Testament story, God requires the Israelites to look up.  To gaze without flinching at the monstrous thing their sin has conjured.  It’s the thing they have wrought, the thing they fear most, the thing that will surely kill them if God in God’s mercy doesn’t intervene and transform the instrument of pain and death into an instrument of healing and life.  In order to be saved, the people have to confront the serpent — they have to look hard at what harms, poisons, breaks, and kills them.”[ii]  The same seems to happen with Jesus on a cross.  Thomas goes on to say, “In the cross, we are forced to see what our refusal to love, our indifference to suffering, our craving for violence, our resistance to change, our hatred of difference, our addiction to judgment, and our fear of the Other must wreak.  When the Son of Man is lifted up, we see with chilling and desperate clarity our need for a God who will take our most horrific instruments of death, and transform them, at great cost, for the purposes of resurrection.”[iii]

The truth is, I am not sure either of these texts answer some of our basic questions, especially around those of belief.  But tying them together today, we do find an invitation – to change our gaze away from the judgment of others, the wondering about who is in and out, the questions about God’s retribution, and gaze on the cross – the body that reminds us of the goodness of God in spite of our sinfulness, that reminds us of God’s grace in spite of our lack of deserving, that reminds us of God’s unconditional love despite our inability to keep failing.  Our invitation is to take seriously the words of that old hymn, “Turn your eyes upon Jesus, Look full in His wonderful face, And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, In the light of His glory and grace.”  As we continue on the path of Lent toward the cross, today’s texts remind us of where we are going and why.  Our invitation is to look up at the horrible, wonderful truth of what Jesus does in the cross, and stand in the light of his glory and grace.  Amen.

[i] Joseph D. Small, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 118.

[ii] Debie Thomas, “Looking Up,” March 7, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/2944-looking-up, on March 12, 2021. 

[iii] Thomas.

Sermon – Jonah 3:1-5, 10, Mark 1:14-20, E3, YB, January 24, 2021

03 Wednesday Feb 2021

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We are in a season of call narratives in our lectionary cycle.  Last week, we heard Samuel’s dramatic call story – how the sleepy, confused Samuel keeps trying to be faithful, but needs Eli to help him realize God is the one speaking.  This morning we get two sets of stories.  First is Jonah, perhaps Scripture’s worst follower of God’s call – who runs in the opposite direction God sends him, almost drowns a crew of shipmates and is swallowed by a large fish, who offers the weakest possible sermon of all time to the Ninevites, and then gets angry when God changes God’s mind.  In fact, the Ninevites answer God’s call to repent immediately – they are the exact opposite of Jonah.  Meanwhile, our gospel lesson today follows two sets of brothers who leave their family and livelihood in a lurch to immediately follow Jesus.  Even our collect today, that opening prayer we say together says, “Give us grace, O Lord, to answer readily the call of our Savior Jesus Christ and proclaim to all people the Good News of his salvation…”[i]

In some ways, this time of year is a perfect time to be thinking about our call.  We have all just celebrated the New Year, with the usual practices of setting New Year’s Resolutions.  We just elected a new Vestry last weekend.  Even Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman challenged us this week with her stunning inaugural poem, saying “There is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it.  If only we are brave enough to be it.”  The invitation is everywhere around us, just waiting for us to answer God’s call. 

But despite the fact that motivation is all around us – from scripture, to secular practices, to inspirational events – few of us are feeling like we have the energy or even the emotional capacity to think about call right now.  Many of our parishioners are living out inspirational calls – from the medical profession, to teaching, to civil service.  But these are the very people are being pushed to capacity, who have had an exhausting year, and although they put on a good face, are just trying to put one foot in front of the other.  Many of our parishioners have answered the call of parenthood, and most days can tell you about the joys of parenthood.  But after almost a year of home and virtual schooling, and all the challenges being with your family 24-7 can bring, are lately wondering where God is in those relationships.  And several of our more seasoned parishioners have told me that although they appreciate all the church is doing to help them feel connected, ten months of social isolation have left them feeling like they should be doing something more meaningful, but they just do not know how.  When we are really honest, the last thing we feel like talking about is call – surely that is a conversation for when we are “back to normal.”

That is why I am so glad the Ninevites are in our call narratives today.  Nineveh is a brutal power in Jonah’s day.[ii]  They are known for their vicious treatment of the people of Israel.  They are the enemy.  But when the residents of Nineveh hear the judgment of the LORD – Jonah’s brief, half-hearted one – they immediately respond.[iii]  All the people put on sackcloth, even the king and the animals; they take up a fast, sit in ashes, and turn from their violent ways.  Talk about a 180!  The Ninevites may not be ideal citizens.  They might not even understand what a calling is.  But they do act.  And as one scholar points out, “Apparently God’s purposes can be accomplished with a minimum of faithfulness; and such faithfulness turns out to be a matter of not merely what one feels, but what one does.”[iv]

That is what all our call narrative actors do:  act.  Samuel, without fully understanding, does when he says, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”  Acting is what Jonah begrudgingly does and the Ninevites immediately do.  Taking action is what brothers Simon and Andrew and brothers John and James do – against all logic of leaving home and security to follow a man they barely know.  Our invitation this week is do the same – find ways to act.  For some of us, that action is going to be to keep showing up:  for your kids, for your clients, for the needy.  For some of us, that action is going to mean taking those feelings of isolation and doing something:  finally taking up that Connection Challenge and calling, emailing, or sending cards to fellow parishioners (who feel the same way, by the way!).  For others of us, we may need to channel all those feelings into different action:  whether we write to our local representatives to advocate for the disadvantaged, whether we finally call that nonprofit we have been admiring and offer our services, even if they have to be offered from home, or whether we ask God in prayer what acts we are being called to do for others.  We do not have to feel like being the light this week.  We simply are invited to be brave enough to be the light.  God will do the rest.  Amen.         

[i] BCP, 215.

[ii] Callie Plunket-Brewton, “Commentary on Jonah 3.1-5, 10” January 21, 2012, found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1214 on January 22, 2021.

[iii] Joseph L. Price, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 270.

[iv] Lawrence Wood, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 269.  Emphasis added.

Sermon – Isaiah 9.2-7, Blue Christmas, December 21, 2020

06 Wednesday Jan 2021

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Blue Christmas is a service we offer every year.  This service is not always mainstream.  For many, Christmas is a season of uncomplicated joy.  But for others, Christmas can be a painful experience:  we mourn the memories of those who are no longer with us, the darkness of shorter days weighs on our mental health, or the unbounded exuberance of others creates a chasm between their happiness and our loneliness, sorrow, or pain.  And that does not account for the grief we may be experiencing otherwise – broken relationships, dissatisfaction with or lost employment, an unexpected medical diagnosis, or a dream unfulfilled.  And because Christmas cheer is all around us, we feel even more isolated in our sadness – as if we are alone in our feelings.  Only in services like these do we feel seen.

That is the experience of a “normal” Christmas.  This year, we have added nine months of a pandemic, a tumultuous political year, and civil unrest.  Suddenly, those of us who struggle with finding joy this Christmas find ourselves in a rising majority, not the minority.  I watched this year as hundreds of people decorated for Christmas in mid-November, in an effort to demand the experience of joy from a year that has been short on joy.  I can see the desperate need of a suffering people to find light somewhere, anywhere, during this holiday season.

Fortunately for us, the church is not silent on this experience.  The text we heard from Isaiah earlier says, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness–on them light has shined. You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as people exult when dividing plunder. For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian.”  The prophet says all of this light and joy is possible for one reason:  “For a child has been born for us, a son given to us.”  Scripture tonight honors that there are seasons of darkness.  There are times when we live in deep darkness, devoid of joy.  There are times when burdens feel like weights on our shoulders, where oppressors keep us in positions of suffering.  Sometimes those times of darkness happen around holidays, and sometimes the memory of those dark moments invade our holidays.  To that experience, the prophet says, God brings us light.  God lifts burdens, God helps us recall joy, God strengthens us.  And perhaps, most importantly, God gives us the Christ Child – the only true source of light that can lighten the darkness.

I have always loved that the Christ Child was born in literal darkness.  The delivery of the Christ Child at night reminds us that even in the rustic setting of being outcast, joy comes to Mary and Joseph.  The delivery of the Christ Child at night reminds us that even in the mundane, lonely, and exhausting work of tending sheep through the night, unbounded joy can break forth in the form of angels with heavenly news.  The delivery of the Christ Child at night reminds us that even in the darkness of night, whispered conversations between strangers can bring joy to kindle and ponder in our hearts.

Tonight, by the manager, God sees your darkness, your suffering, your hurt.  The removal of that darkness, suffering, and hurt may not be possible in these next few days.  But in that darkness, God promises you the tiniest sliver of light.  Whether you find that light by seeing you are not alone in the darkness tonight, whether you find that light through the stories of others, or whether you find that light gazing on the miracle of the Christ Child, the light, however faint, is there, waiting for you, warming you ever so slightly, and starting the long, hard work of lifting your heavy burden.  And until you are ready to receive that light, the Church sits with you in the darkness tonight.  Amen.

On Things Ludicrous and Holy…

17 Thursday Dec 2020

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Photo credit: https://loe.org/shows/segments.html?programID=18-P13-00051&segmentID=1

My children are preparing for their winter socially distanced holiday recital, and we have been flooded with a flurry of details, items to purchase, things to organize.  One of the flyers that came this week was for a t-shirt they could buy promoting the recital and the cause that will benefit from the proceeds.  The shirt says, “Best Christmas Ever.”

I was glad my children were not around when I saw the flyer because my immediate response was to scoff – out loud, in my house, looking at a piece of paper with indignation.  Best Christmas Ever?!?  Had the dance studio lost their minds?  What about this Christmas could possibly be the “best”?  Families are separated, some of whom have not seen each other in over a year.  The Coronavirus is rapidly spreading, with the death toll in the United States now over 300,000.  And despite a transition in political power, we remain as divided as ever, struggling to find peace among our brothers and sisters. 

After recovering from self-righteous indignation, I began to think about the approaching Christmas season, and what the Church, and I as her priest, have invited people to do.  We are still inviting our parishioners, friends, and neighbors to join the Holy Family on Christmas Eve and sing songs of praise and thanksgiving.  Although we honor grief and suffering at our Blue Christmas service on December 21, we are still making a claim for hope, for light, and for love.  Even with our church buildings closed again, we are still encouraging the church to gather in their cars for a drive-thru, or by their hearths with their devices to join with the shepherds as we go to see this thing that has come to pass.  Perhaps to an outsider, the work of the Church this next week seems as ludicrous as claiming this Christmas is the Best Christmas Ever.

This week, I find myself humbled.  I know the Church is going to ask a lot of you over this next week.  You may not feel like singing carols, or hearing the familiar story, or watching candles flicker as we pray.  And that’s okay.  But, if it is alright with you, we are going to keep doing it anyway.  The Church has always been full of resurrection people.  We cannot help ourselves once we know the Risen Lord.  And so, when the Christ Child comes next week, we will keep holding on to light, to joy, and to love.  We will keep holding on to the promise that Christ is with us always, even to the end of the age.  We will keep shining the light of the Christ Child, reflecting his light to all.  And we will keep believing and trusting for you until you can come to the place where you can believe and trust yourself.  You do not need to rush.  We will keep holding the light until you are ready to take it up yourself.

Sermon – John 1.6-8, 19-28, A3, YB, December 13, 2020

17 Thursday Dec 2020

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Yesterday the Edwards family gathered outside the Chapel to baptize eight-month-old Bryson.  When Bryson’s family asked me if Bryson could be baptized this weekend in a small family gathering, I had to think for a moment.  Advent is not one of the normal seasons for baptisms.  But then I remembered two things.  One, this Sunday is Gaudete Sunday – the Sunday in Advent marked for joy, and often marked by shades of pink and rose.  What could be more joyful than a baptism?  Two, I glanced at our lessons and saw John the Baptist was in our Gospel lessons.  Who better to feature in our lessons on a baptism weekend than John the Baptist?!?

Of course, I only needed a few minutes of sermon preparation this past week to realize I had missed something critical about our lessons this Sunday.  Last week, we had John the Baptizer featured in Mark’s gospel.  But this Sunday, when John appears in John’s Gospel, he is not labeled as John the Baptizer, but John the Witness.[i]  John’s role in the Gospel of John does not rest as centrally in his role of baptizer, but more centrally in testifying to the identity of Jesus Christ.  As Lamar Williamson says, “John’s role is to recognize the true light when [the light] appears, and to call attention to [the light] so that others may recognize [the light] and believe – that is, recognize, trust in, and commit themselves to the light.”[ii]  There went my perfectly arranged baptism weekend!  “John the Witness” does not really have quite the same je ne sais quoi as “John the Baptist.” 

So, I started thinking about what we are doing when we baptize people into the community of faith.  Baptism certainly is a rite of initiation into the body of Christ.  Upon baptism, one may receive communion and participate fully in the body.  We make promises on behalf of the baptized, we renew our most fundamental promises on our own lives through the Baptismal Covenant, and we open up a life’s journey of faith, hope, and joy in Jesus. 

But at the end of the day, the thing we are really doing in baptism is witnessing.  We are witnessing to the baptized, and their family, what are the things of ultimate importance to us as Christians.  We are witnessing a commitment to our community – the full responsibility we are willing to take on in the faith journey of the baptized, from infancy to adulthood.  And we are witnessing to the broader community:  that even in the midst of a pandemic (in which Bryson has spent his entire life), even in the midst of divisiveness and unrest, even in the midst of economic uncertainty, we are witnesses to new life, new hope, new joy.

Like John the Witness today, in baptism, we point the way to Jesus.  When Bryson, or our friends, ask the big questions, we will point them toward Jesus.  When Bryson, or our families, question faith and express doubt, we will witness to them about our own faith and doubt stories.  When Bryson, or our community, cannot claim joy or are simply numb to the overwhelming suffering of these days, we will share with them as Steve Garnaas-Holmes says, that “Christ does not come to make us happy, but to stand with us in the pain of life until joy like a seed rises.  All is swallowed up in joy.”[iii]  That is what Gaudete Sunday, a baptism weekend, and John the Witness invite us to do this week:  to be witnesses of joy, not looking at ourselves to be the light, but looking toward the one who is light – the only one who can solidify joy in the darkness of Advent.  Amen.

[i] Karoline M. Lewis, John (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 27

[ii] Lamar Williamson Jr., Preaching the Gospel of John (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 4, as cited by Gary W. Charles, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Volume 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 71.

[iii] Steve Garnaas-Holmes, “Rejoice Always,” December 10, 2020, as found at https://www.unfoldinglight.net/reflections/b4fws8bsnsjklfkw3ws8823kke9a7t on December 10, 202.

On Grief, Fairies, and Grace…

17 Thursday Sep 2020

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Photo credit: https://childrengrieve.org/resources/about-childhood-grief

A dear friend of mine once talked about the experience of a “grief fairy.”  This fairy was the metaphorical way she explained how grief was not a simple, linear process from tragic event through grief to wholeness.  Instead, she imagined grief as a fairy who would, out of nowhere, lighten upon your shoulder and all of a sudden you went from fine, or at least managing, to not fine at all.

In some ways, I feel like this pandemic has become the same way.  We have begun to convince ourselves that we had our chance to be sad in the first few months of the virus, or even in these last six months.  But by now we should be adjusted, used to the “new normal,” and ready to get moving.  All the markers are there:  Summer has pretty much ended; the children are back to school – if not in person, certainly online; some employers are expecting workers to return to the workplace; churches kicked off their program years – even if they were missing the normal parish parties and picnics; and things like elections are rapidly approaching.  For all intents and purposes, we should be putting on our game faces and getting back to “normal.”

The problem is nothing is truly normal.  And every time we run into anything abnormal, we are reminded of our grief over what has been lost during this time.  We have become quite good at coping, to be sure, but somehow, that fairy keeps landing on our shoulder, reminding us of our grief in big and small ways:  when the kid’s back to school photos are missing pictures of the school bus; when a visit to someone sick is either not allowed, or has enough restrictions that we do not even bother; when the church year begins, but we’re still watching online; when we go to run a quick errand and realize we left our mask at home.   

My prayer for all of us is that we be a bit gentler – with each other, but especially with ourselves.  If you are feeling frustrated about your inability to keep your game face on, take the game face off and let yourself acknowledge the grief still lingering among us.  If you are surprised by a sudden surge of feelings about something seemingly small, remember that grief during this time is not linear, and that the fairy will keep on visiting.  If you are feeling alone in your ability to keep it all together, lean into your faith community to remember God’s grace for all of us.  We are all in this together.  We will have days of strength and days of weakness.  But God is present in all of it, always holding out the light to get us through the darkness. 

On New Songs…

29 Wednesday Jul 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Haircuts, Darkness, and Light…

15 Wednesday Jul 2020

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

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

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

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

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

15 Wednesday Jul 2020

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

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

But as scholar Thomas Long says, “What Jesus offers, however, is not a hammock, but a yoke.”[ii]  I know we want to linger on verse 28, but immediately after that comforting embrace, Jesus says, “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  In the shift between these last verses, Jesus does a bit of a bait and switch.  He beckons us into his comforting arms, but also places a burden on our shoulders.

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

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

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

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

[i] Book of Common Prayer, 133.

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

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

[iv] Long, 132.

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

On Teachers, Nurses, and Grandmas…

07 Thursday May 2020

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One of the things my grandmother instilled in me from an early age was the importance of thank you notes.  She taught me how to write them, how quickly to send them, and the significance of being a person who reliably sends them.  These days I fear she would be sorely disappointed with how those carefully honed skills have deteriorated over time – not that I do not know how to write them or understand their importance, but how my overflowing plate often means the list of thank you notes to be written makes it to the bottom of my “to do” pile.

That is why I am thankful for the ways in which our country has designated this week as appreciation weeks for two powerful vocations:  teachers and nurses.  Left to my own devices, I regularly forget to show my appreciation for the teachers in our lives.  But this annual week always reminds me that for thirty-five-plus hours a week, teachers are the people who are with my children – teaching them, shaping them into thoughtful citizens, helping them grow into their unique identity, and generally helping them feel loved and valued.  I have always thought of teachers as part of our “village,” who are helping my husband and me raise our children.  And this year, more than ever, I am amazed at the ways teachers are pivoting, learning new technologies, figuring out different ways to engage children in a pandemic, and showing love to our kids while socially distanced.

Likewise, I am grateful for a week to show our gratitude toward our nurses.  My most powerful experience with a nurse was in childbirth.  I had been laboring for the better part of twelve hours when I finally elected to have an epidural.  Everyone left the room, and as I leaned forward for the anesthesiologist, I could not stop shaking – whether from exhaustion or fear, I am not sure.  But the nurse took my arms firmly, looked me right in the eyes, and instilled in me a trust so deep I can still feel it palpably ten years later.  Nurses do this every day – take our lives into their hands, guide us through healing and wellness, and comfort us in ways that build confidence, trust, and care.  And in the midst of this pandemic, they are literally putting their lives on the line to do this often-overlooked work.

I’m not sure this is enough of a thank you note to meet my grandmother’s standard.  But what I can tell you is our teachers and our nurses are doing sacred work every day of the year.  They love us, care for us, and show us the light of Christ every day.  If you have a teacher or nurse in your life, neighborhood, or circle of friends, please be sure to thank them personally for the ways in which they are changing our lives today.  I invite you to return God’s blessing they have been to you back to them.