Tag Archives: quiet

On the Myth and Magic of Advent…

10 Wednesday Dec 2025

Posted by in reflection

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Photo credit: https://christchurchofaustin.org/announcement2/

As a pastor, I am constantly preaching about savoring the quiet anticipation of Advent.  We even offer Advent Lessons and Carols, which has a more contemplative note than its celebratory sibling, Christmas Lessons and Carols.  But in everyday life, I am just as vulnerable as anyone else to the secular chaos in which Advent lives.  I find myself running kids around to obligations and performances, juggling calendar conflicts with all the special holiday offerings, and even add commitments myself because I want to maintain annual traditions.  Nothing about life outside of church feels quiet and centered.

I think is why I was so grateful for the gift of a minimally scheduled Saturday this past weekend.  Both professionally and personally the calendar was mostly clear – I even reserved the TV for watching a basketball game which I rarely can do.  As my daughter and I settled in, she proposed doing a puzzle together – an activity we always say we’ll do but somehow never get around to doing.  And so evolved an afternoon of sports watching, puzzle assembling, and the kind of conversation that can only happen when you make unstructured space for it.  When I got to close of the day, I realized that while a part of me felt guilty for not being particularly “productive” (no catching up on work, no doing household chores, no addressing Christmas cards), I marveled at how spiritually and emotionally productive the day felt with my daughter.

I know finding even moments of quiet anticipation in Advent can feel impossible these days.  There are so many things vying for our attention – many of them quite good and important.  But I wonder if you might be able to carve out some unscheduled time in these weeks left of Advent.  They may have to be in the car on your way to something, or while walking on the treadmill, or saying goodnight to the children.  Maybe it means making your way to church even if you have other invitations. Whenever you can find that sacred space, I promise the life and love of Christ is waiting for you in the stillness.  God is already there.  You are invited to say hello.

Sermon – John 21.1-19, E3, YC, May 4, 2025

18 Wednesday Jun 2025

Posted by in Sermons

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

Our gospel lesson today utilizes two overlapping modes of storytelling.  The primary mode has a lot of movement and action.  We have disciples fishing, a man shouting about where to put nets, Peter leaping out of a boat to swim ashore, breakfast sizzling in a pan over a crackling fire, and Peter and Jesus having this strangely repetitive conversation.  This mode of the text is a little discombobulating.  There is so much happening that by the time we get to Jesus telling Peter to feed his lambs, we forget the part of the story about Peter getting dressed to jump into water.  The frenetic nature of the text leaves us with more questions than answers:  Why is Peter fishing at a time like this?  Why is he naked?  Why do the disciples not recognize Jesus at first?  Why is Jesus cooking breakfast?  Why does Jesus repeat his question to Peter three times?

In some ways, the frenetic nature of storytelling reflects the frenetic nature of the disciples.  Before they met Jesus, they had all settled into certain identities in their lives – many of them were fishermen, many of them had families with whom they worked, and all of them had homes where they resided.  Their lives were simple and predictable.  Then this guy comes into their lives and their identity and purpose get totally out of balance.  They have no consistent daily routine, they leave behind everything they know, this man they are following is compelling but also completely confusing, and they are being asked to totally change their lives.  And just when they find a rhythm of managing their unpredictable lives with Jesus, everything turns over on its head again, and they lose everything – their leader, their purpose, and their identity.  So, in an effort to find something to hang on to, the disciples become punchy with action.

We all do this.  My family has learned that something is going on with mom when they find me intently scrubbing something in the house.  I may not be able to solve some problem at work, or I might not be able to fix some relationship that needs mending, but I can have a clean floor.  I might not have responded to the forty-eight emails in my inbox and the twenty-nine items on my to-do list, but my desk will be cleared of all clutter and looking freshly dusted.  My frenetic coping mechanism is cleaning, but we all have some frenetic coping behavior.  Some of us need to find a shopping center or online store to clear our minds of all the stuff going on inside of us.  Somehow finding the perfect dress or newest gadget takes away our other anxieties.  Others get out in the garden and dig our way to peace of mind.  Something about a freshly weeded garden makes us feel like something was accomplished, even if the rest of us is in shambles.  Still others hit the gym.  There is nothing like sweating away anxieties or feeling the burn to take away the other feelings going on inside of us.[i]

What is interesting about all the activity and noise found in our gospel lesson is that there is also a mode of storytelling present that is completely quiet.  We start with the disciples silently staring at that Sea of Tiberias.  There is nothing left to say among them, because they have talked this whole resurrection thing to exhaustion.  Then we find the disciples on the boat fishing in the middle of the night, silently absorbed in the mechanics of navigating waters and fishing nets.  Despite the splashing of Peter to swim to Jesus, once they all gather on the beach, no one says a word.  The air is only filled with the quiet lapping of water and the sizzling of a pan over a fire.  The disciples have questions, but no one asks them.  Even the conversation between Jesus and Peter has a quiet, sober tone.

I think this quiet space is where the text is really pointing.  The disciples, who have irritated Jesus to no end, finally fall silent.  No more asking about who shall be first, and nor more asking what Jesus means or who he is.  No more crazy proposals like building booths for Moses, Elijah, and Jesus, and no more insisting that Jesus wash all of their bodies, not just their feet.  No more insisting that they would never betray Jesus.  There is nothing left to say.  And so, they stare quietly, they fish in silence, and they answer in hushed, humble voices.

This mode is the most important because this mode marks a shift.  The disciples stop trying to muscle their way into discipleship, and they finally learn to let Jesus take the lead.  They have become so physically, mentally, and spiritually exhausted that they stop trying to control everything, and they simply wait for Jesus to tell them what to do.  This is a critical moment in the disciples’ journey with Christ.

If you didn’t know before this past winter, you certainly know by now that one of my loves is dance.  I grew up doing all sorts of dancing:  ballet, jazz, tap, hip hop.  But the most difficult form of dancing I stumbled into was formal partnered dancing – the fox trot, waltz, cha-cha.  In the other forms of dancing, I am responsible for myself, learning the steps, and making sure I know the rhythm so that the dance looks beautiful.  But in partnered dance, especially as the woman, you have to learn how to follow.  As someone with pretty good rhythm and memory for steps, you have no idea how incredibly frustrating following a man who does not know what he is doing can be.  The tendency is to want to use your arms or legs to start guiding the man, or even to whisper the directions.  But the role of the woman in partnered dancing is to follow where the man leads – quite a challenge for many of us who consider ourselves liberated women!  But what I also find in partnered dancing is that when you have a really good partner, he can make you feel like the most graceful, beautiful woman on the dance floor.  In fact, you stop worrying about the steps and the count, and you start moving with fluidity and ease.  The price for such a feeling is total surrender and trust.  But the payoff is that you find a joy so strong that you will hunt down that partner and beg them to save you a dance.

This is the kind of submission the disciples finally master on that beach.  No more trying to muscle Jesus into the way they want him to behave.  No more trying to talk their way through their relationship with him.  They surrender all they have to him, longing for the clarity that only he can give them.  And when they finally do that, in the quiet of that morning, they finally hear the words of purpose for their lives.  “Follow me,” Jesus says.  They are the same words Jesus said to them at the beginning of their relationship with him; he has already called them into discipleship.[ii]  But now they finally hear.  And now they can finally respond with their whole being.  Jesus’ words are as clear as they can be.  Jesus’ words give their life meaning.  And their spirit is finally in the place where they can hear and respond.  They are truly and thoroughly ready to follow him – they are ready and able to be disciples.

This is what Jesus invites us to do as well.  This morning, in this sacred place, Jesus invites us to shove those piles off the desks of our minds, to rip out the weeds blocking our hearts, and to drop our armfuls of distractions and to listen to his simple words for us.  The words are there waiting.  The direction is clear.  The peace and comfort of clarity and purpose are ours for the taking and the world needs our discipleship now more than ever.  So, when you come to this table for the Eucharistic feast, quietly listening for Jesus’ words for you, you will be able to hear those words, “Follow me,” and do just that when you walk out those church doors.  Amen.

[i] Gary D. Jones, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 420.

[ii] Karoline Lewis, Sermon Brainwave:  #1021: Third Sunday of Easter – May 4, 2025, April 24, 2025 as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/1021-third-sunday-of-easter-may-4-2025 on May 1, 2025.

Sermon – Mark 13.24-37, A1, YB, December 3, 2023

06 Wednesday Dec 2023

Posted by in Sermons

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I live a very loud life these days.  Whether it’s the morning hustle to get everyone to school, or the evening jockeying for showers, rushed dinners, or one last FaceTime with friends, my house can be a constant source of shh-ing, pleading for less noise, or reminders to close doors to contain volume.  That is not to say that all the noise in our home is unpleasant – there is also the noise of laughter, dance parties, and storytelling.  But if you are looking to set up a yoga mat or trying to meditate, my house is not the place I would necessarily recommend. 

I sometimes blame all the noise in my life on my beloved children.  But the truth is I am as much a cause of the noise as they are.  I am admittedly loud myself – whether barking instructions around the house, singing aloud, or simply talking my husband’s ear off.  But I am not just loud in the house – I am also loud inside my head.  My mind is in constant conversation:  my to-do list, searching for ideas for a blog post, worrying about a sick friend or parishioner, trying to make plans for the weekend, processing a troublesome conversation, or wallowing in guilt for missed exercise or time in prayer.  As loud as my outside world is, my inside world is probably much worse.  Add Christmastime to the mix, and the loudness of my life reaches levels that can be incapacitating.

That is why I love Advent so much.  In the lead-up to Christmas, the outside world bombards us with noise:   Christmas songs on the radio, shopping to complete, parties to attend, gifts to wrap, houses to decorate, gatherings to host, cards to send, and loud relatives or friends to entertain.  In contrast, the Church at this time asks us to do the exact opposite:  slow down, take a breath, light some candles, breathe in the fresh greenery, sing quiet, meditative songs, and worship in the soothing blue of anticipation.  When the outside world is telling us, “Do more, buy more, run more, fuss more, stress more,” the Church says, “Do less, worry less, run less, talk less, be busy less.”  The contrast between the two worlds is like night and day, and at a time of high stress, Advent becomes the Church’s greatest gift to us. 

Into this contrast, we hear words from Mark’s gospel today.  The text says, “Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.  It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch.  Therefore, keep awake– for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly.  And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”  Many of us hear this text today with a sense of anxiety – of needing to keep anxious watch for the Lord.  We might imagine the many apocalyptic movies, predictions, and preachers we have witnessed over the years and wonder whether Jesus really does want us to be more alarmed.  Certainly the outside world would have us also be alert and anxious for the coming Christmas. 

But I think the Church is saying something else today.  Instead of an anxious alarm, our gospel lesson sounds like a gentle reminder to me.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the quiet beauty of Advent.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the gift of time set apart in these four weeks.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the lead in to the manger, the dramatic retelling of why the manger is so important, and the grounding for this entire season.[i]  Jesus’ words for us to “keep awake,” are not meant to be one more anxiety to pile on top of a mound of concerns.  Jesus’ words for us to “keep awake,” are meant to help us focus on what is really important. 

So, make a commitment to come to church each Sunday in Advent and spend those Sundays in quiet worship with your church community.  Grab an Advent calendar or devotional to help you more intentionally mark the days leading up to the manger.  Or set up that Advent wreath at home, so that you might bring the quiet candlelight of prayer and meditation to your home.  Whatever the discipline, choose something this Advent that will help you maintain the quiet peace you find here at Church and carry that quiet peace throughout your weeks leading up to Christmas.  My guess is that noise of life will slowly fade into a quiet hum in the background – which is right where it should be.  Amen. 

[i] Lillian Daniel, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 22.

On Solitude, Gratitude, and Advent…

01 Wednesday Dec 2021

Posted by in reflection

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

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

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

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

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

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

Sermon – Job 14.1-14, HS, YB, April 3, 2021

28 Wednesday Apr 2021

Posted by in Sermons

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Up until last year, I had not remembered that there was a liturgy in our Prayer Book for Holy Saturday.  I had always thought it was Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Vigil on Saturday night (which is basically just Easter), and then Easter Sunday.  But when the pandemic hit last year, we realized doing a virtual Easter Vigil just would not work – there is so much reading, singing, doing things by candlelight, and the drama of being huddled together that we had to let the Liturgy wait until we could gather again.  So instead, we turned to this tiny liturgy, whose entire content is listed on one page of the Book of Prayer Book.

Still in a pandemic a year later, I found myself curious about this liturgy we are entering once again.  The truth is, the earliest accounts of Holy Week observances had no liturgies for Holy Saturday, with the exception of private use of the daily office.[i]  Instead, this day has simply been known as the “quietest day of the Christian year.”[ii]  That the church has not always gathered on Holy Saturday and that Christians might see this day as a day of quiet makes a lot of sense.  The Church says so much this week – from our waving of palms last Sunday, to our gathering around the upper room table to wash feet and share bread, to devastating betrayals of Jesus, to the vivid walk toward the cross, to the finality of the closed tomb.  We almost need a day of quiet to let the drama sink in and wrap our heads around what this week means.

But I suspect if your life is anything like mine or most Americans, we are not sitting quietly in our homes from 3:00 pm on Friday until Easter morning.  Instead, we are filling the time with preparations – tending to all the things we did not do while we were attending church this week:  dying eggs, entertaining children, stuffing Easter baskets, prepping Easter day meals, cleaning the house, or just having fun.  There is nothing inherently wrong about those things, but this year, of all years, I am grateful for a Holy Saturday liturgy.  With this last year of suffering through a pandemic and reflecting on our broken humanity’s inability to eliminate racism or mend civil discourse, even with the rise of vaccines, I find our country is in a Holy Saturday kind of time.  We have been through a tumultuous experience and are not yet healed. 

That is why I like having Job as a companion today.  Job’s words are stark.  As Job sits in the ashes of his sorrows, having lost his children, his livelihood, and his support system, he describes the brutality of life.  He talks about how trees have hope – even when cut down, they can sprout again, and new life can be born out of death.  But not so with humans, he argues.  No, when their bodies lay in the ground, there is nothing but death.  Job captures the essence of this day.  There is a similar finality at the door of Jesus’ tomb this day.  All the hopes and dreams, all the joys and blessings, all the promises of new life are sealed away in a tomb.  And after such a violent death and the threat for those who followed Jesus, there is no wonder why the Church has considered this a quiet day.  Unlike the quiet waiting of Advent, when the church is brimming with expectation and bustling around in preparation for Christ’s birth, today is a day of silence devoid of restorative peacefulness.  As one scholar says, “The waiting of Advent is like having warm bread in the oven.  By contrast, the air of Holy Saturday smells more like stale smoke, as though something essential was burned the day before.”[iii]  As our lives are not yet pandemic free, and as threats of spikes in cases emerge, we know that kind of waiting all too well.

And yet, in the very last verse of today’s reading, the despondent Job says something totally counter to everything else he has said.  “If mortals die, will they live again?” Job asks.  For someone who has boldly proclaimed the finality of human death, his question is a question that only a person of faith can ask – a question that reveals the tiniest bit of hope still left in Job.  Job communicates in this question a truth we people of faith hold dear:  no matter how bad the suffering, no matter how prevalent the experience of dread and doom, no matter how deep the failures of humanity seem to run, there is always hope.  The disciples and community surrounding Jesus Christ do not know that hope yet.  But as followers of Christ 2000 years later, we now stake our entire identity on the risen savior. 

So yes, receive the gift of stale smoke this day.  Sit in ashes with Job and mourn all in your life that feels dead.  Take time in this busyness of life for some uneasy silence.  Name all those who have been lost due to disease and violence.  But keep asking the questions.  Hold on to the hope, however infinitesimally small that God can indeed redeem us – us as individuals, us as country, us as Church.  Holding the two in tension is difficult – we want to rush to Easter and forget all that has happened.  But letting the power of all that has happened speak to us today will allow us to know the astounding power of resurrection much more deeply tomorrow.  Job, Jesus, and this faith community here will pull up a chair and sit with you by the ashes until we can reap with tears of joy tomorrow.  Amen.

[i] William Joseph Danaher, Jr., “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 310.

[ii] Christina Braudaway-Bauman, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 312.

[iii] Braudaway-Bauman, 312

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

19 Wednesday Aug 2020

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sermon – 1 Kings 19.9-18, P14, YA, August 9, 2020

19 Wednesday Aug 2020

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

Today’s sermon is offered as the height of irony.  The art of preaching is based on the spoken word.  Fortunately for you, we are Episcopalians, so our sermons are usually under fifteen minutes – and in the times of livestreaming, we shorten them down to less than ten.  In other traditions, the spoken word of the sermon can last thirty minutes to an hour.  In fact, I used to worship at a church where scheduling lunches after worship was nearly impossible because depending on how much the preacher got going, lunch could be a noon, at one, or even approaching two in the afternoon.

I say this is the height of irony because our scripture lessons today seem to point to one instruction:  to stop talking.  Poor Elijah has sunken into a funk.  He shuts down the prophets of Baal in a dramatic, showy display of confidence and trust in God.  But as soon as Queen Jezebel threatens to retaliate by taking Elijah’s life, Elijah flees and becomes so despondent in the wilderness, he would rather the Lord take his life.  Though God shows infinite compassion, tending to Elijah’s needs for food and shelter, when Elijah dejectedly goes all the way to Mt. Sinai, God finally asks a loaded question, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”  Elijah’s response is to start talking – a lot.  He goes on and on, justifying what a great prophet and servant he has been, how he has defended God’s honor, and punished sinners.  Then he complains about how despite his valiant work, his life is threatened, and he is the only one left defending God.

As if to demonstrate how Elijah needs to stop talking and start listening, God makes a dramatic point.  A great wind passes by Elijah’s cave, then an earthquake, and even a fire.  But not until there is the sound of sheer silence does God appear.  Once again, God, in the sound of sheer silence asks, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”  Now this is the point at which Elijah should have gotten the hint:  answers are not in the noise of wind, earthquakes, and fire – not even in endless talking.  Answers are found in the profound silence of God.  But Elijah does not get the hint, and proceeds to answer God with the exact same verbose explanation.

With the exception of those who live in religious orders, most of us struggle with the sheer silence of God.  Our prayers to God are full of words – petitions for loved ones, diatribes of lament over our fractured political state, or words of anger at God when we feel abandoned, anxious, or overwhelmed.  Even our own liturgical tradition is rooted in words.  We are quite good at talking to God.  Our challenge is not in finding words; our challenge in relationship with God is in not using words – in making room for the sound of sheer silence.  Anyone who has been to a Taizé worship service knows that in the long periods of silence – three to five minutes even – the first couple of minutes are filled with the shuffling discomfort of those gathered.  In our resistance to silence is a resistance to God:  perhaps a fear that we will not be able to hear God, or worse, a fear of what we will hear from God.

Professor Christopher Davis says, “One of the hardest lessons we have to learn is that God is in the quiet, the gentle influences that are ever around us, working with us, for us, and on us, without any visible or audible indicators of activity.  We must learn to listen for the God who is quiet and gentle.”[i]  In Elijah’s story, God makes this point dramatically – offering some of the loudest acts of nature to contrast the sound of sheer silence.  Now the good news is God does not see Elijah’s inability to stop talking as justification to abandon Elijah.  In fact, not only does God quietly tell Elijah he is not alone – there are still seven thousand in Israel who are as faithful as Elijah.  But God also provides a solution for Elijah – kings and a prophetic successor, Elisha, who will take up the mantle when Elijah can no longer keep going.

The promise is the same for us.  Even if we are unable to stop talking at God – Lord knows in the middle of this pandemic, with what feels like the world crumbling around us, we have a lot to say to God.  Our invitation though, is to take a pause, maybe even a deep breath, and listen for the sound of sheer silence.  In that silence, God is finally able to speak to us, showing us the signs of encouragement all around us, pointing us to signs of God’s faithfulness in what can feel like abandonment, and helping us physically turn to God when our bodies are much more trained to stay in tense resistance in some attempt to control the chaos all around us.  This week, the Lord reminds us that we cannot always talk our way out of the cacophony of life.  Sometimes only the sheer silence of God’s presence can speak to us.  When God asks us this week, “what are you doing here?” our invitation is not to justify ourselves with words, but to ponder anew with God in the silence.  Whether we speak or manage to stay silent, God is there:  but today, God offers us the gentle reminder that we will find hearing God a whole lot easier if we can simply stand with God in the sheer sound of silence.  Amen.

 

[i] Christopher Davis, “Commentary on 1 Kings 19:9-18,” August 9, 2020, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=4556 on August 7, 2020.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CD, YA, December 25, 2019

08 Wednesday Jan 2020

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

This past year I have been learning a lot about Godly Play, the program we use with our smallest children in Sunday School, and more recently, the program we use with the Kensington School too.  At first blush, the program is pretty simple:  we tell Bible stories, using simple props to engage the children visually, we let the children play with the story, and then we wonder about the story along the way.  But when we are telling the story with the Kensington School, we have about fifteen kids, ages two-and-a-half to five years old.  I do not know how much time you have spent with that age group recently, but what that means is working super hard to hold their attention.  Being the loud extrovert that I am, I assumed holding their attention would mean using a loud, commanding voice.  But I have discovered from our seasoned teachers that the opposite is true.  They lower their voices to a slow-paced, almost whisper, and they manage to keep the children on the edges of their seats – as if something amazing is going to happen if they listen really hard.

Oftentimes, when we think of Christmas, we imagine a similar pattern.  When we gather on Christmas Eve, we look forward to savoring the familiar story, imagining being able to hear a pin drop as the beloved story is told again.  Our favorite song on Christmas Eve is usually Silent Night.  The song lulls us to imagining Mary and Joseph blissfully enjoying a silent night of wonder.  But that holy night, and most Christmas Eve services, are anything but quiet.  Bethlehem is inundated with people coming in for the registration.  The fact that there is no room for Joseph and Mary tells us how crowded Bethlehem is.  But Mary and Joseph not only have to tend with homecoming revelers, they also have to contend with the animals over whose abode they have taken.  Add into the mix a screaming newborn, and the idea of a silent night is almost comical.

But Mary and Joseph get even more noise than that.  You see, nearby shepherds hear a cacophony of praise from the heavenly hosts in the middle of the night.  Their night has been anything but quiet too.  Instead of trying to get the animals and themselves back to sleep, they decide to go into town and see this thing which has come to pass.  And so, they spend the night, talking to Mary and Joseph, maybe taking turns trying to soothe the baby Jesus.  When they leave those rudimentary quarters, they leave town praising and glorifying God.  This is no silent night for the shepherds either.

I think that is why I enjoy our celebration on Christmas Day so much.  Silence is in short supply on Christmas Eve.  We sing carols, we hear the giddy laughter of children awaiting gifts, stockings, and cookies, and we chant the mass, singing our traditionally spoken words.  For those of us with small children, even the wee hours of the morning on Christmas Day are loud – filled with cries of elation, joy, and battery-operated toys.  But on Christmas Day, after a noisy night and morning, we make our way to church and find, perhaps for the first time, the silence for which we have been looking.  We do not sing carols.  We do not have to speak over the hubbub of full pews.  Instead we gather in relative quiet, and tell the old story again – but this time with a softness that cannot be found on Christmas Eve.

What I love about finding true silence on Christmas Day is that our morning is structured a lot like I imagine that first holy morning being structured.  Christmas Eve is full of noise – of animals, shepherds, angels, and crying babies.  But that next morning, the dust has settled.  Gone are the shepherds and angels.  The animals have calmed down after too many midnight guests.  I even imagine baby Jesus has given in to sleep, since most newborns get their nights and days reversed for the first few weeks.  Into this relative quiet is when I imagine Mary treasuring all those words and pondering them in her heart.  The night before is just too loud.  The exhausted, travel-weary, physically and emotionally spent Mary gets a moment in the morning to begin to process what God has done in and through her.  After the break of dawn, as the sun rises and the loud revelers and news deliverers have gone, she can have a quiet moment as she rocks or feeds baby Jesus and ponder in her heart this child at her breast.

I do not think that night is silent.  But I understand why our hymnodists would want to talk about silence.  I think that is why I prefer the hymn, “Let all mortal flesh keep silence.”  Instead of depicting a silent night, that hymn invites us to keep silence as a form of reverence.  The first verse says, “Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and with fear and trembling stand; ponder nothing earthly minded, for with blessing in his hand, Christ our God to earth descendeth, our full homage to demand.”  I like the hymn because that is the kind of pondering I imagine Mary does in her heart this morning.  Unlike most new mothers, I do not think she is worried about the impact of birth on her body or even about her humble surroundings.  I imagine her thoughts that morning are consumed with nothing earthly minded.  Instead, I imagine her heart is pondering the blessing of Christ our God descending on earth through her – and the enormity of the event drives her to pay silent homage as she gazes on Jesus’ precious face.

That is what the church invites us to do today as well.  We structure a morning for worship.  The dust of gift wrap, eggnog, and stocking stuffers is settling.  The noise of carols, singing choirs and priests, and antsy children in pews is fading.  The anxiety of preparing for the big event of this day is easing.  And all that is left is a moment to let our mortal flesh keep silent before the Christ Child.  This morning we take a moment to ponder nothing earthly minded, and instead join Mary as she ponders all that has happened in her heart.  We come to church on this holy morning to ponder the miracle of the Christ Child.  We honor the way in which God is ever trying to honor the covenant God has made with us – willing to go to the extreme of taking on human form to care for and preserve us.  Our God’s love knows no bounds.  Humbled by that knowledge, we come to pay God homage.

The question for us in our pondering is what we will do with that love.  Though we make space this morning for silence, we do not remain here all day.  Like any other Sunday, the clergy will dismiss us to go in peace, and serve the Lord.  Anytime we feast at Christ’s table, that is our charge:  to take whatever sustenance we have gained and to go out into the world to do the work that Christ has given us to do.  Certainly that may involve cooking, travel, or more gift giving.  But the news we ponder in our hearts today is much bigger than today.  Today we are commissioned to consider the impact of the birth of the Christ Child on our lives, what our response will be to the God who is so faithful to God’s covenant with us that God would take on human flesh to redeem us.  As our talented Godly Play teachers might pose, I wonder what new work God is crafting in our hearts.  Perhaps this morning, or for at least the next few minutes, you can let your mortal flesh keep silence and ponder with Mary.  And then go out with the shepherds, glorifying and praising God in your work.  Amen.

 

On Being Still…

11 Wednesday Dec 2019

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

One of the things I regularly try to teach and model for our family and parish is the value of reining in consumerism during Advent.  It is so easy to get caught up in all the things we want to get our loved ones – creative, funny, thoughtful gifts to show our family, colleagues, and friends how much we appreciate them.  But too often we spend too much, straining our budgets and our emotions instead of creating the spirit of joy giving the gifts intended.

This Advent, I have noticed the same pull happens with our time during Advent.  Between shopping, work parties, school-related events, performances, and community events, we could be busy from sunup to sundown every weekend in December, not to mention weeknights.  Just this past weekend in our town, there was a parade in the morning, events all day, a boat show in the evening, and fireworks on the second evening.  There is a constant invitation to allow our time to be consumed, just like there is an invitation to allow our financial resources to be consumed.

So this past weekend, we chose one thing.  Just one out of the four or five things we wanted to do.  And you know what happened?  Nothing!  We reveled in the one event, savoring and enjoying it.  And then we rested.  We came home and trimmed the hearth, spent time together, and took naps.  It was glorious!

Every year, the church invites us into a quiet, reflective Advent.  Every year it sounds awesome.  I get devotions, or activities to center the family, and about half-way through Advent we fizzle out because we are so exhausted from the running and stress.  It wasn’t until this year, having taken the quieter weekend option that I realized what the church (and yes, even me from the pulpit!) has been inviting us to do.  Be still.  Keep watch.  Take rest in the Lord.  Not just for an hour on Sunday, but the whole of Advent.  How might you make space this year, say “no” to a few things, spend less, and just be still, alert for the presence of God acting in your life?  I suspect if you do, your new favorite season might just become Advent!

Sermon – Luke 24.1-12, ED, YC, April 21, 2019

01 Wednesday May 2019

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Easter is one of my favorite days in the church year.  I love how no matter whether we come to church every Sunday or if we haven’t been to church in ages, something about Easter draws us to the Church.  I love the celebration:  the Easter outfits, the fragrant flowers, the boisterous music, and the family of faith gathered at the communion table.  I love the sweet feeling of having emerged from the penitential season of Lent, and counting how many times we can say, “Alleluia.”  There is a loudness to Easter, an unbridled joy, a sense of victory.

What is funny about our experience today though is very little of the boldness of this day is present in Holy Scripture.  In fact, Luke tells a story that is quite the opposite of our experience today.  While we sing loud alleluias and hosannas, all of the characters in our gospel lesson today are in a totally different place.  They are mired in grief, lost in confusion, unsure about what has happened to them.  In a quiet, almost mechanical, numb way, the women who have been beside Jesus his entire ministry and were the only ones remaining at his death, come to the tomb in the fog of dawn, to do the work of tending to the dead body.  In their haze, no sense of closure comes.  Instead, more confusion comes.  Not only is the tomb empty, the angelic figures tell them Christ is risen.  The angels remind them Jesus had explained this to them, and things start to make sense.  But when the women return to tell the men, the men are so resigned and defeated, they mock the women.  Peter goes to check out the story, but even he does not come back with profound clarity.  He is lost in amazement – in awed confusion.  This story tells us very little about what this all means, what we should do, or how we should respond.  Very little about the gospel today is loud, triumphant, or jubilant.

Though I have been begging our musician for years now for more sound at Easter – a timpani to accompany the brass – the truth is, I kind of like how our gospel lesson today takes us in another direction.  Much of what we boldly proclaim today – that Christ is risen, his resurrection brings eternal life, and everything we know has changed – is pretty difficult stuff to believe.  Any of you who has spent time around an inquisitive child or a doubtful friend knows how difficult explaining the resurrection can be.  For our rational, twenty-first century selves, the theology of Easter is not only difficult to articulate, Easter is almost unbelievable.  And when we are really honest with ourselves, in the quiet of our own homes, we sometimes have moments when we are not really sure why we believe what we believe about Christ.

That’s why I love today’s gospel.  Today’s gospel reminds us of how unbelievable the resurrection of our Lord really was.  Sure, Jesus had said he would be handed over to sinners, be crucified, and on the third day rise again.  But his words sounded crazy at the time.  Now that Jesus’ words have come true, the women are perplexed, terrified, and rejected when they share their truth.  The men are paralyzed, doubtful, and downright mean.  On this early morning, the followers of Jesus only have their experiences of Jesus, their uncertainty of faith, and their attempts to believe the unbelievable.

To me, that is very good news indeed.  On this day as we sing songs about Jesus’ resurrection, and as we hear Peter preach with certainty in the book of Acts, and as we, with joy, proclaim, “Christ is risen!  The Lord is risen indeed!” our gospel story reminds us faith is a journey full of doubt, questions, and confusion.  We come on this festival day not because we are absolutely certain about Jesus.  We come on this festival day because in our foggy dawns, we have had encounters with the risen Lord – even when we did not know how to articulate the encounters.  We come to this festival day because in our pain, suffering, and questioning about life – we have had moments when something from scripture or our faith life suddenly connected and made sense.  We come to this festival day because even in our doubts, there is some small part of us that cannot extinguish hope, that suspects Christ might have actually changed the world.

On this day, the Church does not want our theological explanations of the resurrection.  On this day, the Church invites us to recall those moments, however fleeting or miniscule, where we have encountered, or suspected we encountered, the risen Lord.  Our bold singing of alleluias only needs that small flicker of hope – or maybe our desire for that flicker of hope.  Our celebrating today only needs our presence – our willingness to be here, encouraged by others walking through the fog.  Our proclamation today that the Lord is risen, only needs our willingness to say the words.  The community gathered here today will do the rest.  We will say with you, “The Lord is risen indeed,” until someday we can all claim the astounding love and grace of our Lord Jesus Christ ourselves.  Amen.