Tag Archives: love

Sermon – Matthew 15.10-28, P15, YA, August 16, 2020

19 Wednesday Aug 2020

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If you joined us last Sunday, or saw the archived video of church, you know we talked about how Elijah spent a lot of time talking at God instead of listening to God.  In the cave, wind, earthquake, and fire passed by, but only in the sound of sheer silence could Elijah hear God.  What’s funny is today’s Gospel seems to say the complete opposite.  Instead of the Canaanite woman needing to be silent to hear God, her persistent talking to Jesus is what seems to be the instruction of the gospel.  So, either Holy Scripture has completely lost her mind, your preacher is highly confused (or did not look ahead), or something else is going on here.

Taking a closer look at the texts might help.  You see, when Elijah keeps talking and talking, Elijah has turned in on himself, is wallowing in fear, and cannot see out of his desperation.  And instead of looking to God for relief, he gets caught up in blaming others, self-pity, and an inflated sense of ego.  The Canaanite woman is completely different.  She is an outsider on every level – she’s from Tyre and Sidon – regions who are oppressing the Israelites; historically, she a Canaanite, the land Joshua conquered with the Israelites; she is a Gentile, who does not worship God and is not a part of God’s redemptive plan; she is not only a woman, but also an unnamed woman, with lower social status, whose daughter is unclean and tormented by a demon; and she is not just talking to a man in public, but shouting and making a scene.  Despite all the things that societally should keep her from pursuing Jesus, and despite the ways Jesus ignores her and insults her, she will not stop talking until she gets a blessing.  And in this instance, Jesus rewards her persistent talking.

So what is happening?  Why is Elijah’s persistence shut down, and the Canaanite woman’s persistence encouraged?  Here is the real difference between Elijah and the Canaanite woman.  Elijah looks at his life and sees scarcity.  The Canaanite woman looks at her life and sees abundance.  Now, we would need about an hour to talk about the dialogue between Jesus and the Canaanite woman, because I have a lot to say about Jesus’ behavior.  But since we are limited today, I want to shift our focus on the woman.  You see, despite the fact Jesus ignores her, and despite the fact Jesus seems to think Israelite election means Gentiles are excluded from his attention, this woman sees abundance in Israel’s election for all.  “While mercy may begin with Israel, she knows [that mercy] cannot end there, because of the very nature of Israel’s God.  [That mercy] overflows to others in the house – even to the ‘the dogs’.”[i]  And so she keeps talking, violates boundaries set up because of ethnicity, heritage, religion, gender, and demon possession.[ii]  Unlike last week when Jesus says Peter is of little faith, this woman’s persistence leads Jesus to say, “Great is your faith!”  Elijah and the Canaanite woman both are looking at a bleak situation.  But whereas Elijah sees scarcity, the Canaanite sees abundance – and she is willing to talk, to verbally engage God until God allows justice and unrestrained abundance.

So, which is the way?  Are we to be silent and humble before our God, or are we to keep coming at God until God’s mercy overflows?  The answer is, “it’s complicated.” Truthfully, the differences between Elijah and the Canaanite woman say more about the individuals than they say about God.  What happens to each character is the same:  when Elijah is able to stand in the sheer silence of God, Elijah slowly sees the abundance God has already provided for Elijah;  when the Canaanite woman persists with Jesus, the abundance she identifies is provided for her.  Either way, the answer is the same – God’s love and mercy is overflowing, obliterates manmade boundaries of ethnicity, faith, gender, and power, and can transform the world.

Our invitation this week is to ponder our own place in God’s story.  Maybe we are Elijahs who are going to need some TLC and some humbled silence to experience God’s abundance.  Maybe we are Canaanite women who need to shout from the mountaintop for justice and grace to experience God’s abundance.  Or maybe we will experience God’s abundance another way – through the stranger, the innocence of a child, or an intentional relationship with someone many may see as an enemy.  But the invitation is not just to consider where you are in God’s story.  The invitation is to acknowledge where you are in God’s story, and consider what you will do when you finally come to terms with God’s abundant mercy and love all around you.  That is where your story begins.  Amen.

[i] Iwan Russell-Jones, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 360.

[ii] Jae Won Lee, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 361.

On New Songs…

29 Wednesday Jul 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

01 Wednesday Jul 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[iii] Thomas.

[iv] Thomas.

On Race, Earthquakes, and Action…

17 Wednesday Jun 2020

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A few years ago, the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts had an exhibit of the works of Kehinde Wiley.  I had not seen his work before, and found his pieces in the exhibit shocking to the eye.  Wiley managed to take traditional poses and settings from art history and infuse them with images of modern African-Americans.  The pieces were jarring to the senses.  As I made my way through the exhibit, it began to dawn on me why my senses were so jarred. By consistently seeing classical art featuring people with light-colored skin, I had been enculturated to expect certain images in art.  The prominence of one kind of subject also created unspoken messages about value, beauty, and power.  Wiley’s vibrant pieces were like an earthquake.  And as someone who considers herself fairly self-aware, I found myself humbled by his work, and sorrowful for my ignorance.

I think that is why I was so surprised by an experience last week.  Last Tuesday night, our family went up to Richmond to take a look at the Robert E. Lee statue and the surrounding damage to businesses and monuments.  For those of you who have not been following the story, as part of the protests about George Floyd’s death and the Black Lives Matter cause, the prominent Confederate monuments in Richmond have come under fire.  The statue of Robert E. Lee’s large stone plinth has been covered in graffiti, protesting George’s death, the treatment of African-Americans by the police, and systemic racism.  As I took in the visceral, pain-filled cries of graffiti, as I looked at pictures of black victims of police violence surrounding the statue, whose names I have prayed for over the years, as I watched families of color take pictures in front of this once pristine, but ever-controversial, statue with a new sense of pride and defiance, what I began to understand is those who are harassed and feel helpless have been begging for our compassion for a long time – cries that could no longer be ignored when staring at that powerfully altered statue.

But mostly, I mourned again for my complacency and blindness.  As a descendant of Confederate veterans, student of African-American history and politics, and pastor of a church built long before the Civil War, I know the issue of Confederate statues and monuments is sensitive.  But watching what was happening at the Robert E. Lee statue created the same feeling as Kehinde Wiley’s art work:  an earthquake for all in positions of privilege and power.  Standing there with my family, I felt like I was on unstable ground, my complicity in systemic racism exposed, and the weight of the question pressing on my chest:  what are you going to do about it?

For my brothers and sisters of color, I am sorry.  I am sorry that you have had to do the work to awaken my senses instead of doing that work myself.  For my brothers and sisters of European descent, we have work to do.  Hickory Neck Church has been posting ways for you to engage this issue – not necessarily telling you what to do, but inviting you into the position of making yourself vulnerable to listening, learning, and acting.  This is our work to do.  It is hard and uncomfortable, and this post may even make you defensive.  Please know that I am here – here to walk with you, here to encourage you, and here to hold us all to Jesus’ message of love.  What you do next will vary widely.  Maybe you can only do one small thing to start.  Our invitation is do something – and keep doing something until we find ourselves doing the work of the kingdom Jesus has desired for a long time.

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Photo credit:  Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly; reuse with permission only.

 

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

17 Wednesday Jun 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

17 Wednesday Jun 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Glimpses of Love…

20 Wednesday May 2020

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It finally happened.  We had established a weekly routine for this bizarre time, and the kids seemed to have adjusted to the new rhythm.  But this week, something finally broke.  From sunrise to sunset the day was full of arguments, timeouts, tantrums, and tears.  For the life of me, I cannot recall the content of the conflict, but I am still recovering from the rollercoaster of emotions from that day.

Late that night, once the house was finally quiet, I tried to figure out what in the world had happened.  After my own frustration and fatigue began to settle down, a moment from the day percolated up in my mind.  During our midday quiet time, I was working diligently, trying to maximize my precious work time.  My older daughter had asked to quietly read beside me, and I had hesitantly agreed.  Soon, I realized her breathing had become regular and her booked had slipped down.  She was sleeping, something she never does midday at her age.  In that brief time, without her anger, arguments, and attitude, her peaceful face reminded me of how very fragile she is.  Just for a moment, I was able to remember that as much as our children are resilient, creative, and strong during the new reality this pandemic has created, our children are also frustrated, confused, and lost as they try to make meaning out of the chaos.  All of my anger about how the day had unfolded evaporated in that moment, and a wave of sympathy consumed me.  In seeing all of the “fight” leave my daughter’s body, I was able to see the fragile child left behind.

As I processed the day with a fellow parent that night, I began to wonder if that moment of insight is perhaps the way God sees all of us in this time.  We adults are struggling too – trying to make sense of this terrible time, trying to control the chaos enough to function, trying not to be overcome by the grief of all we have lost in this time.  Most days we succeed, being resilient, creative, and strong ourselves.  But we too have our days where we lose it – lose control over our carefully constructed hold on this new normal.  I imagine God journeys with us in those strong days and those weak days, overflowing with love for us – loving pride for the ways we are trying our best, and loving sympathy for the fragility of our humanity.  And although I only got a glimpse of that love on that rough day this week, that glimpse was just a tiny portion of the massive well of love God has for us.

I do not know what kind of week you are having.  I do not know what stressors are creating small chinks in your armor or big cracks in your façade.  I do not know whose burdens you are carrying in addition to your own.  Whether you are hitting your stride, or stumbling along the path, know that you are loved this week.  Know that God is right there with you, offering grace, mercy, and fortitude whenever you need it.  And if you have it within your capacity this week, or next, I invite you share that same love with those you encounter this week – whether with your family, the essential workers you encounter, or your neighbors.  Getting a glimpse of how God loves you makes it a lot easier to see others with God’s loving eyes.  And we could all use a dose of that love today.

Sermon – John 14.15-21, E6, YA, May 17, 2020

20 Wednesday May 2020

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We have been spending a lot more time together as a family since this pandemic began.  All that together time has meant moments of joy and laughter; but that time together has also meant a lot of correcting of behavior.  One would think by now, we have figured out how to perfectly love one another.  Instead, we have been working on perfecting apologies.  I never knew how much of our apologizing could show so little remorse.  There have been the angry, shouted, “I’m sorry!”s, there have been the resistant, mumbled, “I’m sorry”s, there have been the sarcastic, eye-rolling, “I’m sorry.”s  And parental requests for our children to “mean it” when they say, “I’m sorry,” are almost comical.  How can anyone expect anyone else to apologize by force, command, or as a condition for something else?

I think that is what is so strange about today’s lesson from John’s gospel.  Jesus says “If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” and “They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me.”  The commandments Jesus is talking about are those instructions to love God, love self, love neighbor.  In John’s gospel, they are the only commandments Jesus gives.[i]  And who would protest such commandments?  Of course we should all want to love God, love self, and love neighbor.  But there is something strange about the way Jesus presents his command to us – if you love me, you must do these things.  If you love me, you must obey my way.  As lovely as love sounds, there is something that harkens to those forced apologies about our text today.  I am pretty sure Jesus is not asking us to love others with a sense of bitterness, resentment, or obligation – and certainly without shouts, mumbling, and eye-rolling.

I realize many of you may be thinking, “What’s so hard about loving others?  Why would I resist that?”  One of the things I appreciated about the beginning of this pandemic was the way we all pulled together.  People immediately worried about our elders being able to safely procure food and supplies; we pitched in to make sure the hungry were fed with free school lunches and restocked food banks; we sewed face masks and donated to charities to help protect the vulnerable.  Our collaboration, care, and support of one another was a breath of fresh air.  But we have not taken long to remember our demons.  As hard decisions have arisen about reopening businesses to buttress the economy, making cuts to make ends meet, or laying off employees to help businesses survive, we have reverted to our divided, vitriolic ways from before the pandemic, not only disagreeing, but attacking the character, intelligence, and dignity of one another.  So when we ask, “What’s so hard about loving others?” my response is, “This.  This is what is hard about loving others.”  As one scholar puts it, “It is NOT sufficient (or even meaningful) to profess love for Jesus while we hold ourselves apart from our fellow human beings.  To love Jesus is to love others.  All others.  The lover, the friend, the neighbor, the companion.  But also the alien, the stranger, the misfit, and the enemy.  The ones with whom we agree, and the ones with whom we emphatically disagree.  The ones we naturally like, and the ones we don’t.”[ii]  Our love of Jesus is only as authentic as our love of all others.

So how can we possibly love that way?  The good news is Jesus says we will have help.  Just as Jesus has been an advocate for his disciples – “guiding, teaching, reminding, abiding, witnessing, interceding, comforting,” so they will have the Holy Spirit.  “What they have known in Jesus, and fear losing in Jesus’ impending absence, they will always know in the promise of the [Holy Spirit].”[iii]  What Jesus promises today is big.  Now, I know some of us get a little uncomfortable talking about the Holy Spirit – either the Spirit’s presence just seems too amorphous to be of any value, or the Spirit seems to do weird, dramatic things that scare us more than comfort us.  But Jesus is not simply saying the Holy Spirit will be ambiguously hanging around when Jesus is gone.  The Holy Spirit will be, and is, accompanying us.  As scholar Karoline Lewis says, “Accompaniment is not simply having someone beside you.  Accompaniment is not a mere ministry of presence.  Accompaniment means active and assertive abiding—an abiding that enters into places of fear and discomfort, uncertainty, and troubled hearts, and speaks the truth freely.”[iv]

Now I don’t know about you, but that sounds like some really good news.  On those days when loving seems hard, when obeying Jesus’ command to love feels impossible, the Holy Spirit is here to accompany us, to walk with us in fear, discomfort, uncertainty, trouble, and guide us into lives of love.  The Spirit is with us to enable us to be agents of love even when we doubt we can.  That promise today makes the invitation to love as Christ has loved us not only doable, but desirable.  That promise today helps us loosen our grip on resentment, anger, and fear, and open our hands to love and collaboration.  That promise today makes obedience to love feel like a gift.  Thanks be to God.

[i] Debie Thomas, “Love and Obedience,” May 10, 2020, https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2640, as found on May 15, 2020.

[ii] Thomas.

[iii] Karoline Lewis, “A Time for Accompaniment,” May 10, 2020, http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=5433, as found on May 15, 2020.

[iv] Lewis.

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.

Sermon – Luke 24.13-35, Acts 2.14a, 36-41, E3, YA, April 26, 2020

30 Thursday Apr 2020

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To say we have been operating in crisis mode here at Hickory Neck would be an understatement.  We went from normal operations, to heavy restrictions for gathering and receiving communion, to entirely closing our buildings, to moving all worship online, to virtual learning, fellowship, and pastoral care.  All of those changes happened rapidly, and with an eye to whatever was next.  Once we figured out some semblance of a new rhythm and “normal,” Holy Week came, and we had to figure out how to make our most sacred week of the Church Year meaningful despite our inability to gather physically.  Baptisms and confirmations have been postponed, our Bishop’s visit has been delayed, and farewells and celebrations have been canceled.  And yet, here we are, about half-way through a stay-at-home order, with infection and death rates at astronomical levels, and the Church finds herself in the third week of Easter, still proclaiming her alleluias.

I am not sure I could pull myself together and proclaim those alleluias without the lessons from Holy Scripture we have been journeying with these last Sundays.  In a normal Eastertide, we are more carefree, reveling in Easter joy, making bold proclamations about resurrection and eternal life, and listening to the early Easter stories like the walk to Emmaus with a sense of endearment – as if saying, “Bless their hearts!” as the early Christians try to figure out what in the world is going on after Jesus’ resurrection.  But this is not a normal Eastertide.  In fact, Biblical scholar Matt Skinner refers to this time as “Pandemic Easter.”[i]  For the first time in perhaps most of our lives, we can more deeply empathize with the disciples during these early days of resurrection.  The modern Church has used Eastertide as a bold proclamation of the meaning of Jesus’ death and resurrection.  But the first disciples of Christ are not boldly doing anything.  In fact, they are bereft, confused, scared, given glimpses of hope followed by bouts of despair and doubt.  They are not sure what to believe, even having seen the risen Jesus themselves.  Even those who receive the teaching from the disciples in our Acts lesson are overcome with emotion and can only ask, “Brothers, what should we do?”

Somehow, living in Pandemic Easter has made our Eastertide lessons much more powerfully relatable.  I do not know if I am ready to boldly proclaim, “The Lord is Risen Indeed.”  But I am willing to say to fellow Christians, and to God, “What should we do?”  I am willing to talk with a fellow person of faith, or even a person of no faith, walking with them (either metaphorically or at least at a distance of six feet) as we make our way through this mess.  Those disciples on the walk to Emmaus look different to me this year.  Those two people who thought they knew what they believed, who are confused by testimony of Jesus’ resurrection, who walk away from the protective hideout with fellow disciples, are trying to make sense of life, death, and Jesus.  They are not people to be pitied or seen as adorably unsure of their faith.  They are us.  They are people in a life-altering crisis, trying to make sense of death and defeat, wondering where hope may be, and a bit lost.

And here comes the best part.  Now, I have always thought the best parts of this story are where Jesus teaches the disciples unawares, shares a meal with them, or their hearts becoming strangely warmed, allowing them to become the second set of witnesses after the women at the tomb.  But in Pandemic Easter, the best part of this story might just be what happens on the walk to Emmaus.  Jesus invites these two followers to talk about what has happened to them.  He literally walks with them as they share their shock, their grief, their sadness.  Perhaps in Easters past, I thought Jesus was being coy or trying to trick the disciples in some way.  But in Pandemic Easter, I think Jesus is doing what we all need:  Jesus listens, he lets the disciples share their reality, he makes space for the human response to a new normal.    Jesus makes space for questions like, “What should we do?”

I don’t know about you, but the very real, vulnerable, human interactions between Jesus and the disciples in Scripture today has been a tremendous balm to me.  More than perhaps any year, the Church is not telling us how to embrace and proclaim a certain and sure faith.  Today the Church is simply inviting us to hover in the actual experience of Easter – days of confusion, sadness, fear, and grief.  We are able to tarry there because Scripture reminds us today that Jesus walks with us.  When we cannot yet understand, when we perhaps cannot even believe, Jesus walks with us on the journey.  Jesus listens to our real human response to crisis and walks with us.  Someday – maybe today, maybe in a week or month, or maybe in a year, we will be able to hear Jesus’ teaching and understand, and our hearts will be strangely warmed with conviction.  Until then, Jesus walks with us where we are, acknowledging the fullness of our weakness, and staying with us and loving us through it all.  Thanks be to God.

[i] Matt Skinner, “The Road to Emmaus Feels Longer This Year,” April 19, 2020, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=5428 on April 24, 2020.