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Sermon – Luke 12.49-56, P15, YC, August 14, 2016

17 Wednesday Aug 2016

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I grew up in a house without conflict.  No one ever fought, no one ever yelled, and certainly, no one ever hit.  There may have been disagreements, but they were quickly resolved and our house was restored to peace.  Given that was my experience growing up, I assumed all family handled conflict in hushed, quiet ways.  But then I visited a friend who taught me differently.  I was staying with her family for a few days, and on a car ride to dinner, her mother and father started arguing and were quickly yelling at each other in the front seat.  My eyes bulged and my whole body tensed up.  I immediately thought, “This is the most horrible thing I have ever seen!”  I surreptitiously glanced at my friend to see if she was equally horrified, but she just sat there like it was an everyday occurrence.  But even more strange than the fight was how the family acted later.  There was a bit of quiet after the yelling, but by the time we stopped for dinner, everyone was back to normal.  I, however, could not manage to release the tension in my body, and my mind was racing.  Are they okay?  Is this normal?  Will it happen again?  How do I act now?

I remember after that visit feeling relieved and almost proud.  Clearly my family had the better conflict management system.  Clearly we were more in control of our emotions and cared for each other with tenderness and love.  I let myself believe that lie until my parent’s divorce.  My entire world view about conflict and family and love came apart.  Suddenly my quiet house was not simply quiet.  My quiet house was a conflict avoidant house.  The lack of yelling in my house was not simply a lack of yelling, but was a stuffing of hurt and pain for the sake of pretend peace.  Now, do not get me wrong.  I am not suggested that you all go home and yell at your loved ones.  What I am saying is that no matter what your experience of conflict has been – avoidance, dramatic confrontation, reasoned discussion through disagreement – we have all experienced conflict in our family.

All that is to say that nothing Jesus says about families should be shocking today.  Most of us like the loving, caring, gentle Jesus the best.  We like Jesus being hailed as the Prince of Peace, not hearing Jesus say, “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!”[i]  That is not the version of Jesus we come to hear about on Sundays.  That is not the version of Jesus we want to read about when our best friend is mad at us, our brother won’t talk to us, or our spouse is thinking about leaving.  That is not the version of Jesus we want the preacher talking about on the Sunday we decided to bring our friend to church.

And normally, I would be right there with you in protest.  I like the Prince of Peace who cares for the poor and downtrodden.  I love the Jesus who tells me not to be afraid and not to worry, especially when the lilies of the field are so well tended by God.  I adore the Jesus who forgives and unites all kinds of people into one.  But all of my protest comes from being someone who used to be pretty conflict avoidant.  That is, until I learned another way.  I will always say that one of the greatest gifts of my time on Long Island was learning how to not only handle conflict, but to really appreciate conflict for all that conflict can do.

For those of you not familiar with the cultural dynamic of Long Island, several things are at play.  First, Long Islanders have a different way of communicating.  They are direct, incisive, and honest.  For a Southerner, their style of communication can feel rude, but over time, said Southerner realizes that all that directness and ability to dive into conflict means you get everything out on the table.  There is no listening for innuendo or passive aggressiveness.  There are no cute phrases that sound nice, but really mean something entirely different.  Instead, you know where people stand, and you go home quite clear about the varying viewpoints.  Of course, that style of communication does not always feel good.  If you have sensitive feelings about criticism, your feelings can and will get hurt.  If you get uncomfortable with heated arguments, you will be challenged to stay calm.  If you prefer niceness over brutal honesty – well, you probably should not live on Long Island.

But here is what I learned and came to love about the beautiful people of Long Island.  They taught me how to listen, even if all I wanted to do was flee the room.  They taught me how to sit through criticism instead of getting defensive.  They taught me how to see conflict not as the ultimate evil, but instead as a critical key to transformation, reconciliation, and restoration.

That is at the heart of Jesus’ message today.  Of course Jesus says that he is going to divide fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, and in-laws against one another.  What Jesus is teaching about is a radical reordering of the world.[ii]  We heard that proclamation from his mother’s mouth as she sang out the words of the Magnificat earlier in Luke’s gospel, “He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.  He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.”[iii]  Mary was not just talking about the enemy Rome.  Many of the Israelites themselves were proud, powerful, and rich.  We in the modern world are the proud, powerful, and rich.  And to us, Jesus shouts, “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!”

The good news is that Jesus is not telling us he wants us to fight.  He is not encouraging violence or abuse, or even neglect or pain.  Jesus is simply telling us that his message is going to upset the status quo.  And as people who benefit from the status quo, we are going to have to face our demons and look at our brothers and sisters who are in need and take real stock of ourselves and our lives.  And when we start upsetting the status quo – when we start making women equal to men, when we start treating minorities with dignity and respect, when we start empowering the poor thrive and turn their lives around, we will have friends and family who push back.  We will have people who try to convince us to protect our power rather than share our power.  We will have family who walk away because they cannot face the truth.  All we have to do is look at the church – look at the hundreds of denominations who could not agree on whom could be baptized, what Eucharist means, and whom can be ordained or married.  We are a family divided because Jesus’ love is so revolutionary that we will be divided about how to define his love, how to share his love, and how receive his love.  Jesus does not want us to fight.  But he knows that if we are going to authentically live into the Gospel life, we are going to deal with conflict and we are going to be divided.[iv]

But that is also why Jesus went all the way to the cross.  His death was an effort to transform and redeem our conflict and to help us live fully into the people of peace and love we are invited to be in him.  Jesus knows that we will have to fight.  But he also knows that if we are willing to enter into conflict with an open mind, with listening ears, and a discerning heart, we will become a people who do not avoid conflict, but understand conflict as the purifying fire that burns away the mess of life and leaves behind the fertile ground for creating something new and holy.[v]  So yes, Jesus is still the Prince of Peace, who brings peace upon earth.  But the path there is not a smooth, straight, simple path.  The path there will take us through conflict, tension, and pain.  But the peace that awaits on the other side is more glorious than any community that will sit through passive aggressive avoidance just to maintain a false sense of security.

And just in case you are already feeling weary, wondering where you can muster the strength to survive such a rocky path, our letter to the Hebrews today gives us a clue, “Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith…”[vi]  That group of people you are going to be in conflict with – whether your biological family, or the crazy family you selected as your church home – is the same group of people who have left us an example of how to work our way through conflict.  They have shown us how to survive the race toward peace and reconciliation, reminding us that Jesus is the pioneer and perfecter who gets us there.  We will not get there avoiding conflict.  But we will get there together, holding hands when we disagree, loving each other when we say helpful but painful truths, and rejoicing when we push through to the side of reconciliation, renewal, and rebirth.  Amen.

[i] Luke 12.51.

[ii] Richard P. Carlson, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 361.

[iii] Luke 1.51-53.

[iv] Audrey West, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 360, 362.

[v] Elizabeth Palmer, “Living By The Word:  August 14, 20th Sunday in Ordinary Time,” Christian Century, July 26, 2016, as found at http://www.christiancentury.org/article/2016-07/august-14-20th-sunday-ordinary-time on August 11, 2016.

[vi] Hebrews 12.1-2a.

Sermon – I Kings 19.1-15a, P7, YC, June 19, 2016

22 Wednesday Jun 2016

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Last Sunday, after the parish picnic, I found out about the tragedy in Orlando.  When the youth and I gathered for Holy Eucharist that night, we lifted up our prayers for the victims and their families.  Being able to name the tragedy in the context of Eucharist was comforting, but by the time I got home and poured over news coverage, I found myself bereft.  I was not in shock, for this kind of tragedy has honestly become commonplace in our country.  I think I wanted to be in shock or at least surprised.  But instead, I felt a sense of familiarity and coldness.  I realized that my psyche has become desensitized to this sort of tragedy.  Instead of feeling sad, I just felt numb.  I felt powerless, with nothing to do but be resigned to the fact that this is the way our life is now.  Nothing can change.  Mass murder is normal – whether by a religious radical, a mentally unstable person, a racist, or a disillusioned teen.  Mass death is normal – whether LGBT brothers and sisters, people going to the movies, African-Americans worshiping, or children attending school.  All I could comprehend in my numbness was the fight, the outrage, and the compassion draining out of me.

The same thing happens to Elijah in our story today.  If you remember, a couple of weeks ago we heard about how Elijah has been putting Ahab’s practices to shame.  You see, in an effort to keep the political peace, King Ahab agreed to take a foreign wife, Jezebel, and worship her god, Baal, in addition to Yahweh.  The God of Israel is none too pleased, and so Elijah dramatically challenges the prophets of Baal to a duel.  Elijah is full of confidence, taunting, and dramatic flair.  And when Yahweh wins, Elijah slays the entire lot of Baal’s prophets.  But today, Jezebel proclaims she will avenge their deaths, and all of the fight leaves Elijah.  He runs into the wilderness until he cannot run any longer.  He crumbles under a tree, and proclaims that he is done.  He feels that he is all alone.  He asks God to take his life.

We all know the feeling that Elijah has.  Maybe we or a loved one has been fighting cancer.  We go for one last evaluation only to find that things have made a turn for the worse.  Or maybe we have been advocating for a particular political issue and the tide seems to be turning.  But a court decision is made or a vote is cast and the decision or vote does not go our way.  Or we think we have finally seen an addicted friend reach the end of his addictive behavior.  We are relieved to see healthy patterns until we get a late night call about how he has gotten into trouble again.  The fight leaves us.  We no longer feel a sense promise, victory, and confidence.  Instead the darkness settles over us like a fog, and we crumble under a tree and say, “Enough.  I am done, Lord.”

But something seemingly small happens to Elijah in his moment of despair.  The story goes, “Then Elijah lay down under the broom tree and fell asleep.  Suddenly an angel touched him and said to him, ‘Get up and eat.’  He looked, and there at his head was a cake baked on hot stones, and a jar of water. He ate and drank, and lay down again.  The angel of the Lord came a second time, touched him, and said, ‘Get up and eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for you.’  He got up, and ate and drank; then he went in the strength of that food forty days and forty nights to Horeb the mount of God.”  God gives Elijah food.  No words of encouragement, no pep talk about how things will get better.  God feeds Elijah in the wilderness, in a moment of despair, in a time of darkness.

There is a reason why we have something called “comfort food,” in our culture.  In fact, every culture has some version of comfort food.  Whether the food is a southern mom’s chicken and dumplings or a Jewish grandmother’s matzah ball soup; whether the food is Burmese mohingar, Vietnamese pho, or a New Mexican posole; or whether the comfort food is North Carolina, Memphis, or Texas barbeque, we all have food that brings us back to ourselves.  Somehow the taste of something familiar and rooted in our identity or a fond experience connects to our entire body in a visceral way.  The smell of the food, the flavors that are just right, the warmth filling our bellies, and the happy memories that flood our consciousness allows our entire body to relax.  Whatever has been ailing us – a sore throat, a homesickness, or a broken heart – can be wiped away by that simple, familiar, healing meal.

But comfort food does not just make you feel good.  Comfort food gives you strength:  mends your heart, heals your soul, and emboldens your spirit.  Elijah does not simply eat the food from God and wallow longer at the tree.  Elijah gets up.  He journeys for forty days on the strength from that bread.  His renewed spirit allows him to have a deep conversation with God, where he eventually finds out that he is in fact not alone.[i]  God has not abandoned him.  God has enabled other prophets to stand with him.  God is not done with Elijah yet.  Though God does not expect Elijah to go at it alone, God does expect Elijah to get back in there.[ii]

I am fully aware that we as a community are a diverse group of people with a wide range of political opinions.  My guess is that the violence of Orlando brought out a wide variety of responses to the event and the politicking that has happened since then.  But no matter how you feel about the shooter, the victims, or the instruments of the victims’ death, a week ago, 49 of our brothers and sisters died.  Life is sacred, and that sanctity was snuffed out last week.  And this is not the first time this has happened.  Though the stories behind the shooters, the motives behind the shootings, and the demographics of the victims are different each time, invariably, more life is desecrated.

We learn from Elijah’s story that God knows we need to mourn.  God knows we need to wallow for a time.  God knows that we may feel alone, or powerless, or just plain tired.  That is why God gives us trees in the wilderness.  But eventually, God will send us some comfort food – to soothe our aching heart certainly, but more importantly to strengthen us to continue the journey.  Because whether we feel like we have the inner strength or not, God is calling us to step out of the shade of the tree, and get back on the journey.[iii]

What that means for each of us here may be entirely different.  Certainly our work is to be grounded in prayer – prayers for the victims and their family members, prayers for the shooter, prayers for our nation as we sort out how we will govern ourselves, and prayers for us as we figure out how to be witnesses for Christ in the midst of the chaos.  But prayers are not all we are called to do.  We could do that under a tree or in a cave.  Instead, God sends us comfort food to heal our broken hearts, soothe our wearied souls, and embolden our spirits.

Today, and every Sunday, our comfort food, like Elijah’s, is also in the form of bread.  We call that bread the body of Christ.  That bread has power.  That bread has power to forgive our sinfulness and complicity with sin.  That bread has power to comfort our aches and sorrow.  That bread has the power to make us Christ’s body in the world, witnesses to the love that Jesus taught us about.  We know that our prayers and our consumption of Christ’s body does that for us because the very last thing we do – the very last thing we say – in our worship service is “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”  We do not say, “Have a good week.”  Or “Be at peace.”  We say “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”  How God will use us to love and serve the Lord in the world varies widely.  We all have a variety of vocations that take us to varied and sundry places.  But wherever we find ourselves, God has work for us to do.  Our work is to not only say, “Thanks be to God,” but to mean, “Thanks be to God.”  We thank God for our call to love and serve others.  We thank God for food for the journey.  We thank God for the ways that God does not leave us alone.  We thank God the ways that God will empower us and use us to be agents of love in the world.  So take a little more time today to pray and to mourn.  But then get ready to be sent out into the world to love and serve the Lord.  Thanks be to God.  Amen.

[i] Trevor Eppehimer, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 150.

[ii] Haywood Barringer Spangler, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 151.

[iii] Terrance E. Fretheim, “Commentary on 1 Kings 19:1-4[5-7]8-15a,” June 19, 2016 as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2876 on June 16, 2016.

Sermon – Luke 24.36b-48, E3, YB, April 19, 2015

23 Thursday Apr 2015

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I have been thinking this week about the power of food.  In almost all my mission trips, there was a food story.  Whether I was uncertain about eating what looked like undercooked chicken in the Dominican Republic, or I was struggling with the proper way to eat the tiny bird I was given in Burma, or I was trying to swallow the freshly made tamale in Honduras when all I wanted to eat was a saltine because I was so sick – there was always a dramatic food story from each trip that led to endless jokes later.  Of course there are good food stories too.  There are those foods that you always eat when you visit a favorite restaurant, the foods you beg your mom to make when you visit home, or the foods whose recipes you try to master before your grandfather passes away and the magic taste is gone with him.  Food is a powerful thing.  There is the basic need for food for sustenance, there is the nostalgia and delight that the smell and taste of food can bring, there is the adventure of trying new and exotic foods, and there are ways in which food can be the enemy – from overeating to disordered eating.  Food is the common denominator among all peoples, and in many ways, our life is centered around food.  The common joke in the South is that you know a family is a good southern family if they are planning their next meal while eating the current one.

So today, when Jesus says, “Have you anything here to eat?” Jesus harnesses the power of food to do something equally powerful.  In Luke’s gospel, the women have found the empty tomb and reported the news to the disbelieving disciples.  Peter has confirmed the news, but the disciples remain huddled in fear.  Two of those gathered have an encounter with Jesus on their walk to Emmaus, and return to the disciples to share the news.  Finally, in our lesson today, Jesus appears among them.  Though he offers peace to them, and tries to calm their doubts and fears, the text tells us that they are joyful, but still in disbelief and wonder.  Despite the fact that the disciples have received multiple testimonies of the risen Lord and despite the fact that the same risen Lord is standing right in front of them, offering them peace and assurance and even showing his wounds as proof of his identity, the disciples just cannot get their heads around this strange new reality.  And so Jesus resorts to the one power left he has to reach the disciples – the power of food.  To this scared, confused, disbelieving gang of followers, Jesus says the most basic, normal question, “Have you anything here to eat?”

Who among us has not tried to use food as the great peace maker?  Almost every time we go to visit family, our family anxiously asks, “What do you guys eat?”  Whenever we host friends, we are careful to ask about food allergies or what kinds of foods they do not like.  Pretty much every birthday party we have been to with our five-year old has served pizza and cake – because apparently, every kid likes pizza and cake.  Nothing feels better than satisfied eaters around a dinner table.  Once people are happily eating, the conversation flows and the laughter soon follows.  Likewise, when we make the wrong food choices for a meal, the results can be disastrous.  I always have loved the scene from the film, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, when the Greek girl invites her very non-Greek boyfriend to meet the family.  The whole family has gathered, a pig is on the spit, food is flowing, music is playing, and the favorite Aunt comes up the boyfriend and asks him what she can serve him.  The Greek girl tries to calmly and quietly explain that her boyfriend is a vegetarian.  The Aunt seems confused, and so she explains that her boyfriend does not eat meat.  The Aunt loudly asks, “What do you mean he doesn’t eat meat?!?”  The room suddenly stops – a record scratches as the music halts, a glass drops from a stunned hand, and jaws drop as they stare at this strange boyfriend.  But the Aunt, ever the gracious host, quickly affirms the boyfriend and says, “That’s okay, that’s okay.  I’ll make lamb!”

Though the Aunt clearly does not comprehend the practice of being a vegetarian, she still leans on food as a way make peace.  Once she has made peace, the party continues, and the family gets back to knowing the foreigner and welcoming him as family.  That is because food has that power.  Food can break down walls between foreigners, food can soothe old hurts, and food can help make new friends.  Food has power.

Jesus seemed to know this truth.  When appearances, conversations, and physical evidence cannot not seem to calm the disciples enough for them to understand what God is doing in the risen Christ, Jesus resorts back to the one thing that can transform everything.  “Have you anything here to eat?” is not just a question about whether there is food in the house.  His question is a disarming one – a question that not only requires the mundane work of preparing food, but also gets the disciples into a place a familiarity, comfort, and ease.  In this place, gathered around the table with food, the disciples are finally put in a place where they can really hear Jesus.  In fact, the text says that Jesus opens their minds to understand the scriptures.  Finally, after confusion, fear, and disbelief, through the power of food comes clarity, wisdom, and direction.  Jesus is able to break through, create understanding, and most importantly, commission the disciples to spread the good news to all the nations.[i]

On those mission trips, those funny food stories always led to something more powerful.  That questionable chicken was procured for us because the village leaders knew how hard we had labored and they wanted to give us food to sustain us – even if it meant driving out of the way to obtain the chicken.  And once we ate, the hungry villagers ate too.  Those tiny birds that we panicked about in Burma were actually quite a delicacy.  They are a rare treat that were painstakingly prepared by the women of the church.  And though I am sure our faces betrayed our uncertainty, you could not have seen more proud looks on those women as we began to pick through those tiny bones for meat.  Those mounds of fresh tamales were like a death sentence to me in Honduras.  But I learned that the women of the village had pooled their money for the ingredients and had been working all day to prepare for the feast.  After we ate those delicious offerings, there was great dancing and celebration as our team honored a productive week with our village hosts.

Churches understand the power of food.  I still hear stories at St. Margaret’s about the progressive dinners held back in the day.  Parishioners who are often quite overbooked will clear their calendars for our annual parish picnic.  I have told many a friend that St. Margaret’s is the only parish I know whose Coffee Hour truly lasts an hour – sometimes more if the conversation is really hopping.  Even our most recent new endeavor of providing a family-friendly worship and fellowship opportunity is centered around food – Pasta, Pray, and Play.  Churches understand the power of food to bring people together, to enrich relationships, and to create new connections.

But probably most important for the Church is the power of food to heal, reconcile, and embolden.  The Eucharistic Meal is the primary way we use the power of food.  For those of us who have been receiving communion our whole lives, we sometimes forget the power of that simple meal.  I remember, at one of the services when one of our young people received his first communion, the look of consternation on his face when he first tasted the dry wafer.  I do not know what he was expecting, but I can tell you, that wafer shocked his senses.  That is what our Eucharistic Meal is supposed to do.  We spend an hour pondering and praying about what God is doing in our lives, we confess our failures to live as faithful servants of God, we reconcile with our brothers and sisters in the peace, and then we stand humbly before God and receive a meal that restores us and makes us whole.  That single meal gives us the peace and the power to get back out into the world and try again – try again to be the witnesses Jesus invites us to be today.  That is the power of this food – this meal can transform us and enable us to be faithful witnesses in the world.  When Jesus says today, “Have you anything here to eat?” we say emphatically, yes, we do.  Amen.

[i] Sarah S. Henrich, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 429.

Sermon – John 13.1-17, 31b-35, MT, YB, April 2, 2015

15 Wednesday Apr 2015

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The dinner table is where sacred things happen.  The dinner table is where food is served that can satisfy a hunger, can heal an ailing body, can delight the senses, and can invoke a nostalgia like no other.  The dinner table is where stories are told, days are recounted, prayers are said, and laughter is had.  The dinner table is where places are set, dishes are passed, plates are cleared, and remnants are cleaned.  The dinner table is the host of all things mundane – like that frozen meal you threw together before you ran off to the next thing; and the dinner table is the host of all things momentous – like that gloriously planned and executed Thanksgiving meal that you hosted for your friends and family.  Because the dinner table can do all these things, the dinner table becomes the place in our home where sacred things happen – a holy site for one’s everyday and one’s extraordinary moments.

The dinner table where Jesus and his disciples gathered for that Last Supper was no different.  They had gathered at table hundreds of times in the three years they had spent together.  There had been learning and laughter, stories and questions, arguments and celebrations.  In many ways, all of these things seem to happen in the course of this one night during the Last Supper.  Jesus and the disciples are likely chatting up a storm, talking about the days events, when Jesus does something extraordinary.  He gets up, takes off his outer robes, and washes the feet of his disciples.  This kind of event is unheard of.  Hosts and well-respected teachers do not wash others feet; that task was assigned to a household slave.[i]  And some of the midrashic commentary suggests that not even a Hebrew slave was expected to perform such a menial task.  Instead, the slave might bring out a bowl of water, but the guest would wash his own feet.[ii]  So of course, a lively debate ensues with Peter, who does not understand what is happening.  Jesus washes Peter’s feet anyway – and washes Judas’ feet – before returning to that dinner table to explain what he has done.  He goes on to explain that not only will he die soon, but also that he expects a certain behavior after he is gone – that they love one another.

That is the funny thing about dinner tables.  They can bring out the most sacred and holy of conversations.  The dinner table is where one tells his family that he has terminal cancer.  The dinner table is where one tells her best friend that she lost her job and has no idea what she is going to do.  The dinner table is where the young couple announces that that they lost their pregnancy.  The dinner table is where the college student tells his parents that he is dropping out of school.  We tell these awful, scary stories at the dinner table because we know that the table can handle them.  The table is where we gather with those who we care about and is therefore the place where we can share both the joys of life and also the really hard stuff of life.  Though our table may have never hosted a dinner as beautiful as one of the tables Norman Rockwell could paint, our table is still a sacred place that can hold all the parts of us – the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly.  We can share the awfulness of life there because we know that those gathered can handle it, and can carry us until we can be back at the table laughing some day.

What I love about our celebration of this day is that all of those things – the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly – were present that night with Jesus and his disciples.  So yes, earlier in the evening, there probably is a raucous conversation.  The disciples are gathered at the table, in all their imperfection: those who love Jesus with a beautiful innocence and those who greedily hope to be at Jesus’ left and right hand; those who humbly understand Jesus and those who want Jesus to victoriously claim his Messianic power; those who profess undying faithfulness (even though they will fail to be faithful) and those who actively betray Jesus.  At that table Jesus not only talks about how to be agents of love, Jesus also shows them how to love.  On this last night – this last night before the storm of Jesus’ trial, crucifixion, and death – a sacred moment happens at the dinner table.  And though we do not hear the story tonight, we also know that Jesus then breaks the bread and offers the wine, instituting the sacrament of Holy Communion.

We know the rest of the story.  The disciples, who still do not really understand Jesus fully, muddle their way through footwashing and Holy Communion.  Then those same dense disciples sleep their way through Jesus’ last prayers.  One of those disciples becomes violent when a soldier tries to seize Jesus.  And eventually, most of the disciples betray and abandon Jesus altogether.  To this unfaithful, dimwitted, scared group, Jesus offers a sacred moment at the dinner table, inviting them into the depths of his soul and a pathway to our God:  and encourages them to love anyway.

Our own Eucharistic table is not unlike that dinner table with Jesus.  Tonight, we too will tell stories, sing, and laugh.  We too will wash feet in humility, embarrassment, and servitude.  We too will hear the sobering invitation to the Eucharistic meal, and will walk our unworthy selves to the rail to receive that sacrificial body and blood.  We too will argue with God in our prayers, pondering what God is calling us to do in our lives and resisting that call with our whole being.  We too will lean on Jesus, longing for the comfort that only Jesus can give.  And we too will hear Jesus’ desperate plea for us to also be agents of love – not just to talk about love, or profess love, but to show love as Jesus has shown love to us.

In this way, our Eucharistic table is not unlike the dinner table in your own home.  Our Eucharistic table has hosted countless stories, arguments, and bouts of laugher.  Our Eucharistic table has witnessed great sadness and great joy.  Our Eucharistic table feeds us, even when we feel or act unworthily.  And our Eucharistic table charges us to go out into the world, being the agents of love who are willing to wash the feet of others – even those who betray us and fail us.  This Lent, we have been praying Eucharistic Prayer C.  In that prayer, the priest prays, “Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal.”[iii]   This Eucharistic table, like our own dinner table, can handle all of us – all our failings, sinfulness, and brokenness.  This table can fill us up with joy, forgiveness, and peace.  This table can be a place where we find belonging, identity, and security.  But this table is also meant to build us up – to give us strength and renewal for doing the work God has given us to do – to love others as Christ loves us.  Sacred things happen at this table.  Those sacred things happen so that we can do sacred things in the world for our God.  Amen.

[i] Guy D. Nave, Jr., “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 279.

[ii] Mary Louise Bringle, “Homiletical Perspective, Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 279.

[iii] BCP, 372.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, YB, CE, December 24, 2014

14 Wednesday Jan 2015

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Most of us have a favorite Christmas movie.  Whether we like “It’s a Wonderful Life,” “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” or “A Christmas Story,” many of us find that until we have watched that special movie, we do not feel like Christmas has really arrived.  My personal favorite is “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” – the animated one, not the newer one with Jim Carrey.  I love the cute little dog that the Grinch dresses up like a reindeer, I love the little girl who sweetly encounters the Grinch dressed as Santa, and I love the songs throughout the movie.  But my favorite part is when the Grinch hears the Whos singing on Christmas morning despite their supposedly ruined Christmases and how the Grinch’s heart is warmed and grows in size.  Part of what I love about the movie is the movie’s wonderful lesson about the true meaning of Christmas – that material goods and abundance do not make Christmas:  only love and community make Christmas.  But I think the real reason I love this movie is its familiarity.  I like that I can watch the movie every Christmas and the movie never changes.  I like that no matter what house I lived in growing up, or where I found myself as an adult, or even how happy or sad I was on a given Christmas, the familiarity of the movie made me feel like I had something to ground me.  When all else in my world was changing, the movie never changes.

I think that is why we find ourselves at Church on a Christmas Eve too.  Every year we find ourselves sitting in a pew hearing the same story of Mary, Joseph, shepherds, angels, and the baby Jesus.  The story is so familiar that we could probably recite the story if pressed.  Whether we are a child or an adult, at home or far away, with loved ones or alone, the story never changes.  That changelessness, that familiarity is something we eagerly anticipate every Christmas and in large part is why we come to Church this night.

Familiarity is something we all long for at Christmas.  When we have lived long enough, we come to know that despite the fact that we celebrate Christmas every year and we try to keep familiar traditions, our celebration is never the same.  Invariably someone has passed away and their absence changes our experience; a family member is not present because of a falling out in the past year; the grandchildren become too old to play silly games or make crafts and the mood is different; or any other number of things have changed – divorce, births, illness, job loss, or moves.  Even if you still gather with your family or a set of friends, change is inevitable at Christmas.  And because we all know how unsettling change can be, we long for something that is unchanging that we can cling to and with which we can ground ourselves.

This Advent we have talked a lot about how much turbulence and change has been happening in our world.  We have watched as the world has erupted in violence.  The atrocities, suffering, and fighting have been so vivid that many of us have stepped away from watching the news.  We have seen unrest in our own country, as issues of race, class, and gender have collided.  And in case any of us were tempted to believe that those issues of race, class, and gender are someone else’s issues, we have only to look at as far as Staten Island to know that we are not yet in a place of peace and justice.  The noise of unrest is so loud that there are times when instead of listening to the news we turn to music, sports, or any other escape we can think of to run from the reality of our world.

The funny thing is that though we turn to our gospel lesson for comfort and familiarity, the same noise that we find in our lives and in our world is present in our reading tonight too.  The very reason that Mary, Joseph, and Jesus end up in a stable is that the Roman Empire has been greedily looking for more ways to bring in money into the empire.  And so peoples are being displaced, making their way back to their hometowns so that the empire can determine whether they have collected enough money from the people.  The Pax Romana is bearing down upon the people, and this nobody couple from Bethlehem is just one more victim of the injustice of the system.[i]

Perhaps that background noise is part of why we love this story so much.  Despite the chaos of that night and of that time, good news comes – to shepherds, to angels, to Mary and Joseph.  We savor the familiar words of goodness that override the story:  “do not be afraid”; “good news of great joy”; “peace among those whom he favors.”  To displaced Mary and Joseph, to disenfranchised shepherds, and to distant little Bethlehem peace, joy, comfort, and hope explode on this very night.  We have learned from hearing Scripture Sunday after Sunday that Scripture can often be hard, challenging, and downright condemning.  We spend much time throughout the Church year struggling with where God is challenging us to live differently and beckoning us to live more Christ-like lives.  But not on this night.  On this night, we get assurance, comfort, and joy.  We get an innocent baby – in fact a baby that will change the world for good.  Like young parents ourselves, we can worry about money, health, and safety later – because on this night of Jesus’ birth, we just want to cling to the Christ Child and all that the child represents.

Now there are times in our lives when clinging to the familiar just for the sake of comfort is a bad thing.  Maybe you yourself have been criticized for living in the past, romanticizing what once was, especially at this time of year.  But this is one of those rare instances when the Church says that we have permission to live in the past and cling to the familiar.  That is because this familiar – this story of Jesus’ birth – is worthy of that kind of devotion.  We are not staking our claim on something superficially good when we come to Church this night – we are not clinging to a romanticized past that can never fulfill us.  We are clinging to an event that happened a long time ago, but whose significance changed things forever.  In this incarnate experience of God, the game changed for all time.  God became flesh and dwelled among us, and we are changed for the better.

So tonight, I invite you accept the gift of familiarity and comfort.  Let this night warm your heart and soul and cling to the familiar story and all that the story means for us.  Hold fast to that comfort, and return to these words whenever you need them.  We have 364 other days to worry about what is going on in the world.  In fact what happens here in Scripture tonight deeply impacts how we will respond to that world the rest of the year.  But that is for another day.  Tonight, take the gift of comfort, joy, and hope and let that gift fill you up and strengthen you for the work God has given you.  Use that gift as fuel, and then let God’s holy meal fill your belly so that you are strengthened for the work ahead.  May God’s peace and joy fill you up and overflow out of you to others.  And then be agents of peace through the Prince of Peace who comforts you tonight.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Something More,” December 18, 2011 as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=1612 on December 20, 2014.

Homily – John 8.31-32, Paul Jones, September 4, 2014

19 Friday Sep 2014

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I have struggled with the issue of war and peace.  In my heart, I am anti-war and pro-peace.  I cannot condone killing others because others have killed.  War does terrible things to everyone involved.  And arguments for “just wars” just seem like cop-outs – ways of avoiding the call to be a peaceful people.  That is the argument of my heart.  But when faced with issues of genocide and oppression, my head tends to get in the way.  The recent movement by ISIS in Iraq has me in angst over why we are not doing something to stop the genocide.  And yet that “something” is often assumed to involve more violence or war – certainly not peace.

I wonder what Bishop Jones would have to say about this ethical debate.  Born in 1880, Paul Jones, who we honor today, was born and raised in the Episcopal Church.  He became a priest, serving in Utah as a missionary.  In 1914 he became archdeacon and later Bishop of the Missionary District of Utah.  Bishop Jones did much to expand the church’s mission stations.  But as WWI began, Bishop Jones openly opposed the war.  When he declared war to be “unchristian,” the press went wild.  The House of Bishops investigated and declared that Bishop Jones should resign because of his antiwar sentiments.  Though Bishop Jones finally caved in and resigned, he spent the next 23 years advocating for peace until he died in 1941.

I think Bishop Jones must have embraced Jesus Christ’s words from John’s gospel lesson today.  Jesus Christ says, “If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”  For Bishop Jones, he knew Jesus to be a man of peace and love.  For Bishop Jones, his pursuit of peace felt like the “truth” – and in some way resigning as bishop freed him to truly follow the gospel.

For us, I think discerning an ethic of peace verses war is not simple.  Issues of peace are complicated and unsettling – who can really define “truth”?  The good news is – no matter what we believe about war, we know our God is a God of love.  Love is a truth we can comfortably claim.  Once we meditate on love, we can often find a bit more clarity.  We can even come to some clarity about this contested issue of peace.  Today we thank Bishop Jones, Jesus, and all those who encourage us to struggle with injustice in the world – for in the struggle, we find truth – and the truth will set us free.  Amen.

God’s embrace…

19 Thursday Dec 2013

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This time of year is always a little crazy for me.  The plus side is that we have established with our family and friends that given my work, we really cannot get away for Christmas.  We do however, more than welcome folks to come and stay with us.  So our place has become a wonderful place of hosting various family and friends since my ordination.  That being said, while in the midst of finishing bulletins, preparing multiple sermons, and tending to any work that needs to be finished before I take several days off, I also need to make sure the house is clean, the shopping (food and gifts) has been done, the decorations are all ready to go – the list goes on and on.

Needless to say, anxiety is pretty high around our place this time of year.  I try to soak in the quiet of Advent, and I try to proceed with a steady calm, but I regularly fail.  Sometimes I wish I could get through Christmas, make time freeze for a couple of days, and then pick up in the middle of Christmas dinner.  But no matter what I do, I still have not figured out that time freeze trick.

Tonight, though, I was reminded of the little gifts that God gives me in the midst of anxiety and overwhelmedness.  After her bedtime routine, some quiet play in her room, and much stalling, my daughter always comes to me and asks me to rock her a little while in the dark before singing her to sleep.  Tonight, as she lay on my chest and growing belly, we rocked in the quiet.  It occurred to me how close her body was to the other growing child in my womb.  It was almost like the two were hugging each other in the quiet.  Of course, then I realized that I had the pleasure of hugging both of them, as the three of us rocked back and forth in a brief moment of calm and peace.  I rocked for a minute or two more before realizing that the three of us were not actually alone.  God’s arms were wrapped around all of us, holding us tightly, rocking gently with us.  The image took me by surprise, but also created a wave of relief for me.  It is so easy for me to get wrapped up in the busyness of this time that I forget that God is with me, even though I flit around as if God is not.

In the midst of these last days of preparation and waiting, I invite you to imagine the times when God might be enveloping you too – when you least expect it, when you most need it, but more importantly, when you do not even realize it.  That is the gift of our awesome God – a God who carries us, despite the fact, that we, like a four-year old, insist that we can do it by ourselves.  Ever faithful, ever patient, ever awesome is our God.

Sermon – Luke 12.49-56, P15, YC, August 18, 2013

18 Sunday Aug 2013

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Once upon a time, I lived in a world where there was such a thing as a “normal family.”  These were the families who could sit around a dinner table and have a pleasant conversation, who never had a disagreement, who never had to deal with passive aggressive behavior, and whose dealings could be taken at face value without any hints of ulterior motives.  In this world, people were happy, holidays were perfect, siblings loved each other, and marriages were unbreakable.  Laughter was pervasive, love overflowed, and peace ruled the day in this world.  And since my life did not resemble this world, surely I would find a life partner whose world was like this.  Surely there would be a way to escape my own reality to find that world where the “normal family” existed.

Of course, once that notion crumbled, I created a new one.  Then I lived in a world where there was such a thing as a “conflict-free church.”  This church was one where people welcomed others warmly, where the love of God poured out of every parishioner, where every meeting unfolded in a peaceful, consensual manner, and where everyone felt at home.  In this church, the people all lived Christ-like lives, and they were so focused on serving others that they never fell into serving themselves.  In this church there was no judgment, no division, and no central source of power.  At this church, people were happy, worship was beautiful, and money was never a concern.  Surely such a church existed, and so if my church was not this way, I would find that “conflict-free church” somewhere.

Jesus takes a blowtorch to these make-believe worlds I envisioned in today’s gospel.  Jesus says, “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled…Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth?  No, I tell you, but rather division!”  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Jesus,” many of us may want to say today.  I thought Jesus was the Prince of Peace – in fact the same person whose name we invoke when we greet one another with, “The peace of the Lord be with you.”  Today’s Jesus is not the sweet, peaceful Jesus in a manger.  Jesus denies peace altogether today and instead rolls out a campaign of conflict.  There is no peace-loving church today.  In fact, Jesus even goes on to say how he will be turning family members against one another.  Father against son, mother against daughter, in-laws against in-laws:  families will be divided against one another.  Not only do we lose the dream of a “conflict-free church” today, any hope of a “normal family” without pain or strife is obliterated today too.

Of course, what is most painful about this gospel lesson today is that we already know the gospel to be true.  What person here today has not faced conflict within their family?  For the lucky among us, that conflict may eventually pass and familial love is relatively easy.  But for pretty much anyone who has had an honest and frank conversation with me, I do not know one single family who has not been touched by divorce, pain, cutoff, abuse, rivalry, anger, manipulation, or division.  Conflict is not the anomaly – conflict is the norm in our families.  And if church is anything like a family, we have known bitter conflict in church too.  Some of us have left churches because of conflict, pain, or suffering.  Most of us have known conflict here in this place – and if we have not yet, we will.  Why this gospel lesson is so hard today is because this gospel holds up a mirror – a mirror to our broken lives, our broken world, and our broken church.  And quite frankly, most of us do not come to church to look in a mirror; or if we do imagine church as a mirror, we hope the mirror is like one of those carnival mirrors that can distort our broken worlds and reflect something much more beautiful or hopeful than the reality we know.

Despite all the seemingly bad news in today’s gospel, some of Jesus’ words reach out to us in hope:  “I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed.”  The idea of Jesus’ baptism not being completed has been bouncing around in my head all week.  In the early days of the church, fonts were not the pretty, upright fonts we see now that hold a beautiful bowl of baptismal water.  Fonts were more like pools, with steps leading down and steps leading up on the other side.  The person to be baptized would walk down those steps, be fully immersed in the water, and the come up for air again as they emerged from the water and walked up the exit steps.  The symbolism was rich – baptism looked like the emergence from the watery birth canal, and baptism rightly lived into the name “new birth.”  But also weaved into the symbolism is journey – a journey from a former life, into a watery chaos (not unlike the chaos from which God created the earth), and emerging a new creation and a transformed person.

The idea that Jesus’ baptism is not yet complete somehow makes sense when we think of baptism as a journey.  In the midst of all this talk about conflict and division, Jesus is giving us a picture of what living a baptized life is like.  At our baptism, we make promises – to turn away from sin time and again – and to turn into the way of baptized life – seeking and serving Christ, loving neighbor as self, and striving for justice and peace.  The image of Jesus’ baptism not being complete gives some grounding to what all this conflict and division is all about.  The conflict and division is a necessary component to completely live into our baptismal covenant.  We say that when we fall into sin – not if we fall into sin – we will turn back toward the Lord.  The journey of baptism promises then that we will not have a peaceful, conflict-free road and that our baptism in not a once and for all activity.  Baptism is a journey, of fully living into those baptismal promises, in which the challenging stuff will shape and mold us into better disciples and better servants of Christ.  Jesus knows that our baptism journey will never be one of peace – at least not the superficial peace we long to have.  Our baptism journey will be one of division.  That division will not only be because conflict is a necessary part of life, but because the radical way of Jesus can only be achieved by walking through the watery chaos of baptism – a chaos full of conflict and division – but a journey in which we emerge transformed and renewed.

Once upon a time, I encountered a world where conflict was not a curse word.  In this world, conflict was not an uncomfortable experience to be avoided, but a challenging experience that led to new growth and new life.  In this world, everyone was not happy in a superficial, cheerleader kind of way.  But people were happy in a much deeper, rooted kind of way.  In this world, families still fought, but the fighting led them somewhere new and life-giving.  In this world, parishioners grew to expect conflict – but also grew to expect transformation.  In this world, conflict was not the end of relationship, but instead the tool that drug people through rough times into times of unknown joy and peace.  This is the world that I long to inhabit.  This is the world that gives us life.  This is the world that leads to new birth.  Our invitation today is to step into the watery chaos of division and conflict, so that we might emerge a faith community on the baptism journey.  Amen.

While you were sleeping…

17 Wednesday Jul 2013

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I am in the stage of parenting where many parents with older kids look at me sympathetically and promise me that things will get better.  They lament about how it was the threes, not the twos, that were “terrible.”  They promise me that by age five, a certain shift happens.  And some days, those words are enough to help me take a deep breath as my child is screaming angrily for no apparent reason, or hitting, or kicking, or you name it.  I love my daughter dearly, but the last several months of her development have been challenging, to say the least.  And certainly, it feels like she brings out the worst in me too.  So what seems like the glorious bliss of parenthood is quite often a complicated, guilt-provoking mess.

But just the other night, as my daughter “attempted,” to fall asleep, she finally asked if I would come in and rock her to sleep.  Not getting the chance to cuddle her often, I agreed.  As we were rocking, she started lightly snoring, and as I looked at her relaxed face, my perception of her totally changed.  She seemed not like a temperamental, trying toddler, but just a sweet little kid.  The lull of sleep had smoothed out the anger and frustration from her face, and made her look peaceful and lovely.  And in that moment, my love for her exploded, my forgiveness of her craziness overflowed, and my own frustration faded quickly away.

It occurred to me that my perspective in that moment must be God’s perspective of all of us.  The God who loves us all so profoundly must only be able to do that if that God can see us for who we really are – that version of ourselves when we sleep:  utterly human, vulnerable, and lovable.  The anxiety is gone from our face and all that remains are the everyday functions of being human – breathing in and out, while our body is restored to refreshment and wholeness.

Having watched the news recently, especially the Zimmerman/Martin case, I have had some pretty hostile feelings about the people involved in the case, the people reporting on the case, and even toward people whom I know who seem unconvinced of the problems in our justice system.  And everyday, I deal with family, friends, and, yes, even parishioners who frustrate me to no end.  But I have been wondering about how I might begin to think of those objects of my frustration in their sleep.  If I could see them vulnerably, peacefully sleeping, might I begin to see them with the eyes of God?  I am not suggesting that forgiveness will come easily or even soon.  But what I am wondering is whether seeing others through God’s love might at least give me the patience to try one more day of walking in God’s love too.

Sermon – John 20.19-31, E2, YC, April 7, 2013

10 Wednesday Apr 2013

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As Christians who just celebrated Easter last week, rejoicing in Jesus’ resurrection and all that his resurrection means in our lives, you would think our gospel lesson would be a little more victorious.  You would think the next step after the angels appear saying Christ is not in the tomb but is risen would be the disciples hitting the ground running, doing the work of spreading the good news or at least throwing a raucous party.  Instead, we find the disciples huddled in a locked room, cowering in fear.  They have not taken the good news from Mary Magdalene as reason to celebrate.  Instead, they are paralyzed by fear.

I have often wondered what the disciples were afraid of.  The text says they are afraid of the Jews, perhaps afraid that the same people who killed Jesus would try to kill them too.  But I think there is more to their fear.  I think they are afraid to face others, because they feel as if they have failed.  Perhaps they believe that their pick for Messiah did not seem to be the Messiah after all.  I think they are also behind those locked doors because they are ashamed that they failed to protect Jesus, to keep him alive.[i]  Those locked doors are not just for safety – those locked doors are for hiding the shame, the disappointment, and the fear of facing others that the disciples have.

We know a little about what the disciples feel like.  We all have things about ourselves for which we are ashamed.  There are things about ourselves that we lock away, praying that no one every finds out because we are not who we fully want to be or even who we pretend to be.  Garrison Keillor once said, “We always have a backstage view of ourselves.”[ii]  Most people only see the carefully arranged stage we have assembled for others to see.  But behind the curtain, in that backstage view that only we have, there are all sorts of things hiding: old failures, hurts, guilt, and shame.  And Eastertide is one of the most difficult times for this dichotomy because we feel like we should be at our best – wearing our best clothes, coming to church as perfectly functioning families, showing forth nothing but happy alleluias.  We are working overtime to ensure that our stage is especially carefully arranged at church.

But to this frenzied, harried behavior, what does Jesus say?  Peace be with you.  Jesus comes to those fearful, ashamed, embarrassed disciples, finding them behind their locked doors of protection and offers them peace.  Jesus barges backstage and says, “I see you in your fullness, and I offer you peace.  So forgive yourselves and now go and forgive others.”  This is why Jesus died on the cross – that their sins might be forgiven.  And so, before the disciples get too mired in wallowing in fear, shame, and self-pity, Jesus demands they recognize that they are forgiven – and that they share that good news with others.  For no one should be locked inside a room of shame and fear.  The peace Jesus offers is not some “greeting-card platitude about the sun behind the clouds.  [Jesus’ peace] is the beginning of a new world, the long-awaited world of God’s shalom.  [His peace] comes with freedom from fear, sin, and death.  Jesus opens the door that the disciples had locked…and he shows the way to resurrection reality.”[iii]

This is our invitation today as well.  Our invitation is to offer the same forgiveness to one another that Christ unabashedly offers to us.  In so doing, we invite not only ourselves, but others, to take down the pretty stage trappings, and to recognize that we all have backstage versions of ourselves, which are all in need of Jesus’ love and forgiveness.  This is good news for which we can really shout alleluia.  This is the kind of good news that makes us want to be in church.  Because this sacred space is not sacred because we made our stages look sacred; this sacred space is sacred because we are fully ourselves, and fully forgiven.  Peace be with you.  Amen.

[i] M. Craig Barnes, “Crying Shame,” Christian Century, vol. 121, no. 7, April 6, 2004, 19.

[ii] Barnes, 19.

[iii] Kristen Bargeron Grant, “No Joke,” Christian Century, vol. 120, no. 9, April 19, 2003, 18.