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Sermon – Luke 6.27-38, EP7, YC, February 20, 2022

25 Wednesday May 2022

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Last week, we talked about the differences between Matthew’s version of Jesus’ famous beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount and Luke’s version of the same beatitudes from the Sermon on the Plain.  If you recall, in Luke’s version, Jesus comes down to a level place, and speaks to the disciples eye to eye, conveying an intimacy to his instructions with the disciples.  In Luke’s beatitudes, the epiphany we have is not so much about Jesus’ identity, like in the visitation of the magi, his baptism, or in the wedding of Cana, but instead is an epiphany about what living with Jesus will be like:  loving our neighbor, seeking and serving Christ in others, striving for justice and peace, and respecting the dignity of every human being – the very promises we make in our baptismal covenant.

In today’s lesson, Jesus goes from making eye contact with us to turning our eyes to make eye contact with those around us.  When we love our neighbor, seek and serve Christ in others, strive for justice and peace, and respect the dignity of every human being, Jesus tells us those neighbors and those others must include our enemies.  And this is where this week’s epiphany becomes more difficult.  This passage often hits us in the gut by that simple word, “enemies.”  Our minds go to the worst:  the violent murderer, the manipulative sexual offender, the blatant endorser of racial discrimination, or the oppressive governmental dictator.  But the harder enemies are those “little” enemies much closer to home:  the disruptive neighbor who disrespects common space, the colleague with whom you avoid certain topics of discussion to keep the peace, the student at school who is so subtle with their bullying no one else sees her as a bully, or that anonymous writer in the Last Word whose opinion makes you seethe with anger.  When we consider those “little enemies,” Jesus’ instruction to not judge, not condemn, to forgive, to share, and to love become a checklist of good behavior we are not sure we can keep. 

A few years ago, the Greater Williamsburg area kicked off a commitment to becoming a community of kindness with a rallying event.  The former Mayor of Anaheim, California, Tom Tait, who had run on a campaign of kindness, was the keynote speaker.  Mayor Tait talked about his time on City Council in Anaheim, how part of his work felt like a game of whack-a-mole.  Each month, some crisis or community problem would arise – violence in the community, the prevalence of drugs, problems in the public schools.  And the City Council’s response felt trying to put a Band-Aid on another problem – to whack at the problem to temporarily knock the problem out.  But those solutions never really made a deep impact.  What Mayor Tait saw was all those problems were like symptoms – symptoms of a city that was facing an internal sickness.  The only way to heal the internal sickness was to commit as a city to transform their entire way of operating.  Mayor Tait believed transformation would occur by committing to kindness.  To many, the idea sounded a little too pie-in-the-sky.  But once elected, Mayor Tait was forced to try to live out the reality of kindness.  With every decision, every major action, the community wondered together what would reflect kindness.  And slowly, the illness in the system began to heal.  Kindness was not a Band-Aid, but a system-altering antidote to a host of problems.

In a lot of ways, that is what Jesus is talking about today.  Yes, the things Jesus is talking about are commands – a list of ways to love one another – even our enemies.  But Jesus is not just talking about commands.  As one scholar describes, “Jesus isn’t offering a set of simple rules by which to get by or get ahead in this world but is inviting us into a whole other world.  A world that is not about measuring and counting and weighing and competing and judging and paying back and hating and all the rest.  But instead is about love. Love for those who have loved you.  Love for those who haven’t.  Love even for those who have hated you.  That love gets expressed in all kinds of creative ways, but often come through by caring – extending care and compassion and help and comfort to those in need – and forgiveness – not paying back but instead releasing one’s claim on another and opening up a future where a relationship of …love is still possible.”[i] 

What Jesus is doing is trying to, “inculcate, and illustrate, an attitude of heart, a lightness of spirit in the face of all that the world can throw at you.”  We are to assume this new way of being because “that’s what God is like.  God is generous to all people, generous…to a fault:  [God] provides good things for all to enjoy, the undeserving as well as the deserving.  [God] is astonishingly merciful…”  As N. T. Wright adds, “…this list of instructions is all about which God you believe in – and about the way of life that follows as a result.”[ii]  When we take Jesus seriously, and embrace this new way of being, the way that leads to love, life can be “exuberant, different, astonishing.  People [will] stare.”[iii]

That is our epiphany invitation today:  to loosen our grip on love and allow love to flow as freely as the abundance of God’s love for the world.  This is not an invitation to grin and bear niceness, like a grumbled “bless his heart.”  Instead, this is an invitation to live in way that is contrary to our very human nature.[iv]  As you imagine all those little enemies you may be feeling today’s invitation is impossible.  And on your own, loving those little enemies is impossible.  But you are not on your own.  Not here at Hickory Neck.  You have a community of faithful seekers – of people who long to follow Jesus – and who have just as many little enemies as you – in fact some of them may even be in this room.  But with Christ and this community of the faithful, we leave this place knowing that the Holy Spirit will enable us to let go of our desperate, possessing grip on God’s love, and instead allow that love to flow through us to everyone – because there is more than enough love for us all to share.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Epiphany 7 C:  Command or Promise?” February 22, 2019, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2019/02/epiphany-7-c-command-or-promise/ on February 19, 2022.

[ii] N.T. Wright, Luke for Everyone (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 73-74.

[iii] Wright, 74.

[iv] Charles Bugg, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 384.

Sermon – Isaiah 43.1-7, Luke 3.15-17, 21-22, EP1, YC, January 16, 2022

23 Sunday Jan 2022

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A couple of weeks ago, despite months of planning, I was not sure today would happen.  Of course, we would celebrate the feast of Jesus’ baptism regardless of whether we were gathered in person or online, but I really wanted all the things that come with an in-person baptism – babies crying the middle of sermons, moms and dads rhythmically bouncing their children to soothe them during the service, crayons scattered wherever children find themselves in the worship space.  But most of all, I love having the congregation’s children gather around the font, eyes fixed on the pouring of water, clutching onto the sacred items we have asked them to hold, nervously giggling as they wait for the big moment of their friends’ baptism.  Their energy is reflected by the adults in the space but seeing that energy up close is invigorating.

But then, we suspended physically gathered worship, and everything shifted.  We had choices in front of us, and after much prayer and discernment, the baptismal family decided to gather their small family without the enthusiasm of the whole congregation physically present.  Not until I read today’s Old Testament lesson did I appreciate the parallels in our collective journey to this day.  You see, Isaiah has been prophesying to a people in exile.  The sinful generations of Israel have led to their own demise, and they now sit in Babylon in despair, recognizing their failings, feeling isolated from everything familiar, wondering if they will ever find God’s favor again.  Though we have not been exiled from our land, this pandemic has created our own exile of sorts.  Our weary hearts long for good news.

Into these twin exiles in Babylon and in pandemic, God speaks words of redemption, belonging, and hope.  “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine,” God says.  “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned…For I am the Lord your God…you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.”  These words from God are a balm to the people of God.  But each of those promises are not only for the nation of God.  Those “you”s are accompanied by the second-person-singular verb forms, as one scholar explains, “as if speaking to each member of the community.”[i]  I will be with you.  You are mine.  You are precious and honored.  I love you.

That is what we do in baptism.  Although baptism is a communal event – whether, like in Luke’s gospel, as Jesus stands in a line of people to be baptized along with them, or whether we gather in some hybrid form of in-person and online worship – even though baptism is necessarily communal, baptism is also about the promises to a unique child of God:  who belongs to God, with whom God is present, and who is loved.  We hear echoes of God’s blessing from Isaiah in Jesus’ baptism, when God says, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”  The Church claims the same for Reed and Zenora today – “You are my child, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.”[ii]  Although Reed is old enough to hear and understand this blessing, we as a community, with Zenora’s parents and godparents, promise today to keep reminding Zenora of her identity as a child of God, whom God protects, to whom she belongs, and who is deeply loved and honored.  In truth, we all need that reminder, especially during these dark times.  That is why we will all reaffirm our baptismal covenant in just a few moments – so that we might reclaim our baptismal identity and receive again the charge of our call. 

This service today is not just a day of blessing for Reed, Zenora, and all of us gathered in hybrid worship.  Today’s baptisms are also a commission.  As one pastor writes, “Luke uses very few words to share with us the baptism of our Lord.  But those few words lead us to very deep wellsprings of joy in the faithful ministry.  To identify with all people, to depend upon God in prayer for the strength to live and to love, and to hear the affirmation of your God as the source of your calling and purpose in life are the most enduring joys of life.  Theses are the blessing of our life together in Christ as the church.”[iii]  Our invitation today is to take this pivotal moment for Zenora and Reed, to receive the reminder of your own beloved status, and then to go back out into the world with a reenergized sense of purpose and renewal.  God says powerful words to us today.  I love you.  Our work this week is to say the same to a hurting world.  I love you.  Amen.

[i] Kathleen M. O’Connor, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 219.

[ii] Robert M. Brearley, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 240.

[iii] Brearley, 240.

On Feeling the Love…

12 Wednesday Jan 2022

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Photo credit: https://www.irishtimes.com/life-and-style/people/valentine-s-day-the-politics-of-saying-i-love-you-1.3777525

I grew up in a loving household, so I am not really sure where I picked up this particular sentiment.  But for as long as I can remember, I have not really been comfortable saying the words “I love you,” to just anybody.  I would sign cards, “Love,” or “Much Love,” or maybe throw around the casual, “Love ya!”  But somehow those three words seemed big and perhaps reserved only very special people.  There is an intentionality in those three words that made me feel uncomfortable or even too vulnerable.  As someone who can be a little emotionally guarded because of my profession, those three words evoke an intimacy that sends off warning bells.  And I am not sure I am alone in this sentiment.  There was even a movie called, I Love You, Man!  As if adding the word “man” qualifies the three words enough to not make them too intimate. 

But in the last couple of years, and certainly during this pandemic, this sentiment has started to shift.  I found after a long, hard phone call, where a friend and I bore our souls about how hard this pandemic has been, the words just came out of my mouth.  My immediate instinct was a little panic about how vulnerable those words felt.  But when the friend said the words back, a shift began.  The lesson was reiterated in a pastoral visit with an aging parishioner who was approaching the end of life.  After a long talk, I allowed the three words to escape my mouth again.  The returning “I love you too,” made me realize skirting around the words, “I love you,” has been an unnecessary, and perhaps false, act of denying the truth of our relationships.  No matter how much I try to protect myself, the very act of being a pastor means entering into, and sometimes offering one-sided, relationships of love.  The acts of Jesus were often shocking because he vulnerably offered love to all.

This Sunday, we will celebrate two baptisms at church.  It will be a day full of love, even in these restricted times when most of our parishioners will have to join online.  But as I prepare for Sunday, I am especially struck by our lesson from Isaiah,[i] which offers words of consolation to a suffering people.  In verse four, God says to God’s people, “…you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.” We have lots of images of God rolling around in our minds and hearts, but these are some of the most intimate, affirming ones I have read of late.  And I really needed to hear them.  Perhaps you need them today too.  If so, they are my gift to you.  And if you need to hear them aloud, join us on Sunday for online worship.  There will be plenty of love to go around!

[i] Isaiah 43.1-7

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2021

12 Wednesday Jan 2022

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Church on Christmas Eve is always a funny thing.  For years, I scoured the stores for matching dresses for our girls.  I served in churches where people would sport tuxedos and fur coats for the night’s services.  Family pictures were regularly taken by the Christmas tree – either at home or at church.  Quite frankly, I was a little relieved when I became a priest and never had to worry about a new outfit because no one would see the outfit under my vestments anyway.  And then the pandemic hit.  Last year, we had to watch Christmas from home – maybe in matching pajamas, but more likely just in a pair of jeans or sweats.  A year later, we are all out of the habit of dressing for public, and, if you are here at Hickory Neck, you know jeans are just as acceptable as that fancy dress or jacket in the back of your closet or that some of you are fabulously sporting tonight. 

I am not really sure where the notion of dressing up for Christmas came from, except maybe an older tradition of always dressing up for church.  But nothing about our Christmas story screams high fashion.  Mary and Joseph are traveling to Bethlehem under order of the oppressive government and are likely in traveling clothes, dirty and weary from the road.  Mary also gives birth this night, so her body is likely sweaty and soiled.  Meanwhile, her child is not in a matching layette, but in bands of cloth.  Both are likely an exhausted mess.  And the shepherds who later come visit are likely not to fresh-smelling themselves, probably in their most utilitarian clothing for tending to sheep in the dark cold of night.

And yet, in these most basic settings, the privilege of the miraculous happens.  Mary births not just an ordinary baby, but the Christ Child – the Messiah – as Isaiah says, the “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”  Meanwhile, not only does an angel appear in the blinding glory of God, but also a whole multitude of the heavenly host shows up.  All to ordinary people, dressed in ordinary garb, going about doing ordinary things.  But as scholar Sarah Henrich says, “Heaven and earth meet in obscure places, not in the halls of power.”[i] 

This week I read about such a meeting of the heavenly and earthly in the Washington Post.  In November 2020, Kim Morton was sitting at home with her daughter watching a movie in Baltimore County, Maryland, when her neighbor sent her text telling her to look outside.  Her neighbor, Matt Riggs, had hung a string of Christmas lights all the way across the street from his house to hers, as he explained, to brighten Kim’s world and to show her that they were always connected, despite the isolation the pandemic had created.  Kim had been struggling with anxiety and depression, had lost a loved one, had a lot of work stress, and had started experiencing panic attacks.  Matt knew her pain himself, and so decided they both needed a reminder that they are not alone in their pain. 

But here’s the funny thing about Matt and Kim’s story.  The neighbors saw what Matt did, and they wanted in too.  Neighbors across the street from one another started talking and said, “Let’s do it too!”  Slowly, but surely, neighbors started reaching out to one another with expressions of connection, love, and quite literally, light.  By the time Christmas arrived, 75% of the neighbors had joined in with strings of light crossing the entire drive.  And this year, in November 2021, the whole neighborhood held a house-to-house light hanging party.  Kim, the initial recipient of the lights said, “It made me look up, literally and figuratively, above all the things that were dragging me down.  It was light, pushing back the darkness.”[ii]

Matt and Kim’s story did not happen in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, or even New York City.  Their story happened in a little neighborhood, outside of Baltimore, that no one had heard of until the Washington Post came along.  And although Matt and Kim never mention Jesus, the truth is that heaven and earth met in an obscure place, shining connection, love, and light.  This Christmas, the ordinary, earthy setting of Bethlehem and the shepherd fields are reminders – reminders that we can have all the fancy bow ties and heels we want, but more often, we will see and experience the sacred in the ordinary moments where Jesus shows up and offers us love.  The birth of the Christ Child tonight is a reminder that we, like ordinary shepherds can be used to be sharers of the Good News in tiny, ordinary ways – ways that show Christ’s love and light, and in ways that help us experience sacred connection with our neighbors.  Amen.

[i] Sarah Henrich, “Commentary on Luke 2:1-14 [15-20],” December 24, 2021, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/christmas-eve-nativity-of-our-lord/commentary-on-luke-21-14-15-20-20 on December 22, 2021. 

[ii] Sydney Page, “A man strung Christmas lights from his home to his neighbor’s to support her. The whole community followed,” Washington Post, December 21, 2021.

On Solitude, Gratitude, and Advent…

01 Wednesday Dec 2021

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Photo credit: https://www.horizonviewhealth.com/favorite-autumn-walks/

This Thanksgiving was a bit different for us.  Instead of making a drive, or having family come to us, the four of us had a quiet day punctuated by a traditional meal on the family China.  When I kept referring to Thanksgiving Dinner, even my children protested, “What’s the big deal – it’s just lunch!”  As an extrovert who has spent a lot of the last almost two years with these three other people, I felt a sense of absence for all the people with whom I have enjoyed this traditional day.  But as I watched my beloved introvert revel in the quiet, I began to see a peace among these four people who have come to deepen our trust and love for one another during this pandemic (even if that love is sometimes expressed in short tempers and bickering). 

I suspect we were not alone in our “new normal” Thanksgiving.  Many people from our church community had similar arrangements – couples who stayed home, four neighbors who came together in their “aloneness,” singletons who found joy over Zoom calls.  Even those who gathered in smaller groups commented on the quietness of the day – and a kind of gratitude that can only come from scarcity – scarcity of community, of gathering, of all things normal. 

For me, it was the perfect way to segue into Advent, a similar season of hushed quietness.  As the world whirls around us, we pull back, quietly preparing our homes, knowing the uncertainty of these times, and being grateful for every moment of comfort in this season of waiting.  That’s why I enjoy the Advent practice called “AdventWord.” – a visual way to meditate on a daily word throughout Advent.  It gives me a chance to scroll back through old pictures or turn my gaze to the world around me and snap something anew.  It is a solo, quiet practice that stirs creativity, gratitude, and hope.

What are you doing this Advent to set time apart?  How are you struggling to set time apart?  Maybe you can only find literal moments of peace.  Maybe you can squeeze out a half hour a day.  Maybe you can daily confess your desire for such a practice to the God who sees you in all your commitments.  Whatever you do this Advent, know that you have the support and love of a community who sees you too, and holds on to a desire for peace and comfort for you in this season.

Sermon – John 18.33-37, P29, YB, November 21, 2021

01 Wednesday Dec 2021

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When I say the word “king,” the words that usually pop in our minds include:  ruler, power, authoritative, supreme, distant, dictator, or my personal favorite, Elvis.  Kings are a mixed bag for us, since Hickory Neck closed for over a hundred years after supporting one.  Equally messy was the king before the Revolutionary War who had a lot of impact in our lives – King Henry VIII.  If you remember, King Henry was the king who wanted to divorce his wife so that he could remarry.  When the Pope refused the King’s request, King Henry not only divorced his wife anyway, but he also started a revolution that led to the Anglican Church – our mother Church as Episcopalians.  If that is not power, I do not know what is!

Today, the Church celebrates Christ the King Sunday.  You would think on such a day, we would be hearing a text that glorifies Jesus, or that marks Jesus’ victory – such as the triumphal Palm Sunday lesson or an Easter or Ascension text.  Instead, we get the story of Jesus on trial with Pilate.  Jesus does not really look victorious in this passage – he has been humiliated, beaten, and is now being mocked by Pilate.  This is not exactly the image of Christ we may have had for Christ the King Sunday.  In fact, between Jesus and Pilate, Pilate plays the more stereotypical role of king.  Pilate uses power and authority for selfish ends with no concern for building community.  He hoards power and lords his power over people even to the point of destroying them, on a cross or otherwise.  Meanwhile, Jesus empowers others and uses his authority to wash the feet of those he leads.  He spends his life on them, and he gives his life to bring life.  Pilate’s rule brings about terror, even in the midst of calm.  Meanwhile, Jesus’ rule brings peace, even in the midst of terror.  Pilate’s followers imitate him by using violence to conquer and divide people by race, ethnicity, and nations.  Jesus’ followers put away the sword in order to invite and unify people.  Pilate’s authority originates from the will of Caesar and is always tenuous.  Meanwhile, Jesus’ authority originates from doing the will of God, and is eternal.[i]

So, if Jesus as a king is so different from any kings that we know, and our relationships with kings is tenuous at best, why do we celebrate Christ as King?  Christ the King Sunday is not that ancient of a concept in Church history.  In 1925, in the face of growing nationalism and secularism following World War I, Pope Pius XI established the feast of Christ the King.  The feast was meant to be a way of declaring where allegiances should be – not to a country, but to God.  Our allegiance should be to Jesus – our only ruler and power.  In a time of national pride, the Church boldly proclaimed, “We have no king but Jesus.”  Proclaiming Jesus as King is a fascinating reappropriation of the title “King.”  When the Church invites us to proclaim Christ as King, not only does the Church ask us to put Christ above any earthly ruler, the Church also asks us to redefine the concept of a king.  Jesus is a king who lays down his life for the sake of others; who endures humiliation and death for the salvation of people; who humbly cares for the poor, oppressed, imprisoned, and suffering.  This image does not sound anything like Henry VIII or even modern day presidents; and yet, this is what we proclaim today. 

So what does proclaiming Christ as King really look like today?  If Christ is King, then we are Christ’s people.  Those who have been baptized into Christ Jesus are, as the psalmist says, the people of his pasture and the sheep of his hand.  “Christ has made of us a people with his kingship.  And that kingship is unique, unlike any earthly kingship that is bound by geographic borders…  All are welcome, especially the chronically unwelcome ones.”[ii]  When we say that we are Christ’s people, we do not imply that we elected Jesus or that we hired Jesus as CEO.  We belong to Christ as his subjects – sharing the Eucharistic meal, sharing our lives, serving Christ as one, and resting our hopes in Christ.  Being the people of Christ impacts how we treat one another in this place, how we treat others outside of this place, and how we treat ourselves.    

At the end of another Church year, having lived through another cycle of hearing the stories of Jesus’ life, of being taught again through his miracles and parables, we come together to proclaim the truth of Christ’s kingship.  After another year of living our own lives – burying our loved ones, baptizing our children, celebrating marriage, mourning broken relationships, welcoming new families and ministries, struggling and thriving, surviving a pandemic – we bring all of our own experiences to the climax of this day as well.  We lay down all of this past year at the feet of the crucified, enthroned Christ, and we give thanks.[iii]  We are blessed to be a people ruled by a king who rules with love and mercy.  Being so blessed, we extend that kingly love and mercy to each other, to our neighbors, and to ourselves.  Amen. 

[i] Jaime Clark-Soles, as found on http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching_print.aspx?commentary_id=1490 on November 23, 2012. 

[ii] Mary W. Anderson, “Royal Treatment,” Christian Century, vol. 120, no. 23, November 15, 2003, 18.

[iii] Anderson, 18.

Sermon – Mark 12.28-34, Deuteronomy 6.1-9, P26, YB, October 31, 2021

17 Wednesday Nov 2021

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In preparation for a mission trip to Honduras, we did a lot of study on the history, politics, and economic development of the country.  Part of that preparation included reading Don’t Be Afraid, Gringo, the story of Honduran woman Eliva Alvarado.  Her story is the story of all campesinos – the poor and oppressed in her country.  Her story is the kind of story that stirs up righteous indignation and makes you want to hop on a plane to go fight for justice.  But in the conclusion of her story, she says to the reader that her ultimate desire is for us to stay where we are.  She does not want her story to inspire us to come there and “fix” things.  Instead, she implores us to fix ourselves – explore our own country’s policies and practices that abet the oppression by the privileged in her country. 

I remember when we got to her conclusion, the team sat in silence for a long time.  You could see the wheels churning in each of our minds – surely, we know what is best, surely we can fix things if we can just get there, surely there is a way around the way this woman has made us feel impotent.  And yet, there was profound truth in her words, and an understanding that to not listen to her final request would be worse than to have not read her words at all.  And so, we sat in pained silence, letting her charge sit uncomfortably with us.

Jesus creates a similar silence at the end of our gospel lesson today.  Jesus has been poked and prodded by one group after another at this point in Mark’s gospel.  In chapter 11, the chief priests, scribes, and elders question Jesus’ authority.  Early in chapter 12, the Pharisees and some Herodians try to trap Jesus with a question.  Finally, some Sadducees question Jesus about a theological issue.  Then today, a scribe asks a “palpably disarming” question – not one to test Jesus, but as one scholar says, an “invitation to the table of theological discourse.”[i]  The conversation today is about the greatest of the commandments. 

Jesus’ response is not new.  In fact, Jesus quotes the shema, the classic text we heard just this morning from Deuteronomy, “Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.”  This is a text the Israelites have emblazoned in the minds of their children, and repeated for generations, “Shema Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad.”  “Hear, O Israel, The Lord is our God, the Lord alone (or the Lord is one).”  Jesus tweaks the answer only slightly from the original shema, adding that we should love the Lord our God with all our mind in addition to all our heart, soul, and strength.  And he adds that we should love our neighbor as ourselves.  But that notion is true to the original commandments as well.  When the scribe agrees with Jesus, saying loving God and neighbor as self is more important than any other ritual of the faith, the crowd falls silent, and we are told “no one dared to ask him any question.”  In other words, “Jesus’ critics were silenced and the effect was momentarily deafening.”[ii] 

So why is the crowd suddenly and dramatically silenced?  What’s the big deal about loving God and neighbor as self?  We talk about these commands all the time.  I mean, Bishop Curry has preached these words more times than I can count.  So why do Jesus’ words shock the room into silence?  One scholar suggests that the silence is so deafening because those gathered understood something about the reality of love that we modern Americans sometimes neglect.  As one scholar explains, “…sometimes — especially in western Christianity — we focus so hard on the emotive and affective aspects of love that we forget its rigor, its robustness, its discomfort.  We assume that loving God and our neighbors means expressing friendly sentiments to God in Sunday worship, and exchanging warm pleasantries with the people who live near us during the week.  We forget that in the scriptures, the call to love is a call to vulnerability, sacrifice, and suffering.  It’s a call to bear a cross and lay down our lives.  Biblical love is not an emotion we feel, it’s a path we travel.  As the children of God, we are called to walk in love. Think aerobic activity, not Hallmark sentiment.”[iii]  An invitation into that kind of radical love – the love of neighbors we would rather not love, the love that is as powerful as the natural, preserving love of self[iv], the love that is a response to the overwhelming love of God for us – that kind of invitation is sobering. 

I remember having read Elvia’s disinvitation to come to Honduras and “fix” things felt like a disempowering, painful rebuffing of love.  But I think I felt that way because we do not get to dictate what love of neighbor looks like.  True love of neighbor is not self-designed but is responsive – responsive to our love of God, and respectfully responsive to the self-articulation of needs by others.  Elvia’s self-articulation was deafeningly silencing the way Jesus’ invitation is too.  As scholar Debie Thomas explains, “Silence is the appropriate first response to the radical love we’re called to.  We dare not speak of [love] glibly.  We dare not cheapen [love] with shallow sentiment or piety.  Rather, [we] ask for the grace to receive [love] as the wise scribe received [love].  In awed and grateful silence.”[v]  Only when we have sat in the uncomfortable silence that recognizes the true love of God and neighbor as self are we ready to take up every perfect gift God has given us and travel the path of love.  Amen.

[i] Cynthia A. Jarvis, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 262.

[ii] Jarvis, 364.

[iii] Debie Thomas, “Walk in Love,” October 24, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2944 on October 29, 2021.

[iv] Victor McCracken, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 262.

[v] Thomas.

Sermon – Mark 10.17-31, P23, YB, October 10, 2021

27 Wednesday Oct 2021

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This Sunday, we kick off our stewardship season, whose theme is “Every Perfect Gift.”  I know a lot of people hear we have entered stewardship season and internally groan, knowing full well that we will have to spend the next few weeks talking about how we are sharing our time, talent, and treasure.  This can be especially hard for those of us who were raised to believe that there are certain taboo subjects in public – and money is definitely on the banned list.  I’m not sure why:  money is one of the topics Jesus talks about more than any in scripture.  But even Jesus seems incapable of eliminating Southern hospitality mores. 

Knowing our predisposition to loathe talking about money, imagine my own groan when I read today’s gospel lesson earlier this week.  This is the lesson we get on the kickoff of stewardship season?!?  A lesson about how the only proper relationship with money is to give money away to the poor and follow Jesus; a lesson that asserts getting a camel through the eye of a needle is easier than the rich to get into the kingdom of God.  And just in case any of us were hoping for an out, I already checked, and yes, we are considered “rich” by Jesus’ standards.  We might like to think ourselves exempt because we know plenty of people who have more than we do.  But given global standards, we certainly fall in the same category as the rich man in this text.

So, if your shoulders are already tensed, your foot is nervously tapping the ground, or your arms are crossed over your chest, I want you to take a deep breath in, and as you slowly exhale, allow the tension in your body to slowly release.  As you take in and release a second breath, I want you to clear you mind and listen to the text again with me with an open mind.  A man of deep faith runs to Jesus and throws himself at Jesus’ feet – he is already a faithful follower of God, and yet we see in him a yearning for deeper relationship, to align himself with the goodness of this man named Jesus.  He is a seeker, he is humble, he is passionate.  And, the text tells us, Jesus looks at him and loves him.  This is not a dependent clause.  This is a declarative, gracious, merciful statement of deep, abiding love.  Jesus looks at him and loves him.  Period. 

Many have described the next part of the story as an incisive judgment or a condemnation.[i]  But I see the next part of the story is an invitation – for the wealthy man, for the disciples, and for us.  The invitation is to contemplate the nature of our relationship with wealth.  Jesus never condemns wealth.  Jesus just knows that wealth has the power to corrupt: to corrupt our generous spirit, to corrupt our sense of self-worth, to corrupt our ability to see that every perfect gift comes from God – not from our hard work, our intelligence, or even our good looks. 

One of my favorite children’s sermons from my dad involved an apple.  He sat down with a paring knife and asked us kids to think of the apple as the money that we have.  He asked us, “What are some of the things we have to spend money on in life.”  The answers started flying:  housing, clothes, school supplies, food.  With each answer, he would slice off a part of the apple.  Then he leaned in and whispered, “Now what are the things we like to spend money on?”  We had those answer too:  bicycles, TVs, video games, candy!  With the last suggestion, we realized he had cut every last part of the apple away.  Then he looked at his empty hands and said, “Uh oh.  Did any of us save anything for the church?”  That morning, both the kids and the adults had guilty looks on their faces.  Fortunately, my dad had stashed a second apple and suggested we start over, this time giving the first slice to God.  We were amazed how we still had room for both needs and wants, even losing that crucial first slice.

That is the invitation of our stewardship season too:  to take a look at every perfect gift in our lives, to look at every perfect gift within ourselves, and to look at every perfect gift in others and to understand all that abundance comes from God.  When we allow ourselves to see the magnitude of that abundance, we can then see what Jesus is inviting the wealthy man, the disciples, and us into:  a posture of abundance, that sees all the perfect gifts we receive, we have, and others around us have and to become agents of abundance who, with relaxed shoulders, untensed bodies, and unfolded arms long to share that abundance.  Amen.        

[i] Debie Thomas, “What Must I Do?” October 3, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2944 on October 8, 2021.

On Crises, Crucibles, and Communities…

15 Wednesday Sep 2021

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The parish I serve is situated in a crossroads.  In our community are two very different populations:  one is retirees who have fallen in love with the greater Williamsburg area and have settled here to enjoy their retirement; the other is families with young children, who have found a relatively affordable place where they are excited to raise their children.  In both of those populations, the moves to our area often mean people are leaving behind familial systems of support.  In that crucible of our community, Hickory Neck has worked to ensure that our faith community is a community for both populations:  that doesn’t try to just serve each unique group but tries to bring them together so that they can care for each other – surrogate grandparents for young children, and surrogate children and grandchildren the elders can love.  It has been a joy to watch our community embrace our context and thrive.

Then, 18 months ago, our world imploded.  Throughout that time, our parish has tried to be attentive.  Our younger families offered to pick up groceries for our elder members to keep them safe.  Our elders send cards to families encouraging them during these difficult times.  We all figured out new technologies together and laughed along the way.  And when there were times that we could gather, there was joy and hesitation among both populations.  Many of the elders needed to be careful about their health, even if vaccinated.  Many of the young parents were happily vaccinated but then have been forced to wait for vaccines for their children.  In so many ways, it has been the best of times and the worst of times.

Eighteen months later I find a community of parishioners who are just exhausted.  Parents have been pushed to the point of breakage at times.  I cannot tell you the number of times this article came across my desk when talking about the impact of this pandemic of families with school-aged children.  And our elders are breaking too.  Many of them have been pushed into lonely isolation, maybe having figured out technological ways to connect but missing human contact horribly.  Having ridden the rollercoaster of being rushed to be vaccinated, being told they are now safe, many of our elders now are being asked to mask and distance again, and they are terrified of the isolation they thought they had defeated.  All of us are carrying a heavy burden but in very different ways.

Having watched our faith community love and care for each other for so long, I sense now that we are at a new crossroads – one in which our love and care for one another is being tested.  When a crisis comes, adrenaline kicks in, and we move mountains to care for the “other.”  But when a new wave of crisis hits in the form of the Delta variant, our now wearied minds, bodies, and spirits are being pushed once again.  This is the moment when our community will shine.  This is the moment when superficial questions like “how are you?” are being transformed to, “No, really.  How are you?”  This is the moment when emails, texts, calls, and cards that simply say, “I see you,” mean so much – to both generations.  This is the moment when the light of our love is not done out of instinct but out of a deeply rooted baptismal identity that says, with God’s help, I will respect the dignity of every human being.  I am so grateful to be a part of our faith community now – not in the first days, weeks, and months of a pandemic, but in the heart of a long crisis whose crucible will reveal something more beautiful than I ever imagined.

To Everything There is a Season…

25 Wednesday Aug 2021

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Photo credit: https://www.amazon.com/Ecclesiastes-Everything-Season-Unframed-Inspirational/dp/B08FMDFBTK

Having finally sat down to write a blog post, I was shocked to realize it had been two months since my last post.  Writing has always been a source of pleasure, joy, and learning for me – a way to reflect on the happenings of life in light of my faith and Holy Scripture.  Blogging for me is akin to preaching and spiritual direction:  an exercise in translating our daily, seemingly secular life into the sacred.  Nearly weekly postings for most of my ministry has been an outlet for me and a ministry to many others.

As I contemplated why there was such a big gap this summer, two theories percolated.  One was the more obvious.  I took some time for vacation, we were searching for and then training a new staff member, I was a part of a bishop’s search (which some argue is like a second full-time job), I was tending my family in a pandemic, I was investing time in continuing education, and I was trying to serve my beloved parish.  My plate was quite obviously full. 

But the second, perhaps more revealing reason came to me through scripture.  I was reminding of that familiar passage from Ecclesiastes, chapter 3:  For everything there is a season.[i]  Honestly, I think more people are familiar with this passage through The Byrd’s song “Turn! Turn! Turn!”  This summer has felt like a different season for me.  Instead of writing about life around us and interpreting it in light of our faith, I spent the summer doing that work orally with two faith communities – talking through what God is doing in the Church, what God has done through us in this time of pandemic, where the Church is going, and who Jesus is calling all of us to be.  In some ways those conversations have been very similar in content to what I write.  But experientially, it was significantly more vulnerable.  Instead of hiding behind the written word, I was engaging in deep, hard, thoughtful conversations in real time, being probed, questioned, and challenged – and all of that experience being broadcast in recorded and live videos for anyone and everyone to see.  I described it to a dear friend as a time of feeling naked before the world.

This summer has been a season for discernment, for deep reflection, for vulnerable pondering.  And just like the scripture writer says, for everything there is a season:  a time to plant, a time to break down, a time to laugh and dance, a time to embrace, a time to seek and a time to lose, a time to speak, and a time to love.  Now, I enter into another season:  a time to reconnect with the Hickory Neck community that loved me through this process – even though it was difficult for them.  A time to write again:  about where we see God in the midst of this season of pandemic that we wish were over.  A time to dream and a time to innovate:  about where God is calling us now.  A time to laugh, dance, and embrace:  even if we have to go back to doing that all virtually.  No matter what the season, God is with us.  I’m honored to journey in this season with you.

[i] Ecclesiastes 3.1-8 reads:  For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:  a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to throw away; a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.