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Sermon – Luke 10.1-11, 16-20, P9, YC, July 6, 2025

24 Thursday Jul 2025

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This past week has been a jumbly mess of feelings around my identity as an American Christian.  I probably could have buried my head in the sand about most of the mess and just ate my hamburger and watched the fireworks and called it a day.  But I happen to have an eleven-year-old in my house who asks lots of questions, officially making head-in-the-sand living virtually impossible.  Instead, we spent time in conversation about the intersection of politics and Christian ethics in the caring for the poor and sick and the responsibilities of those with wealth.  Later, we had to talk about my discomfort with the man on his loudspeaker preaching salvation to Colonial Williamsburg visitors – that not all followers of Jesus believe the same things.  Our conversations reminded me that knowing in my head that not all Christian values being publicly proclaimed are my Christian values, and having actual conversations with others about that difference are two very different things.

I think that is why today’s gospel lesson is so unnerving.  By chapter ten of Luke’s gospel, Jesus has already sent out the twelve on an evangelism mission.  Today, we pick up where Jesus commissions seventy to do the same.  In other words, this is when being followers of Jesus starts getting real.  Jesus does not sugarcoat the mission or even make an appealing pitch.  First Jesus tells them that the “harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.”  So basically, there is so much work to be done that the seventy are going to be overworked and overstressed.  Next Jesus tells them, “I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves.”  I imagine the seventy begin to panic with questions about who these wolves are and whether their own lives are at stake.  Then Jesus tells them, “Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals; and greet no one on the road,” explaining they are to be dependent upon the hospitality of others.  If they are not worried about working conditions already, this last bit of information might set them on edge.  Basically, Jesus sends them out with nothing – no safety net, no creature comforts, and no guarantees.  The seventy are terrified and starkly vulnerable; and we, thousands of years later, are either equally wary or totally dismissive.

I remember many years ago talking with a clergy colleague who did a lot of consulting on evangelism.  She tells a story of how she was studying with a professor whose specialty was church growth, and her assignment for her thesis was to go to a local coffee shop and start talking to people about their faith.  The first week she went to the coffee shop, but was too terrified to talk to anyone.  When her professor asked her how it went, she totally lied.  She made up some story about having good conversations with folks.  This charade continued for weeks.  Each week she would go to the shop, but be unable to take that first step.  And each week, she would lie to her professor about trying.  Finally, guilt won over, and she took a small step forward.  She made a little sign out of a folded piece of paper that read, “Talk to me about church, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”  She sat nervously, petrified of what would happen.  Eventually a woman came up to her and said, “I’d like to talk to you about church, but I’ll buy the cup of coffee for you.”  The following conversation was transformative for them both, and the professor, who knew all along she was lying, was proud to see her finally make progress.

Like there was good news for my colleague, so there is good news for the seventy.  Although Jesus does send the seventy out in a very vulnerable way, he does not send them alone.  Jesus sends them in pairs.  Having a partner offers all sorts of security in the midst of their vulnerability.  As David Lose says, “When one of them falters, the other can help.  When one is lost, the other can seek the way.  When one is discouraged, the other can hold faith for both for a while.  That is what the company of believers does – we hold on to each other, console each other, encourage and embolden each other, and even believe for each other.”[i]

Second, Jesus promises the seventy that the harvest is plentiful.  Jesus does not tell the seventy that they are responsible for preparing the harvest – that is God’s work.  Their work is simply to gather the harvest.[ii]  This distinction is pretty tremendous because Jesus is saying that people are ready for his message.  Jesus does not tell the seventy that they will need to go out and convince people of the message.  Instead, he tells them that there are people who will already be receptive and are simply waiting for the seventy to gather them.

Finally, we hear that after this scary commission – as lambs among wolves, of walking over snakes and scorpions, and of being utterly reliant on the hospitality of strangers – the seventy return with joy.  This thing Jesus asks them to do does not leave them bereft or exhausted or even discouraged.  The seventy return delighted in what has happened to them; not because they did something, but because of the work that God did through them.[iii]

This gospel lesson has good news for us today as well.  Despite our hang-ups about the commission, at the end of the day, this story is about our own call to share our experience of God’s grace with others – especially in these identity-challenging times.  When we think about this text in those terms, the language starts to shift.  When Jesus says we are to go out for the harvest, and that the harvest is plentiful, mostly Jesus is telling us that in our world today, people are eager for a word of Good News.  Even if they say they are not religious, or they do not normally talk about God, Jesus assures us today that there are many people who want to hear your story of gratitude about all that God has done in your life.  And when Jesus says the kingdom of God is coming near, he is not asking us to go to Market Square and grab a megaphone.  Mostly he is telling us to stop delaying and get out there.  The kingdom being near is his way of saying the time for sharing is now, even if your sandwich board is more like a folded piece of paper inviting others to coffee and conversation.  Finally, when Jesus tells us to cure people, we might consider the ways that our faith has been a salve for us.  Surely in your faith journey, at some point your relationship with God has gotten you through something tough and has returned you to wholeness.  The worlds needs the salve of the Good News now more than ever.

And just in case you are not sure about all of this, I want to give you a little encouragement.  I once gave some homework to one of my Vestries.  They were to go to a local gas station or shop and ask for directions to our church.  One of our Vestry members was shocked to find that the grocery clerk was able to give her perfect directions to our church.  The Vestry member found out that she lives in the neighborhood across the street, though she had never actually been inside our doors.  Another Vestry member was chatting with a different grocery clerk about the amount of blueberries she was purchasing.  The Vestry member explained that they were for Church.  The clerk proceeded to ask her which Church and even said she might come by one Sunday.  Even I had an encounter at the local gym.  I was stretching and a gentleman approached me who I had seen several times.  He said that he had seen me in a church t-shirt the last time I was at the gym and he wondered what my affiliation was with church.  In the conversation that followed, I learned that he had once attended our church and that he might consider coming back for a visit.

Though the language of this gospel might make us evangelism-wary, politically-exhausted Episcopalians nervous, the truth is Jesus is simply inviting us to share the Good News of God’s grace in our lives.  He promises that we do not have to do the work alone – we always have good partners here at Hickory Neck.  He promises that people are ready to hear our words – we all have a story of goodness about our faith journey here the world needs to hear.  And he promises that there will be joy – we will all find surprising delights in this journey of sharing.  Our invitation is to be a laborer in the plentiful harvest.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “The Greater Gift,” July 1, 2013, as found on http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=2617 on July 5, 2025.

[ii] David J. Lose, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 217.

[iii] Richard J. Shaffer, Jr., “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 218.

Sermon – Luke 6.17-26, Jeremiah 15.5-10, EP6, YC, February 16, 2025

05 Wednesday Mar 2025

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One of the things I love about the diversity of parish like Hickory Neck is that I often get to see the fullness of life in just a matter of days – or even hours.  Whether I am talking to a retiree dealing with new health issue, an adult dealing with rigors of parenting, or a kid dealing with the everyday challenges to their identity, the breath of life is ever before me.  But these last weeks have brought a new rawness that I have not seen in a while.  The philosophical arguments of an election year have birthed a new praxis that has everyone on edge – from deep divides about economic and ethical policies, to the questions of how we bound we are to care for our neighbors, to whole livelihoods and vocations coming into question.  We are swimming in a sea of defensiveness, of vulnerability, of righteous indignation – no matter where you find yourself on the political spectrum. 

Into that volatile atmosphere, we get some scripture today that cuts to the bone and leaves all of us standing vulnerably before God who is calling us to task.  The bite starts in Jesus’ Sermon on the Plain in Luke’s gospel.  The blessings alone should bring us up short:  blessed are you who are poor (not poor in Spirit like Matthew says, but the literal poor), who are hungry, who weep, who are reviled.  Jesus’ blessings should be enough to bring us up short about how we are treating the poor, hungry, and oppressed.  But Jesus does not stop there.  Then he begins with the “woes.”  The word “woe” in Greek is translated literally as “woe” – like the sound woe makes as woe comes out of your mouth – like a sigh of “oh man!”  As New Testament scholar Matt Skinner says, that sound is not necessarily a sign of disappointment, but as if Jesus is explaining, “Your vision is so small, so limited,” like Jesus is just giving a “deep sigh.”[i] And all of this blessing and woe would be hard enough in normal times, but the truth is, as many of our own find ourselves in economic insecurity – whether layoffs are coming, or social security may be cut, or loan payments may increase – we’re not even sure which category we are in anymore.

In looking at Luke’s Gospel, professor Mary Hinkle Shore explains, “The difficulty in…this text in a 21st-century American, mainline Christian context is that most of us who will hear this word are not inclined to trust it…  We aim to be rich, full, laughing, and respected.  Hearing the beatitudes from Jesus, we may be tempted to think, ‘I’ll take my chances with the status quo.’   This reaction may be why Jesus adds woes here after his blessings.  No matter how hopeful his words are, some in the crowd have placed their trust elsewhere, and the choices they have made are working for them.  For these, the woes are not curses, but warnings.  It is as if Jesus said, ‘Certain things are worthy of your trust, and other things are sure to betray it.’  When those objects of misplaced loyalty do betray your trust—Lord, have mercy.”[ii]

I think that is why the designers of the lectionary chose Jermiah today.  Jeremiah features blessings and curses too.  But these blessings and curses are almost harder because they are not about economic categories but about our very relationship with God.  Jeremiah pronounces in the text today, “Cursed are those who trust in mere mortals and make mere flesh their strength, whose hearts turn away from the Lord.  They shall be like a shrub in the desert, and shall not see when relief comes.  They shall live in the parched places of the wilderness, in an uninhabited salt land.”  In contrast, Jeremiah goes on to say, “Blessed are those who trust in the Lord, whose trust is the Lord.  They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream.”  All of holy scripture seems to be pushing us to deeply examine where we are putting our trust these days.

As many of you know I have been working the last few months on a charity event to raise money for two amazing non-profits in our community – a little event called Dancing with the Williamsburg Stars.  I thought the dance lessons would be fun, and as someone who has danced in the past, I thought I would have a somewhat easier go of things.  And I loved the idea of representing Hickory Neck in such a fun-loving way.  But here’s the funny thing about ballroom dancing – dancing with a partner requires a level of trust I never experienced when dancing in an ensemble.  A few weeks ago, we were practicing a move where I basically lean backwards, held up by my partner.  I thought I was doing a great job until we watched video replays.  I was barely dipping my head back at all.  My partner had to show me where his arms were placed to catch me and how little I was leaning into them.  Then just this week, we were working on another move were I basically fall forward with an extended arm behind me.  My partner explained that if I try to catch myself in the fall, I will make him fall.  I must trust that his hold is steady enough that I won’t slam face-forward to the ground.  And then, just to show me how I still wasn’t fully trusting him, he showed me how even in the turn out from that fall, I was muscling my arm to get up, instead of trusting him to pull me up. 

We are in intricate dance with God right now.  We are vulnerable, on stage, and not at all in control.  Our natural inclination is going to be to muscle our way through, to fight for some modicum of control, to determine what we want (to be rich, full, laughing, and respected) and trusting that that fullness is the ultimate end game.  Into that battle of wills, Jesus sighs a big “woe.”  As we stare out into the audience of that dance, I love what Debie Thomas sees in this text.  When thinking about her relationship with trust and God, Thomas confesses, “I might begin by admitting that Jesus is right.  I might come clean about the fact that most of the time, I am not desperate for God.  I am not keenly aware of God’s active, daily intervention in my life.  I am not on my knees with need, ache, sorrow, longing, gratitude, or love.  After all, why would I be?  I have plenty to eat.  I live in a comfortable home.  My family is safe.  I’m not in dire need of anything.  In short, there isn’t much in my circumstances that leads me to a sense of urgency about ultimate things.  I can go for days without talking to God…Most of the time, it just plain doesn’t occur to me that I would be lost — utterly and wholly lost — without the grace that sustains me.”

Thomas goes on to conclude, “I think what Jesus is saying in this Gospel is that I have something to learn about discipleship that my life circumstances will not teach me.  Something to grasp about the beauty, glory, and freedom of the Christian life that I will never grasp until God becomes my everything, my all, my starting place, and my ending place.”[iii]  In other words, until I let God take the lead, and actually follow, my dance through this life is going to echo the woe’s I have been sighing for the last several weeks.  Blessing comes in placing trust not in earthly things or earthly policies, but in the Lord.  Then, as Jeremiah reminds us, we will be like trees planted by water, roots going down by the stream, and leaves that stay green, not ceasing to bear fruit.  When we are so rooted, growing, and producing, then we can share our fruit, our shade, our refreshment.  God needs us so rooted so that we can stop sighing woes and start being blessings.  Amen.

[i] Matt Skinner, “Sermon Brainwave Podcast:  #1008: Sixth Sunday after Epiphany (C) – Feb. 16, 2025,” February 6, 2025, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/1008-sixth-sunday-after-epiphany-c-feb-16-2025 on February 12, 2025.

[ii] Mary Hinkle Shore, “Commentary on Luke 6:17-26,” February 16, 2025, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/sixth-sunday-after-epiphany-3/commentary-on-luke-617-26-3 on February 14, 2025.

[iii] Debie Thomas, “Leveled,” February 6, 2022, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/3319-leveled on February 14, 2025.

Sermon – Mark 6.14-29, P10, YB, July 14, 2024

17 Wednesday Jul 2024

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Today’s gospel lesson contains one of those iconic stories that is so vivid the story is seared in our minds.  In short, John the Baptist is decapitated by Herod Antipas who serves John’s head on a platter.  On the one hand, the brutal scene, depicted in art for centuries, is one we prefer to acknowledge and move on.  Certainly, this is a cautionary tale for the prophetic life.  John is now dead, and Jesus takes the reins.  But there is so much more to this story.  There is John’s faithfulness to making a way for the inbreaking of the kingdom – including the criticism of Herod Antipas’ marriage to his brother’s wife.  There is the king’s imprisonment of John mingled with his fascination with John, leaving him sitting at John’s feet enthralled by John’s teachings.  There is the vengeance of Herodias, the criticized wife of Antipas, who manipulates her daughter into asking for John’s head.  There is the proud Herod Antipas who makes ridiculous promises to his daughter and spinelessly agrees to kill John despite his knowing better – just to save face in front of his friends.  This is a story so woven in political and ethical intrigue that we do not like to look too closely for fear of seeing modern-day parallels.

But what is perhaps more intriguing about trying to avert our eyes from this brutal, shameful scene is that John’s beheading is not the first time scripture hands us a story like this.   “The story looks like a reprise of 2 Kings 16-21, the story of Queen Jezebel, the enemy of Elijah.  Just as Jezebel manipulated her husband, King Ahab, so Herodias manipulates Antipas.  Just as Elijah indicts Ahab and Jezebel, so John the Baptizer indicts Antipas and Herodias.”[i]  Furthermore, there are parallels to Esther’s story, whose husband also promises her anything she wants, up to half of his kingdom.  Esther uses her promise for good, able to thwart the villain Haman’s plan to kill off her fellow Jewish brothers and sisters.  Reflecting on the canon of scripture, we cannot avoid the ugly truth that scholar Amy-Jill Levine uncovers:  that “Death at the hands of corrupt authorities is the fate of John, and Jesus, and of countless others who have done the right thing, at the cost of their own lives.”[ii]

So, what do we do with this tale of terror laid at our feet today – a tale told time and time again in scripture?  I am intrigued by scholar Matt Skinner’s instruction look at the disciples.[iii]  In the very last line of our text today, Mark says, “When his disciples heard about [John the Baptizer’s murder], they came and took his body, and laid it in a tomb.”[iv]  If you remember, in the text last week, Jesus was shut down in his hometown and unable to perform miracles, instead sending out the twelve in pairs to cast out demons and to heal the sick.  For Jesus and his disciples, they got back to work.  And if we kept reading Mark’s gospel, in the verses that follow today’s story, we will hear how Jesus and disciples go on about their work, with Jesus miraculously feeding five thousand people.  John’s death is horrific, brought about by evil and sinfulness.  And yet, his disciples boldly come forward and bury his body.  Jesus sees John’s death and must know a similar fate awaits him.  And yet, he and his disciples get back to work, doing the good news of God in Christ.

Stories like John’s beheading are indeed graphic, sobering stories of what awaits those who live in the light of God.  And yet, time and again, Elijah, Esther, John the Baptizer, Jesus, and Jesus’ disciples keep going.  They keep doing the next good thing.  There is part of that model that feels unjust – surely, we should be fighting for justice, standing up to those who abuse power, who manipulate authority, whose self-centeredness and pride promote evil.  We revere plenty of saints who did just that kind of work.  And yet today, in the face of brutality, hopelessness, and injustice, the disciples of John and the disciples of Jesus just keep going.  They keep doing the work of the kingdom.

We are in an unprecedented time of political turmoil.  And in the coming weeks and months, given our diverse political backgrounds in this community, we will likely disagree about what our country can and should be doing.  But what brings us to this common table every week is a commitment to the life and ministry of Christ – the bringing about of a kingdom that is not of this world.  We will need each other – sometimes to figure out what the next best thing is, sometimes for the encouragement to do the next best thing, and always as a reminder that we disciples of Jesus need each other to do the next best thing.  We know from John, Jesus, Elijah, and others that doing the next best thing may end in personal suffering.  But we also know that continuing to do that next best thing helps bring us just a little bit closer to that kingdom here on earth.  We go together.  Amen.

[i] Amy-Jill Levine, The Gospel of Mark:  A Beginner’s Guide to the Good News (Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 2023), 38-39.

[ii] Levine, 42.

[iii] Matt Skinner, “Commentary on Mark 6:14-29,” July 14, 2024, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-15-2/commentary-on-mark-614-29-6 on July 12, 2024.

[iv] Mark 6.29.

On God, Scripture, and Politics…

02 Wednesday Sep 2020

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This week, our church will finish our summer 90-Day Bible Reading Challenge.  At the beginning of the summer, I wanted to find something we could do as a community.  I was also aware the Bible was being used as a prop and as a symbol for certain political opinions.  I figured if Hickory Neck is helping form faithful disciples who can participate fully in civic life, we should know what is in the Bible – all of it!  And so, we began a reading journey.

The days and nights were long.  Twelve pages a day does not sound like much, but for anyone who got behind (or who like me, is still behind), we learned that twelve daily pages of biblical text was no simple feat.  We journeyed through fun, familiar stories, we drudged through laws and genealogies, we read stories that were repeated in other books.  We asked questions, we struggled with cultural differences, and we found some surprises.  We realized the Hebrew Scriptures (Old Testament) comprises two-thirds of the Bible.  We fell in love with new books, laughed, and found modern parallels to life today.

This summer, I realized the gift of the 90-Day Bible Challenge was not just a reading journey – it was a journey into deeper relationship with God.  The Challenge did not allow us to dive deeply into our questions, particular stories, or even cultural issues.  Instead, the Challenge reminded us of who God is – a loving, forgiving, graceful God, whose commitment to covenantal relationship with God’s people is of utmost importance – even when we fail to be faithful over and over and over again.  In fact, watching the people God fail so many times helps us understand the tremendous depth of God’s love for us.  And seeing that overarching covenantal relationship from God’s perspective inspires in us a desire to reflect that abundant, forgiving, graceful love out in the world.

Thank you, Hickory Neck, for reminding me why the Bible is not a book that is to collect dust on the shelf or to only be consumed in small pieces during Sunday services, but a collection of books that speaks powerfully to this time – in ways that cannot be coopted by political agendas of the day, but whose witness of love does have powerful political consequences.  I am grateful for the reading journey that became a journey into deeper relationship with God and with neighbor.

On Discernment…

25 Wednesday Sep 2019

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This past weekend, our Diocese elected its next bishop.  Having never served in a diocese that was electing a bishop, I was not entirely sure what to expect.  I had heard stories of clergy politicking for particular candidates, trying to sway their colleagues to vote a particular way.  I knew we have a diversity of perspectives in our Diocese and coming to consensus may be difficult.  And although I had spoken to many clergy colleagues about their discernment for the best bishop, I did not know nearly as many laity and what their discernment had been like.  By the time we gathered for the election, I felt anxious, hoping we could be civil, but dreading what might be a contentious process.

Instead, I found something quite different.  Some of the difference may have been the result of careful crafting.  We were seated in an auditorium, with a long center row.  Try as one might, getting up and down to talk to others between votes was not exactly easy.  Instead, many of us were left to pray on our own or consult the limited people around us.  Likewise, once the polling was closed, we were required to wait for the candidates to be notified of the results before we were; once the results were announced though, the leadership immediately had us vote again.  We had little ability to process the results of one ballot with others before voting again.  Further, before each vote, our chaplain read a prayer from the Book of Common Prayer.  And finally, there was absolutely no internet or WiFi in the room, forcing us away from technology and into a real sense of presence in the room.

Perhaps it was the rigid structure that guided our behavior, making the election different than I expected.  But I also suspect those gathered last weekend consciously chose a different path.  Instead of dividing into camps behind one of the six candidates, our laity and clergy seemed to embrace the election as a matter of prayerful discernment, not premeditated politicking.  Limited by the confines of the room, you could sense the powerful prayers emanating from each delegate – desperately trying to discern the Holy Spirit’s will.  The pacing of the ballots did two things.  One, there was ample time to prayerfully consider the name one just submitted electronically, before knowing what everyone else had just done; and two, there was a mandate to keep moving, to keep faithfully and rapidly calling on God for answers.  Even our chaplain seemed to root us in tradition.  By using the BCP instead of extemporaneous prayer, she minimized her and our influence on one another – instead, calling us back to the book the is such a marker of our identity.

You may already know about the dramatic turn of events toward the end of our election.  I suspect the prayerful process of discernment in which we were engaged in that space was also shared among the candidates, helping them to faithfully discern what they should do too.  Having walked through that experience so prayerfully, I wonder if there is not something for us all to learn from about the hard decisions of everyday life.  Perhaps we too could stand to:  root ourselves in prayer, trust those around us to be praying too, create environments around our discernment where are weakness are less able to thrive, return again and again to the beautiful words of prayer book, make space for silence when you do not know all there is to know, and, perhaps most importantly, trust the Holy Spirit to do great things in spite of us.  If you are in discernment about something in your life, know that you have my prayers.  I would love to hear your stories of how the Spirit is moving in your life too!

On Being an American and a Christian…

03 Wednesday Jul 2019

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Last week, several of the interfaith clergy in our community published a litany for children in detention centers.  They requested clergy leaders read the litany in their homes of worship – not in a special vigil, but in the heart of where weekly prayer and formation take place.  The litany was beautiful, and spoke to much of my own sense of despair about our treatment of children.  But I found myself in a quandary.  You see, my parish is a diverse one.  We pride ourselves on being Christians of varying political opinions who respect one another enough to honor our political differences by kneeling as equals at the Lord’s table.  In order to maintain that sense of respect, I am very careful about how I talk about current events.  My goal is always to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ, with the charge that we should engage in politics with the Gospel always in the forefront.

But the issue of children in detention centers tugs at me at two levels.  On the one hand, this is very much an issue of politics – of how we manage the flow of immigrants and those seeking asylum into our country.  I know our parishioners are of a divided mind on this issue – as is most of the country.  The issue of our borders is vastly layered – were it not so, there would be clear, easy answers to very difficult questions.  In addition to being a political, economical, sociological issue, this is a spiritual one as well.  One’s sense of gratitude for our country’s blessings, one’s baptismal covenant to respect the dignity of every human being, and one’s understanding of Christ’s command to love God and love neighbor collide with the realities of limited resources, stretched budgets, and funding priorities.

On the other hand, these are children.  These are eight-year-olds caring for unrelated infants.  These are nursing teen mothers with no diapers or place to lay their heads.  These are toddlers who have no way to wash their hands or clean their soiled clothing.  I look at my own children, who have every comfort they could ever need, and when I imagine them soiled, hungry, deprived of sleep, and so afraid that the color has drained from their faces, my heart shatters.  I know this issue is truly complicated, and I know that philosophically we as a country need to decide how we will manage the treatment of our neighbors.  But when I am hesitant to pray for the welfare of children in detention because it is politically complicated, I realize I am failing to live the Gospel life.

I cannot say I will ever be able to pray the litany presented by my interfaith brothers and sisters.  Though it is beautiful, it is also politically motivated.  But what I can tell you is, as a pastor and baptized child of God, I am praying for those children, praying for their mothers and fathers, and praying for our own souls as we figure out how to reckon politics and human dignity – how to be Americans and Christians.  Given our country’s history, it would seem those two things fit together easily.  But to be a good American and to be a good Christian both take intentionality, discernment, and prayer.  May God bless us all as we seek to harmonize the two.

Sermon – 1 Samuel 17.1a, 4-11, 19-23, 32-49, P7, YB, June 24, 2018

27 Wednesday Jun 2018

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This summer, our Faith and Film series is all about superheroes.  I was never a huge fan of superheroes growing up.  I liked Superman and Batman nominally, sported a pair of Wonder Woman Underoos as a kid, but in general wasn’t really into superheroes and certainly not into comic books.  But a few years ago, I stumbled into the film, The Avengers, and found myself curious about the back stories of all these superheroes.  That began a deep dive into multiple films, many of which you can see this summer.  The first one, Captain America, is a classic story of the little guy overcoming.  Steve Rogers, a literal little guy with a bad case of asthma, wants to enlist in the US Army during World War II so badly, but his health and height disqualify him.  Impressed by his tenacity, Steve gets recruited into an experimental program to be medically turned into a Super Soldier.  There begins his journey of the little man taking on the big man of Nazi Germany.

Most of us enjoy a good story of the little man overcoming.  That’s why the story of David and Goliath is so epic in our memory.  This little kid, totally untrained, completely unarmed (with the exception of some rocks and a sling), and certainly the underdog to the 9 feet 6 inches[i] of Goliath, David is the prototypical little man.  And yet, with the entire Philistine army staring them down, with a giant taunting them for forty days, and with the ominous threat of defeat, no one else is willing to step forward.  The giant, covered in over 126 pounds of armor, and holding huge weapons like the spear whose iron head weighs fifteen pounds[ii], utilizes his own brand of psychological warfare.[iii]  In the end, that dry river bed between the two armies is not just a valley of separation, but a “chasm of fear.”[iv]  And yet, somehow, the teenage shepherd boy steps forward to fight – the little man, the underdog, makes his move.

But unlike a typical underdog, David does not need science, or a lucky break, or some trick.  What David needs has nothing to do with him.  Instead, what he needs is God.  No one in the Israeli camp has mentioned God at this point in the story.  Saul has tried to overcome the chasm of fear with the promise of riches and even his own daughter’s hand in marriage.  And yet, the entire army of Israel can only see how mismatched they would be against the ultimate warrior.  But David sees things differently.  Having fought lions and bears to save his sheep, David knows he can fight Goliath too.  But not because he is a mighty warrior – but because Yahweh delivered David then too.  Even Saul, God’s formerly appointed king, has forgotten God.  But not David.  David is first to speak Yahweh’s name in almost forty verses of text.[v]  When David faces Goliath, he invokes God’s name, recalling with the name the entire memory of Yahweh’s deliverances of Israel in the past.  David knows that he does not need the conventions of human warfare, but only the God of Israel.[vi]

This week, I have been thinking what a ridiculous sermon that is:  all we need is God.  If all we needed was God, we wouldn’t be in such a political mess, totally unable to compromise, hear each other, and work for the common good.  If all we needed was God, that cancer diagnosis, that lost job, that lost pregnancy, or that lost relationship would not have felt so devastating.  If all we needed was God, we would have figured out a way to both secure our borders and humanely treat those fleeing injustice and seeking asylum.  In saying all we need is God, we sound like a bunch of hippies singing the great Beatles song, “All You Need is Love.”  As modern pragmatists, we know better – we know letting go and letting God is what you say – but not what you do.

So how do we turn ourselves from being skeptics, cynics, and dispassionates to seeing all we need is God?  Well, first we have to define a few things.  What is happening in David’s story should not be a surprise.  If you remember a few weeks ago, when the people broke their longstanding covenant with God, asking for a king like the other nations, God gave them Saul.  And Saul was just that – like the other nations, fighting battles with weapons of other nations.  So when David offers to fight, Saul does what a conventional leader would do – arm David with the conventions of war.  He tries to weigh down David with his armor, hoping against hope that there might be a modicum of protection against the Philistine.  Saul is a ruler like the other nations have.  The contrast between Saul and David then becomes a contrast between trusting conventional means and the means of God.[vii]  Saul has become ruled by fear instead of faith.

The way we pull ourselves out of being skeptical, cynical, or dispassionate is not by rallying behind the idea that we are the little man – the underdog David or Captain America, just waiting to be empowered by God.  The way we put to bed our skepticism, cynical thoughts, or dispassionate feelings about all the things in life overwhelming us is to recall the faithfulness of God.  When David says, “All you need is love,” he does not mean all you need is people giving hugs to one another.  What he means is, all you need is to remember the faithfulness of God – especially when we are not faithful at all!  In his speeches to Saul and Goliath, David is recalling the salvation narrative – the stories of God’s faithfulness for generations.  His trust is actually pretty bold too, considering the current king Saul’s appointment represents the breaking of covenant between God and the people.  But David trusts even a broken covenant can be overcome.  David claims his identity as a child of God and knows his identity is all he needs to fight the worst this world has to offer.

This past week, as politics and religion got dragged together in front of camera crews, I slowly began to realize that we are in a David moment.  We can keep doing what we have been doing – keeping our faith out of politics, putting politics in a box that we especially do not open on Sundays, or we can start realizing that we can never put our faith in a box.  The bond that we have as Episcopalians and especially within the hugely politically diverse community that is Hickory Neck is extremely fragile.  Our fragility is why I rarely talk about politics among the community.  I value our ability to come to the Eucharistic Table in spite of our difference over just about anything else.  But that high value on the common table can come at a cost – the cost is never talking about what being a people of God means – what being a disciple of Christ and being an American means.  In order to protect that common table, I have put on 126 pounds of brass armor, and taken up a spear whose head weighs fifteen pounds.  Instead, today David invites us to shed the ill-fitting armor, and just walk in the clothes God gave us (and maybe a few stones).

I am not saying once we shed man-made armor we will suddenly know what immigration policies are the best.  But what I am saying is until we take on God’s armor, until we recall all those times when God has delivered us, when God has turned chasms of fear into paths of faithfulness, until we remember that we have a distinct identity as children of God and disciples of Christ, we will not be able to take on the Goliath issues of our day.  Stripping down to David-like clothing, we are able sit down comfortably, to see each other more honestly, to be in relationship more authentically, to gather at this table – not just trying to avoid banging our heavy armor into each other, barely able to make eye contact because of our heavy helmets, but actually brushing the skin of elbows with one another, looking deeply into the eyes of the chalice bearer serving you Christ’s blood, and offering the hand of Christian friendship as we rise from the altar rail together.  We can do all those things because God is faithful.  We can do all those things because God has delivered us before.  We can do all those things because we are Christ’s disciples – and that is what we do through God.  We may be underdogs, and we may be vulnerable in a world that is happy to deploy psychological warfare, but we are united and empowered by the love of God.  Our invitation is to step trustingly, boldly, confidently into that love.  Amen.

[i] William P. Brown, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays for Year B, Batch 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 4.

[ii] Richard F. Ward, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays for Year B, Batch 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 4.

[iii] Walter Brueggemann, Interpretation:  A Biblical Commentary for Teaching and Preach, First and Second Samuel (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990), 131.

[iv] Ward, 2.

[v] Brueggemann, 130.

[vi] Brueggemann, 132.

[vii] Brueggemann, 131.

On Politics, Priests, and Prayer…

20 Wednesday Jun 2018

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One of the hardest parts of being a priest is creating a community in which we can talk about the Gospel of Jesus Christ, hold widely varying political opinions, and yet still gather at the Eucharistic Table – elbow to elbow, as the imperfect, but beloved body of Christ, determined to stay in community.  I say that the work is difficult because I have seen how fragile this work really can be.  During my priestly formation at seminary, congregations and Dioceses were walking away from that common table over the issue of human sexuality.  Although I was proud of what the Episcopal Church did at the time, I also deeply mourned the loss of diversity at the Table – the creation of a more homogenous Church than a Church who was devoted to staying in the tension while honoring the Gospel.

Because of my high value of the uniting force of the Eucharistic Table, my priesthood has taken a slightly different shape than I might have imagined in my early twenties.  If you had asked me then about the primary role of the priest, I might have argued the role of prophet – decrying injustice and leading the people of faith to a more just world.  But as I aged, and as I served diverse parishes, I began to see the role of prophet is one of many roles, one that needs to be used judiciously so as not to alienate parishioners and create an exclusive community of like-minded people.  And so, my priesthood has been marked with great caution around politics.  While many of my colleagues will beat the drum for justice, I find myself trying to carefully walk with my diverse congregations as we discern together how to interpret politics in light of the Gospel – not in light of Democrats or Republicans, but in light of the witness of Jesus Christ.  That doesn’t mean I don’t have strong political opinions; it just means that I try to take focus off the politician or political issue of the moment and try to create disciples who can see and follow Christ.

That being said, this past week, the issue of what is happening to families seeking asylum on our southern border, and the separation of children from parents as a punitive, purportedly deterring action has shifted my normal practice – not because I changed my mind about politics and the Church, but because two agents of our government utilized Holy Scripture to justify those actions.  Here’s the thing:  if this were just another issue where we are divided about policy, where we had a debate about the extents to which we value national security over other values, I would have happily encouraged our parishioners to be faithful Christians in dialogue.  But when Attorney General Jeff Sessions invoked Holy Scripture to justify separating children from parents, he stepped into my area of authority, leaving me no other option but to speak.

Now I could layout a Biblical defense against the small portion of Romans 13 that Attorney General Sessions quoted, giving you the context of the chapter, giving you the verses immediately following what he quoted as a counter to his argument.  I could quote to you chapter and verse for countless other scripture lessons that tell us to love one another, respect the dignity of other human beings, care for the outcast and alien, tend the poor, and honor children.  I could also tell you about how that same bit of scripture was used to justify slavery, Nazis, or apartheid in South Africa.  But the problem with a scripture quoting war is that no one wins.  What is more important is what we know of the canon of Scripture:  that our God is a God of love, that Jesus walked the earth showing us how to be agents of love, healing, and grace, and that the Holy Spirit works through us today to keep spreading that love.

Knowing what I know about the Good News of God in Christ, in my baptismal identity as one who seeks and serves Christ in all persons, respecting the dignity of every human being, I cannot stand idly by or be silent when the Holy Scriptures of Christians are being used to justify political actions that are antithetical to our Christian identity.  As a priest, I invite you this week, especially when a governmental leader is invoking our faith, to reflect on how the Gospel of Christ is informing your view on this issue.  Not as a Republican and not as a Democrat, but as a follower of Christ.  Fortunately, prominent politicians on both sides of the aisle seem to be coming to agreement on this issue – a rarity these days – but also an example to Episcopalians who hold a high view of coming to the Eucharistic Table across our differences.  I am not saying we need to agree on this – in fact, I suspect we will not.  What I am asking is that you live into your identity as a disciple of Christ, as an agent of love, and then respond in conversation, in political advocacy, and in worship as one holding in tension both our American and Christian identities.  I support you in this difficult, hard work.  I love you as you struggle.  I welcome you to the Eucharistic Table.

On Searching for Hope…

06 Wednesday Jun 2018

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One of my favorite podcasts has become “Stayed Tuned with Preet,” a podcast hosted by Preet Bharara, former U.S. Attorney, that addresses issues of justice and fairness.  The topics vary pretty widely – from law enforcement, to the psychology of leadership, to the opioid crisis, to gun control, to the #metoo movement.  What I appreciate about his podcast is he breaks down a lot of the complicated legal matters in the news into terms I can understand, he shares his passion for justice, and he tries to frame a current specific issue in the broader context of justice in society.  Admittedly, there are times when I listen to Preet’s podcast and begin to wonder if there is any hope.  But what Preet always does at the end of his podcast is tell a story of hope – sometimes entirely unrelated to the current episode, but always life-giving.

What Preet does is what I try to do in preaching.  I am always looking for the problem in the scriptural text assigned for the day (and the related problem in our modern lives), and the hope in the text (and the related hope in our everyday lives).  Sometimes finding the hope is harder than others.  This Sunday, we get the text from I Samuel where the people finally ask God for a king.  That may not sound like an unreasonable request, but you have to remember that God just spent a generation’s lifetime liberating the people from an overlord – from Pharaoh.  And despite God’s faithfulness, and the warning God’s prophet gives them about what life will be like under a king (spoiler alert:  it’s not good!), the people stubbornly demand a king anyway.  In Samuel’s warning, he says, “And in that day you will cry out because of your king, whom you have chosen for yourselves; but the Lord will not answer you in that day.”  As I have been praying on this text this week, I have been wondering where the hope is.

Last night, I sat in on a conversation on racial reconciliation, and we wondered the same thing too.  As we look at the world around us, and see the deep divisions among us (on every issue!), and see the ongoing prejudice among us, many of us found ourselves wondering where the hope is.  We spent time talking openly and vulnerably about where our hope is being dashed and the moments that seem irredeemable in life.  But after some time, our conversation shifted – from the moments that were irredeemable to the ones that were redemptive.  We began to talk about how and where we find hope.  And each bit of hope shared brought more hope into the room.  Though we all come from different backgrounds, we seemed to conclude the night convinced that God, through the instrument of the Church, was going to be the source of hopeful change in the world.

I am wondering where you are finding hope today.  Whatever is going on your life, whatever is dragging you down today, what are the glimmers of hope that are sustaining you?  I could preach to you about how God is always our source of “big picture” hope, but I think more often God provides us with little glimmers of hope that leads us on the path to that big picture hope.  Those glimmers are our food for the daily walk with Christ that nourish our souls and keep us out of the dark and searching for the light.  If you have not found the hope today, keep looking.  And if you get to the close of the day and are still not convinced, reach out for support.  You are not alone.

On Politics at the Table…

30 Wednesday May 2018

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Last week I talked about Presiding Bishop Michael Curry’s sermon at the Royal Wedding.  His sermon on the transformative power of love created shock waves – one, because most people weren’t expecting such a powerful sermon on a royal wedding day; but two, because his words resonated so deeply with people.  He created a spark of hope, a sense of clarity of purpose, and a renewed passion for justice and compassion.   The message was not new:  he simply preached the gospel of Jesus, a two-thousand-year old message.  And yet, the gospel, like it does for every generation, spoke a word of truth.

But after appearances on the Today Show, Good Morning America, The View, and countless other programs, it would be easy to soften Bishop Curry’s message, to say, “Yes!  Love is the answer!” and walk away with a warm fuzzy feeling.  The trouble is, Bishop Curry’s sermon was not just about the easy parts of love.  Bishop Curry preached about the action of love.  If we find the message of love compelling, then we have to start living lives of love.  And that is where his powerful message starts getting uncomfortable.

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Less than a week after his historic sermon, Bishop Curry joined prominent faith leaders from all over the country in a movement called, “Reclaiming Jesus.”  A video explaining the movement can be found here.  Now if you have spent any time with me, you know that I am very hesitant to talk politics in the pulpit or even publicly.  I have always served in churches that were a wonderfully complicated mixture of political opinions.  The Eucharistic Table is the thing that brings us together, kneeling before God, shoulder to shoulder with fellow church members whose bumper stickers promote the exact opposite opinion of our own.

But just because I do not believe Jesus was a Democrat or a Republican, does not mean that I do no think Jesus and the Gospel are not political.  In fact, Jesus’ very life was ended because he was too “political” – because his message of love made people uncomfortable.  That is what the Reclaiming Jesus movement is about – reminding us that the Church still has a message of love – and that message is not passive or polite but is quite active and alarming.

This week, I am taking the warm, encouraging feelings I had from Bishop Curry’s sermon and listening once again to his words about what love in the world means.  I invite you to join me.  Join me in hearing what in the Reclaiming Jesus message makes you uncomfortable.  Join me in pondering how both political parties get it a little bit wrong and a little bit right.  Join me in remembering that Jesus’ message of love is not the same as an invitation to “avoid politics.”  The question is how we can do politics better.  How can we be an example of what it means to don different bumper stickers and work together for justice, peace, and love?  What Bishop Curry preached at the Royal Wedding sounded beautiful – just like Jesus’ own words.  But what Bishop Curry and Jesus called for was not just beautiful.  It is hard, confusing, challenging work – and even harder to do when we disagree so deeply.  Thank God for the Eucharistic Table!  It is the only promise to me that we can do this – that we can be political agents of love together.  I hope you will join me!

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