Tag Archives: Sermon

Sermon – Matthew 1.18-25, A4, YA, December 18, 2016

21 Wednesday Dec 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

This week, I have been thinking a lot about callings.  Of course, with Charlie’s ordination to the priesthood this weekend, thinking about callings is not unusual.  I have always enjoyed ordinations – and not just because I am a priest.  I remember the first ordination I went to there were six people being ordained.  I only knew one of the six because she was our new assistant at the Cathedral.  But I remember being awed by the service.  The six ordinands seemed set apart.  As they processed down the aisle, wearing their simple albs, I remember wondering how they came to be called as priests, imagining they must have led a special life or be particularly holy.  I remember the swarms of clergy who gathered up front to lay hands on the new priests.  I remember how the new priests somehow seemed bathed in light that day – as if they had some special connection to the holy.

Having been through the ordination process myself, I look at ordinands a little differently today.  Instead of seeing perfectly pious priests processing, I see people who have come through a great ordeal.  I imagine the countless nights of struggling with God about why in the world they should become priests.  I imagine the stressful meetings with bishops, priests, and committees and the ambiguity about what would happen.  I imagine the exams, the sense of failure after messy pastoral visit, and the countless “no”s that come along in the process.  I no longer see perfectly coifed new priests, but instead see the haggard, raw, vulnerable people who have said, “yes,” to what promises to be a life of hard, beautiful, ugly, blessed days.   In that way, I do not see the ordained as all that different from the rest of us – a vulnerable group of people who are trying to figure out what in the world God wants us to do with our lives.

That is why I love that we hear Joseph’s story today.  Most of us think of Joseph as the stable, quiet figure in Jesus’ life.  He is present on the holy night of Jesus’ birth.  He protects Jesus from Herod by fleeing to Egypt.  He teaches Jesus a trade.  He accepts the mighty task of raising a child that is both his own and not his own.  In our minds, he is a righteous, quiet, solid man of faith.

While all of those things may be true, what they miss is the mess of his life behind the scenes. [i]  Joseph is a typical man of faith, righteously living his life, betrothed to a faithful, promising young woman.  He is quietly living his life when his world gets turned upside down.  His betrothed becomes pregnant, which must mean she has been unfaithful, and in Joseph’s time, that means his soon-to-be wife must either be stoned or divorced immediately.[ii]  Trying to overcome this tremendous disgrace and disappointment, Joseph discerns the best, most gracious path forward.  And just when he has settled what is next, God comes along, and flips his world upside-down again.  Now Joseph is supposed to not only believe that Mary is magically pregnant through the Holy Spirit, but he is also to stay with her and take the baby in as his own.  And based on scripture, we know once Jesus hits the teenage years, Joseph’s story disappears altogether.  Even though God calls Joseph to do this tremendous, hard, messy, but beautiful thing, Joseph does not get the spotlight for long.  He goes about his everyday life, living out his calling, relatively unnoticed by the world.

One of the things I have loved about mentoring people over the years is seeing just that same phenomenon.  Throughout our lives we have distinct seasons of discerning call.  Sometimes those moments are obvious:  graduating from school, trying to find a job, figuring out how to spend time in retirement.  The pattern seems to go a little like this:  we hit a point where we need to discern what God is calling us to do; we go through a process of discernment, sometimes formal, but usually informal; we make a decision and take the necessary steps to follow that path; and eventually we look back.  In looking back, we rarely find that the call we heard and answered leads us to where we expected or wanted.  Invariably, there are twists and turns we never could have anticipated.  Invariably, there are failures scattered throughout the successes.  Answering a call is never a simple, clean, or easy process.

Just this week, I was reading about a young man from North Carolina who happened to see a traveling ballet company at his church at age seven.  Four years later, he found himself practicing six days a week.  He eventually joined the New York City Ballet.  He says, “I’ve always seen ballet as my way of serving God.  I think it’s what God has called me to do.”[iii]  What I love about this young man’s story is that whether you are a ballet dancer, cabinet maker, housekeeper, or financial manager, at some point, God has called you to that work for a reason.  The ballet dancer admits he sacrificed a lot to follow his call.  I imagine he failed a lot before he succeeded.  And some day, his body will no longer be able to dance, and he will have to figure out what else God is calling him to do.  His story is the messy, beautiful, challenging story of call we all live.

And if we have never struggled with discerning our professional calling, we have certainly struggled to understand what God is doing in our personal lives.  Though we are approaching a season of joy and merriment, I know there are many of us who are facing medical diagnoses whose purpose we do not understand.  There those among us who are living in relationships – romantic, familial, or otherwise – that are at times loving, hurtful, confusing, and life-giving.  And there are those of us who feel lost, lonely, or restless, even though everything in our lives seems to be moving along well on the outside.  God is in the midst of the personal too – calling us, challenging us, and shaping us.

If we were ever unsure about God’s presence in our messy professional and personal calls, Joseph stands ready to remind us.  He too faces a medical diagnosis that changes his world – a pregnancy that he did not plan, or even participate in, that changes the course of his life forever.  He too faces a relationship that seems broken.  Even when he feels as though he is choosing a kind, compassionate, and righteous decision, God calls him to take another path.  Joseph too understood what feeling lost is like.  Just because an angel tells him to take in Mary and adopt the child as his own, I doubt that things are easy sailing at home, on that journey to Bethlehem, or even after Jesus’ birth.  Though Joseph is listening to God and following God’s call, he is never promised a simple, peaceful, happy life.

So why do we do it?  Why do we listen to God’s call for us if we have no guarantees of a happy, smooth, or peaceful life?  We follow God’s call because we have experienced that sense of dis-ease when we do not follow God’s call – that sense that we are not using all the gifts God has given us, or that discomfort that comes from trying to force what we “should” do in life with what God calls us to do in life.  We follow God’s call because we have experienced the tremendous grace that comes from answering God’s call.  Sure, the road is messy, and hard, and sometimes frustrating.  But the road is also full of beautiful surprises, wonderful accidents, and joyful confirmations that we are right where God wants us.  And we follow God’s call because we are part of a people who have always followed God’s call:  from Abraham, to Moses, to Esther, to Jonah, to Mary, to Joseph.  Our ancestors have taught us that when we say “yes,” God does indeed turn our lives upside down.  But our ancestors have also taught us that in the midst of that topsy-turvy turmoil is where we find out truest selves, where we meet the world’s deepest needs, and where we find ourselves in Christ’s light and love.  So, do not be afraid.  God is with us.  God is with you.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Matthew’s Version of the Incarnation,” December 17, 2013, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=2961 on December 14, 2016.

[ii] Douglas R. A. Hare, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 93.

[iii] Quote and story from Humans of New York, December 12, 2016, at http://www.humansofnewyork.com/post/154395391126/i-was-first-exposed-to-ballet-at-the-age-of-seven, as found on December 14, 2016.  Photo by Brandon Stanton.  Subject unnamed.

Sermon – Isaiah 40.1-11, A2, YA, Advent Lessons and Carols, December 4, 2016

08 Thursday Dec 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

The season of Advent and I have not always been friends.  In fact, the first Advent I experienced in the Episcopal Church almost ended my relationship with the Episcopal Church.  You see, I grew up in a Christian tradition that treated Advent as the beginning of the Christmas season.  Starting on Advent One, we were singing Christmas carols, making our way through all the old favorites.  The tradition felt perfect – instead of focusing on a secularized Christmas, the Christmas hymns during Advent reminded us all of the “reason for the season.”  Besides, there are so many familiar Christmas hymns, that there would be no way to enjoy them all during the short two weeks of Christmastide.  Since our tradition also did not have services on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, you had to squeeze in all the “Joy to the Worlds,” “Oh Holy Nights,” and “Away in the Mangers,” that you could before the holiday was over.  In that tradition, Advent felt like a family gathering around a fire, singing songs of familiarity and comfort.

Of course, the Episcopal Church we landed in did nothing of the sort.  The songs I heard during that first Advent were dreadful.  They were slow and full of melancholy.  They sounded as though whomever wrote them was hunkered down, alone, in a room without a fireplace.  They had a hollow, haunted feeling to them, and the tunes were difficult to follow.  I remember that first Advent feeling like all the joy had been taken out of Christmas, and all that was left was a sad sense of unfamiliarity.

So, if that were my first experience of Advent in the Episcopal Church, why in the world would I agree to having not just Lessons and Carols today – but Advent Lessons and Carols?  I not only agreed to, but begged for, Advent Lessons and Carols because this service attempts to capture what the whole season of Advent does in the Episcopal tradition.  Advent is not meant to be four weeks of celebrating the birth of the Christ Child.  Advent is meant to be four weeks of helping us understand the enormity of what happens on the fateful night of Christ’s birth.  And so, like the people of faith always have, we go back and tell the story.  We tell our story.  We set the scene of Jesus’ birth by using our story to understand the context of the monumental event of the nativity.

First, we go all the way back to the garden of Eden.  Then, we remember the words of the prophets who told of a messiah, an anointed one from the house of David – and yet, better than David.  We hear words of comfort, words of preparation, and words of promise.  We hear of a young, inexperienced woman and the announcement that she gets of a coming child.  And we even hear from Jesus himself, who tells us of the call for repentance in the face of fulfilled promise.  All of that – from Eden, to failed kings and judges, to wearied exiled people, to scared, young women, to the message of repentance all are needed to remember why that infant in a humble manger is so important.  His story is bigger.   His story starts long before his own story starts.  His story is our story.

I am especially grateful for the rooting that Advent provides this year because I have been feeling pretty rootless lately.  With all the noise of world news lately, we can easily become lost.  We can get caught up in the heat of politics, pandering, and promises and forget to whom we belong.  We can see destruction all around us and wonder whether hope is lost.  Into the face of that loss, destruction, and longing, Isaiah says today, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.”  At the time of Isaiah’s oracle, the people of God had been in a time of high tensions.  “…The northern kingdom of Israel and the Aramaeans of Damascus tried to force Judah and King Ahaz to join their rebellion against Assyria.  On Isaiah’s advice, Ahaz refused; but then, instead of joining the rebel alliance, he called Assyria to intervene.”[i]  Of course, this led to disaster and eventually the end of the northern kingdom.  You can imagine Isaiah’s frustration with a king who does not trust God, and who only half-way follows God’s instructions.  And with the massive destruction of the northern kingdom, Isaiah could have been tempted to lose hope.  But the text we get today is not a text of damnation or even chastising.  Instead, Isaiah is able to hold on to hope.  In the midst of what feels like total destruction, Isaiah proclaims, “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.”

Those of you who read my blog know I am not all that great with plants.  Most plants survive only a few weeks, maybe months if I am lucky.  The running joke is that I pretty much have a brown thumb instead of a green thumb.  The one exception is a little bonsai plant that my husband and I were given as a wedding present.  Somehow, miracle of all miracles, I have managed to keep that plant alive for the fifteen years since our wedding.  I had taken to calling it our “love plant,” because I surmised that only our love was keeping the plant going.  But when we moved to Williamsburg, having the brown thumb that I do, I assumed that the plant would be just fine sitting in my car for a few days.  When we finally moved into our house, I realized something was wrong.  The heat of the day must have scorched the plant, because every leaf was turning brown.  Within a week of moving in, all the leaves had fallen and even those 15-year old branches were looking withered beyond repair.  I was pretty sure the plant was dead, but I couldn’t bear to toss our love plant.  For some odd reason, I kept watering the plant, hoping something would happen.  But even plant-lovers who saw my plant looked at me with pitying eyes when I showed them the plant.  Two months later, I looked over at our sad, presumably dead plant, and at the base of that bonsai plant were two little new shoots of growth.  I couldn’t believe it!  After a period of mourning, new life was emerging.  Hope emerged that our withered love plant might just have a little more life left.

Isaiah’s promise is similarly powerful.  “Out of something that appears finished, lifeless, left behind, comes the sign of new life – a green sprig.”[ii]  As Christians, we certainly understand the green sprig from the stump of Jesse to be Jesus Christ.  He is the only one who can redeem and bring new life.  He is the one who brings us hope.   In a few weeks, we will not just be celebrating the birth of a cute baby.  We will be celebrating the shoot from the stump of Jesse – a branch that will bring new life out of destruction, pain, and suffering.  In our world of destruction, pain, and suffering, I cannot imagine a better message of hope.

Once I understood the significance of Advent in the greater faith narrative, my years-long loathing of Episcopal Advent began to fade.  The more reserved songs of Advent slowly began to feel less like dirges and more like raw, vulnerable songs of hope.  Suddenly the soprano voices singing the high notes of “Jesus Christ, the Apple Tree,” the phrase, “Most highly favored lady,” and the comforting alleluias of “Let all Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,” became welcome, comforting friends, and not the nemeses I once imagined.  Finally, after years of dread, instead, I found Advent in the Episcopal Church to be a gift – a time set apart to gather around with family and tell the old stories – our story, and prepare our hearts for the new shoot from the root of Jesse.

The telling of our story is not just important for understanding who the Christ Child is.  The telling of our story is also important for understanding who we are in relation to the Christ Child and the world.  When we understand ourselves to be redeemed by the shoot of the stump of Jesse, the way we operate in the world changes.  We look at a world of destruction, pain, and suffering through the lens of hope.  And when we look through the lens of hope, we are not a defeated people, but a people who see promise, even when others cannot see that same promise.  We know what the shoot from the stump of Jesse has done, is doing, and will do.  And that means our whole way of being changes.  Our story changes.  Our song changes.  And we change too.  Thanks be to God!

[i] Bruce C. Birch, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 27.

[ii] Stacey Simpson Duke, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 28.

Sermon – Luke 23.33-43, P29, YC, November 20, 2016

23 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

Today I have a confession.  I am tired.  After the election two weeks ago, and struggling to understand how vastly different the kingdom of God is from the kingdom of man, I found myself not emboldened, but just tired.  As our country and the world has tried to absorb what America’s decision means, as sides seem to dig in their heels – identifying all sorts of ways in which their side has been right, and as uncertainty, instead of peace, seem to rise, I find myself, quite simply, tired.  I was certainly given some opportunities for redemption.  Our Celebration of a New Ministry filled with me such joy that the evening felt like a redemptive group hug.  While reading the psalms appointed for evening prayer this week, I found several verses full of righteous indignation and a call against enemies.  The words felt cathartic, but later, left me feeling empty, as I know vengeance is not the answer.  Even at our Clergy Conference this week, we took some time to talk about how to navigate the results of the election as leaders of churches.  Though I appreciated the gift of that time from the Bishop, I could tell that most of us were filled with the same uncertainty that everyone else is feeling.  And, like a dutiful priest, I keep trying to stay tuned in to the news so that I am sure we are being relevant – but that, too, makes me tired.

As I turned to our gospel lesson for today, I was hoping for some bit of encouragement – some promise that everything would be okay.  Knowing today is Christ the King Sunday, the last Sunday in the liturgical year whose text should bring into focus the point of a year of journeying with Christ, I had hoped that there would be some sort of rallying text that would invigorate me and shake me out of my emotional and spiritual exhaustion.  But instead, on this day when we honor Christ our King, what is the image we are given?  A beaten, humiliated, ridiculed, discredited, shameful shell of a man, hanging on a cross, defeated in the approaching death.  We do not get Christ risen from the grave today – the ultimate Easter message.  No, today we get Good Friday – our hoped-for Messiah, seemingly defeated on the cross.  Of course, he dies with great dignity, forgiving sinners until the very end, welcoming the repentant even on their last breath, resisting every urge strike back or at least refute the charges against him.  He dies with dignity, but he dies nonetheless.

As we close out this liturgical year and prepare to begin a new year with the season of Advent, I have been thinking a lot about the other version of Christ we will soon be talking about – the Christ Child.  As I meditated on Christ the King, imagining his battered body, whose mother is not far away, I wondered if she too is thinking back to those early days with her infant.  I imagine every mother has some hopes and dreams for whom her child might become.  Maybe they have specific hopes of power and influence for their child.  Certainly, at the very least, they hope their child will be a decent, respectful human being.  But Mary could be tempted to dream much more for her child – shepherds, angels, and wise men told her to expect great things.  I wonder how she sits at that cross, devastated at what had come of her son’s journey.  Of course, her son never really had an overwhelmingly positive journey.  He was run out of towns; people were constantly trying to trick him into saying something incriminating; though those who were healed were often happy, more often, people were upset about Jesus’ healing ministry; and although they had that parade just a few days ago for her son, how quickly they had turned against him.  As she sits at the foot of that cross, I wonder if she is, at the root of her being, just plain tired.

I have often thought it is strange how the cross, and not the empty tomb is our primary Christian symbol.  That we use an instrument of death as our sign for victory is rather odd.  But today we do not just honor Christ’s death on the cross; we honor how he died on the cross.  Even in death Christ our King managed to love his neighbor – even the really bad neighbors.  Even in death, Christ managed to love God – inviting God to forgive even the most hateful behavior.  Even on the cross, Jesus never loses his focus.  Jesus never gets tired.

Just like the kingdom of God is different, so is the king of God.  The people of God never really had a king until they reached the Promised Land.  They saw the neighboring countries with their armies and their admirable kings, and they wanted one for themselves.  That was their first mistake.  God granted them a king to rule over them, but inevitably, the kings, like any humans, were flawed – some more than others.  Hence, there are four books in the Hebrew Scriptures about the kings who ruled and the judges who tried to correct their behavior.  Most of the kings were corrupted by power, money, and greed.  Many abused the people.  Even the most revered king, King David, was a bit of a mess.  But Jesus is not like foreign kings or the kings of Israel.  Jesus’ kingship is different.  He loves the poor and cares for the sick, he sees through the pretenses of the temple and calls for authenticity, he loves deeply and forgives infinitely.[i]  And he never tires of being this kind of king.

For most of us, looking to Jesus as an example of how to rally out of our fatigue and weariness may feel overwhelming to our tired selves.  Instead, I found looking at the repentant thief to be helpful.  You see, the thief was probably tired too.  Anyone who is a thief has been hustling long before he gets caught.  He may have even been caught several times before for more minor offenses.  His arrest this time is different.  There will be no escape.  He will hang on that cross until he dies.  With the cruelty of the cross, and the pain of his body, also shining forth is an overwhelming sense of fatigue.  He too is tired.  Tired of running, tired of hustling, tired of the life that leads one to become a thief.  But even in his deep fatigue, he does something extraordinary.  When the other thief taunts Jesus, the repentant thief lets the other thief have it.  Hanging in agony, he looks outside himself, and refuses to stand for the hypocrisy of the other thief.  He decries the injustice of Jesus’ sentence, he wisely points out his own, as well as the other’s, culpability in sin, and then, without shame looks right at Jesus and asks Jesus to remember him.

Even at our most weary, tired states, when we feel like there is no hope, or when death feels ever present, Jesus invites us to keep shining our light for all to see.[ii]  Our gospel this week is full of people doing just that:  taking their world of hurt, pain, sadness, sorrow, defeat, seeming hopelessness, and turning toward the light.[iii]  Mary and the other women eventually find their light despite their fatigue.  The thief hanging in humiliation and death finds his light.  And Jesus, defeated in the eyes of all but the thief today, keeps shining his light until the bitter end.  Christ our King invites us to do likewise.  Of all people, Jesus understood being tired.  His cry out to God in prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane is a prayer of a tired man.  But Jesus stood up that night, all the way to the cross on Calvary and refused to let fatigue be an excuse for a world without love, hope, and forgiveness.  Our king may not look like other kings.  His story may be strange and full of contradictions.  But our king has the power to pull you out of darkness and drag you into the light.  But along the way, he is going to need you to shine your light too.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Christ the King C:  What Kind of King Do You Want?” November 14, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/11/christ-the-king-c-what-kind-of-king-do-you-want/ on November 16, 2016.

[ii] Caroline Lewis, “Who and What is Your King?” November 13, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4754 on November 17, 2016.

[iii] Patrick J. Willson, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 337.

Sermon Luke 21.5-19, Isaiah 65.17-25, P28, YC, November 13, 2016

23 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

One of the things you will learn about me as we grow together is that I generally avoid politics in the pulpit.  I avoid talking about politics because one of the blessings of the Episcopal Church is that we represent a wide range of political viewpoints.   Though some would like to categorize our church as liberal because of some of our national Church decisions, our membership is diverse.  Most of the time our diversity is a gift.  Our diversity means that we cannot become an echo chamber, always preaching to the proverbial choir.  We will have differences of opinion, we will argue and debate about how scripture is applied in modern life, and we will be forced to agree to disagree when we come to the table each week.  We are one of the rare denominations who walk that fine line well, and that ability is one of the things I love about the Episcopal Church.

The curse of our diversity means that we will rarely be on the same page about an issue on any given Sunday.  That reality is most glaringly obvious on a Sunday like this one:  the first Sunday after one of the most contentious elections in modern history.  As I step into this pulpit today, I am aware that there are people in this room who feel like we made a good decision on Tuesday – a decisive vote to do business differently on a national level.  I am aware that there are people in this room who are gravely disappointed by the decision we made on Tuesday.  They feel a range of emotions, including sadness, disappointment, hurt, anger, fear, and threat.  I am also aware that there are people in this room who do not put too much credence in what happened Tuesday.  They may have voted, but they did not feel like there were any good options, and so they were resigned to be dissatisfied with whatever the outcome would be.

The trouble with our scripture lessons from Luke and Isaiah today is that they tempt us to conflate what has happened in our political sphere this week with the kingdom of God.  Teaching at the Temple, Jesus predicts the destruction of the Temple.  When asked when this will take place and what the signs will be, Jesus’ answer is dire.  He warns of false prophets; wars and insurrections; nations rising up against each other; earthquakes, famines, and plagues; betrayals by family and friends; and personal arrests and persecutions.  Conversely, Isaiah prophesies of the coming kingdom:  where there will be no weeping or distress; people will live into old age; people will stay on their land and their fruits will prosper; and the wolf and the lamb will feed together.  We could look at these two worlds – the world of destruction and judgment and the world of the peaceful kingdom and easily say, “Well because my candidate won or lost, we will be dealing with either the day of doom or the day of the peaceful kingdom.”  The scripture today tantalizingly tempts us to look at these last five days and say with either dread or joy, “The kingdom of God has come near.”  But I would argue that that kind of conflating is not only false, but also ascribes too much power to humans.

Eight years ago, I voted for Barak Obama.  I remember feeling like he could bring us into a new era.  He talked about hope, and I felt filled with a sense of hope and renewal.  He made a lot of promises, many of which felt in line with what I would call gospel living.  When he took office, I remember holding on to that sense of hope.  I should not have been surprised years later when I became disappointed with some of Obama’s decisions.  My idyllic sense of hope began to deflate, and I remember several people talking about how disappointed they were – as if Obama was a false prophet or failed messiah.  As soon as that rhetoric surfaced, I realized the fatal flaw of my vote of confidence in Obama.  I had placed Obama in the role of Messiah – someone who would bring about the reign of God.  Suddenly, I realized how unfair, and quite frankly, unchristian, that expectation was.  Obama would never be the Messiah I wanted because I already had a Messiah.  No president could ever represent Christ effectively, because we only have one Messiah.  Not until I had that realization was I able to see politics a little differently.  Though I strongly encourage us all to be involved in the political life of our country, and I also strongly encourage us to use our Christian ethics as a moral compass in electing officials, I am also keenly aware that no political servant can ever be a messiah, because every political servant is a flawed human, just like you and me.  Likewise, I am also ever more aware that Jesus was not a Democrat or a Republican, because political parties are made up of flawed human beings with flawed abilities to fully represent the gospel of Jesus Christ.

So where does that leave us?  Are we supposed to step back from political activism if the political system is inherently flawed?  Scholars have debated this issue for centuries.  In their book Resident Aliens, Stanley Hauerwas and Will Willimon argued that Christians should be in the world, but not of the world.  They argued that, “The Confessing church does not take as its primary aim the transformation of the world through the political route of the State.  Instead, [the Church] seeks to transform the world by creating a counterculture of people who live under the reign of Jesus.  In this counterculture ‘people are faithful to their promises, love their enemies, tell the truth, honor the poor, suffer for righteousness, and thereby testify to the amazing community-creating power of God.  The confessing church has no interest in withdrawing from the world, but it is not surprised when its witness evokes hostility from the world’ (46).  In doing so this counterculture church becomes the people of the cross, demonstrating God’s love for the world.  The most ‘effective’ thing the church can do is to become the ‘actual creation of a living, breathing, visible community of faith’ (46) in a hostile world.”[i]

Here is what I know:  the kingdom of man is not like the kingdom of God.  I say that not as an excuse to hide in a bubble, but as a salve for our wounded spirits when we see how far apart the kingdom of man can be from the kingdom of God.  We could leave church today with our hands thrown up in the air, feeling like the two are different and there is nothing we can do to change it.  But that is not what Hauerwas, Willimon, or even Jesus want from us today.  In Jesus’ prediction of doom and personal persecution, Jesus also says something simple and almost comical.  He says, “This will give you an opportunity to testify.”[ii]  Our political system is not perfect.  We are not a perfect country.  We hurt each other and we suffer at the hand of one another.  But that lack of perfection and the presence of hurt is no excuse to not work on bringing about the kingdom of God here on earth.  The prophecy of Isaiah is not some pie-in-the-sky dream about what happens when we die.  The coming of Jesus meant the inbreaking of the kingdom here on earth.  In Christ’s absence, our work is turning this kingdom of man into the kingdom of God.  The vision from Isaiah is just that:  a vision for us to align our steps, and to do our work.  The vision of Isaiah is not a Republican vision or a Democrat vision.  The vision of Isaiah is the vision of God:  of taking “the original creation that the Divine called good,” and “transforming that creation into something new.”[iii]

After this contentious election, I would love to tell you that everything will be okay – that God will magically make things right.  But Jesus tells us today that he needs us to do our work.  When Jesus tells those gathered that they will have the opportunity to testify, he also tells them, “make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance; for I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict.”[iv]  Things will be bad before the kingdom of God reigns over the kingdom of man.  Our political systems are not capable or perhaps even interested in bringing about the reign of God.  That work is ours to do.  But Jesus promises that he will be with us, giving us the words as we work, empowering us to right the ills of this world, strengthening us for work of kingdom making.  And you are in the right place this morning to prepare yourself for that work.  Today and every Sunday we offer you the chance to cry out to God, to confess your own complicity with sin, to learn and be formed into a disciple of Christ, to be strengthened with the holy meal, and then to get back out there in the work of bringing about the kingdom of God.  If you need to linger today a little longer at the altar rail, with your anger or your grief at what happened this week, by all means do it.  If you are emboldened by what happened this week, then take that sense of victory and turn it into kingdom work.  But before you leave today, remember that each of us, in all our diverse opinions and experiences are needed to testify and help each other testify.  We need each other and our Messiah, the Christ.  He will give us the words when the time comes so that we can create a world where the lion and the lamb feast together.  Amen.

[i] Steven Kopp, “Book Summary: Resident Aliens by Stanley Hauerwas,” August 21, 2015, as found at https://slasherpastor.wordpress.com/2015/08/21/book-summary-resident-aliens-by-stanley-hauerwas/ on November 11, 2016.  The page numbers are page citations from Hauerwas and Willimon’s book.

[ii] Luke 21.13.

[iii] Mary Eleanor Johns, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 290.

[iv] Luke 21.14-15.

Sermon – Habakkuk 1.1-4; 2.1-4, P26, YC, October 30, 2016

02 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

I don’t know about you, but there are times when I have to tune out from the world.  I binge watch HGTV or find a mindless comedy and I just zone out.  In part, I do this because my psyche, my spirit, my soul feels overwhelmed.  I cannot listen to one more story of natural disaster – of floods, of famine, of destruction.  I cannot learn of one more part of the world where humanity seems lost – of genocide, of systemic violence against women, of the taking of land from its rightful owners.  And lately, I cannot absorb one more barb by a political campaign – of slander, of innuendo, of plain meanness.  And if I am not trying to hide from the world around us, sometimes I find I need to hide from the world right in front of us – from awful diagnoses, to life lost, to relationships broken.

While one common response is to relieve tension through mindless activity, the other alternative is to do what Habakkuk does today:  cry out to God.  “How long, O LORD, must I call for help, but you do not listen?”  The reading from Habakkuk today starts with what is called a lament – something commonly seen in the psalms,[i] but known by us all because at some point in our lives, we have all cried out a lament to God.  In this particular lament, Habakkuk is angry with God because the world is crumbling around him.  Violence is on every side and those supposed to enforce justice are perverting justice.  You can hear the sense of betrayal in Habakkuk’s voice – as if God has abandoned him and the rest of God’s people.  And so, Habakkuk does what God’s people have done from the days of Abraham – he argues with God.[ii]  He demands a response.  He calls God to task – demanding that God not let this ungodly world continue on its ungodly path.

If you are ever in a crisis, one of the things you will learn about me is what I love about our God:  God can take our anger, our righteous indignation, our arguments.  Our people have been engaging this way with God from the beginning – not victim to an all-powerful God who demands our obedience, but in relationship with a God who can handle all of our “stuff.”  Lord knows God has gotten an earful from me over the years – every time a child is lost, fellow citizens die from senseless violence, or life just seemed too much to bear – God has heard from me.  Sometimes I cry out in a lament, sometimes I cannot even find the words I am so angry.  I learned a long time ago that the good news is God can take it.

After his lament, Habakkuk does something that is quite familiar to me as a parent of young children.  Habakkuk stomps his feet, crosses his arms, and stares in silent indignation, daring God to respond.  Of course, one could certainly label this as the conclusion of Habakkuk’s temper tantrum.  But an alternative may be to see something else in what Habakkuk is doing.  In the face of great sorrow, anger, and despair, Habakkuk does not flee.  Though he feels abandoned, he does not abandon God.  Instead, he demands God’s presence and will not be satisfied until he hears a word from God.  And so he waits.  He waits, and watches.  He keeps vigil, listening for God to speak.

Several years ago, Hickory Neck was thriving and heading toward what looked like a tremendous time of growth and change.  The community rallied around creating this new worship space to house the community that was bursting at the seams.  We even have plans for how to expand this building into phases two and three when we expected we would be bursting at the seams again.  But a few years ago, we hit a bit of snag.  Our pastor became ill and eventually took a new call.  Though we had an interim priest, we had interims without the interim.  I would not say that things ever got so rough that we called out in lament to God like Habakkuk.  But we did take a play out of Habakkuk’s book:  we stood in wait, keeping vigil, listening for God to speak a new word to us.

And slowly, God did just that.  God began to speak.  God began to whisper new dreams, new visions.  We began to dream about mission trips, increased local outreach, repurposing building or building new spaces to house ministries for the growing population of both retirees and young families in our area, and meaningful worship and growth.  God began to open our hearts to what new clergy might join us, and what new visions we might build together.  We began to do what God tells Habakkuk to do today.  When God finally speaks to Habakkuk, God says, “Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so that a runner may read it.”  Now there is a little scholarly debate[iii] about what the vision is God is communicating – one of promise or one of condemnation – one to be rejoiced or one to be feared[iv] – but the clarity is what strikes me.  Write the vision; make it plain.

A little under a year ago, your Vestry engaged in just that kind of work.  They looked at the state of Hickory Neck, they talked about their dreams for Hickory Neck, they looked at the finances, and then the wrote a vision.  They knew what everyone here knows:  that Hickory Neck is a special place that has been challenged to grow in new and exciting ways.  We have all experienced the power of worship in this place, the transformative nature of formation and prayer in this place, the radical commitment to hospitality in this place, and the passion for Christ’s call to love our neighbors in this place.  And so, the Vestry did what may feel a little like that line from a Field of Dreams, declaring “If we build it, they will come.”  But the Vestry did not just wait for “them” to come.  They soberly looked at finances and decided they would not only fund a rector, but also a curate.  They named their vision to make our buildings not just useful to us, but useful to our communities:  through Winter Shelter and outside guests, but maybe eventually to a preschool or day center for seniors.  The Vestry committed to not just waiting for “them” to come, but employing tools to invite, welcome, and connect seekers into our community.  They wrote the vision and they made it plain.

When I first came on board with Hickory Neck in April, the Vestry began to ask me under what vision we were going to operate.  What I told them is what I will tell you:  we are already operating under a vision.  Now, there are certainly dreams I have for where we will be 5 to 10 to 15 years from now, but for today, for next year, we already have a vision.  Now, being pragmatists, the Vestry wanted me to make it plainer.  And so, we worked in reverse.  We sat down and we mapped out the entire calendar from August to August.  We wrote down everything we normally do and everything we hope to do.  And then we stepped back and said, “Is this us?  Does our calendar reflect who we are and our vision for this place?”  You see, our calendar was just a tool to mark our values and vision.

We have been engaging in that same conversation in our homes, in small groups, and as a community these last four weeks.  As we laid out a vision of being a community that lives generously, we took stock not of our calendars, but of our checkbooks.  We sat down and looked at where our money was going and whether that cash flow reflected our values and vision.  For the Vestry, our budget involves some commitments that are hefty, but reflect a vision of who we want to be.  Each Vestry member went home and engaged in a similar exercise at home, looking to see if their budgets reflected a vision of who they want to be as individuals.

The Vestry and Stewardship Committee have written a vision and made it plain.  Instead of scaling back and being tentative, we have committed to being a parish who boldly is ready to seek and serve Christ in all persons and to share the Good News of God in Christ.  As the Prayer Book says in the Catechism, our vision is to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ, as we pray and worship, proclaim the Gospel, and promote justice, peace, and love.[v]  Those are bold promises that will require all of us to succeed.  Today, we are talking about how our treasure is needed to bring that vision to fruition; in January, we will also talk about how our time and talent will bring that vision to fruition.  But because our vision is living generously, this is not a call to sacrifice and struggle.  No, this vision is an occasion for celebration and joy.  I look forward to marking that celebration and joy with you today as we bless our commitments to live generously, eagerly helping Hickory Neck to shine its light on the hill for all to see.  Amen.

[i] Bryan Spinks, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 242, 244.

[ii] Theodore Hiebert, “Habakkuk,” Neil M. Alexander, ed., The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 7 (Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 1996), 632.

[iii] Karl Jacobson, “Commentary on Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4,” November 3, 2013, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1875 on October 26, 2016.

[iv] Corrine L. Carvalho, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 247.

[v] BCP, 855.

Sermon – Luke 17.11-19, P23, YC, October 9, 2016

12 Wednesday Oct 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

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

I once knew a man who was impossible to compliment.  Whether you wanted to compliment a job well done or good deed, his response was always the same, “It’s not me.  All the glory goes to God.”  His response always left me feeling like I just offered a present that was rejected.  Of course, I totally agreed with what he was saying – none of us is able to do good without the God who empowers us to do so.  And truly, Jesus was not that great at accepting compliments either, especially if you recall all the times he asked people to keep a healing secret or to just go back to work.  But upon receiving a compliment, a simple, “Thank you,” would not have hurt this man.  After a while, I just stopped trying to praise his work or good deeds.

I think that is why I relate to the nine lepers who do not return to Jesus to give him thanks and praise.  There were ten lepers originally – nine who were Jewish and one who was a Samaritan.  We are not sure why the ten are together – the Jews and the Samaritans were enemies and rarely spent time together.[i]  We are told at the beginning of the text that Jesus was passing through a borderland between Samaria and Galilee, so there is a possibility that then ten men banded together through their disease instead of culture.  You see, both Samaritans and those of Galilee would have been seen as impure due to their leprosy.  Being exiled to the borders of their land, they may have found more in common than divided them.  And so, as a group, they shout out to Jesus for healing – careful not to approach him, of course, which would have been improper in their condition.  Respecting their distance, Jesus does not insist they come forward, but instead tells them to go to the priest to show themselves to be healed.  Along the way, they are healed, but they still would have needed to show a priest in order to be restored to their families and friends.[ii]

The Samaritan among them returns and gives praise to God, but the others do not.  We do not know how their journey unfolds.  Presumably they are faithfully doing what Jesus told them to do – going to the priest for restoration.  Perhaps they give praise to God once the priest restores them.  Perhaps they give praise when they are reunited with their families.  Maybe they even show their praise through helping lepers later.  But that is all supposition.  All we get today is Jesus’ criticism of the nine because they neglect to turn and give God praise and thanksgiving.

I have been reflecting on Jesus’ words this week, and what rubs me the wrong way may be the same thing that rubbed me the wrong way when that man I knew always refused praise.  In both cases, whether Jesus, or the man I knew, there is both implicit and explicit criticism of my own practice of gratitude and thanksgiving.  What irritated me about the man’s responses to me was that they made me feel guilty – that perhaps I was not grateful enough to God for the goodness in my life.  The same thing irritates me about Jesus this week – his judgment of the nine makes me feel guilty about the ways I have walked away healed and not given praise to God.

This week we are kicking off our stewardship season in a campaign called, “Living Generously.”  After the service, you will be receiving a packet of information about how you can support the ministry of Hickory Neck, and a pledge card that we will collect in a celebratory ingathering in just four weeks.  Most preachers would have read the text today and thought, “Yes!  The perfect Stewardship text!”  But the more I sat with Jesus’ words, the more I realized that his words actually bring up feelings of dread rather than joy.  Most people associate stewardship with the same sense of guilt that this reading brings up.  We feel guilted into showing gratitude, and so we guiltily look at our budgets and see if we can increase our pledge this year.

The first time I experienced the concept of pledging was when I started regularly attending an Episcopal Church.  In the churches where I grew up, you never had to tell anyone what you were going to give.  The preacher might have talked about a tithe – ten percent of your income.  But the preacher never wanted you to say exactly what you were going to give.  So when the warden of this church started explaining how he wanted us to pledge, I was aghast.  I remember thinking, “That’s private!  I don’t have to tell you how much I am going to give!”  Now, I knew we would probably tithe that year, but the idea of telling someone else about my giving seemed to go against every cultural norm I knew.  Fortunately, I stayed to hear the rest of the warden’s talk.  He explained that the way the church formed the church’s budget was through the knowledge of what income they could expect.  The Vestry would adjust expenses accordingly and try to get the budget balanced.  My outrage faded as I realized how responsible that model seemed.  Thus began my adult journey into pledging.

But that journey into pledging experienced a transformation about eight years later.  We were at a new church, and the priest asked to hold our pledge cards until a particular Sunday.  We did and the funniest thing happened.  In the middle of the service, a banner appeared.  The banner was processed down the aisle, joyful music started playing, and people started following the banner forward.  We placed our pledge in a basket, and I felt something stirring in me.  The priest blessed the pile of pledge cards, and something about stewardship turned in my heart – the pledging, the monthly giving was no longer an obligation or burden – something to be guilted into.  My pledge was a joyful sign of gratitude – a sign blessed by God and affirmed by the community.  And I have to say – it felt good!

In the gospel lesson today, the text says that the Samaritan turns back to Jesus.  That word for turns back is more than just a physical description – the action of turning back is a sign of deep transformation – a reorienting of the Samaritan’s life from duty to gratitude.[iii]  I do not think Jesus was looking for a guilty admission of thanks from the other nine lepers.  What Jesus is looking for is a transformation of the heart – a turning of one’s life away from obligation and duty to joyful gratitude and thanksgiving.

I was reading this week about a woman with an interesting habit.  Whenever someone asked her how she is – that basic question we always ask and anticipate the answer being, “Fine,” – instead she would say, “I’m grateful.”  No matter what is on her plate – stress at work or school, an illness that kept plaguing her, strife at home – her response is always the same, “I’m grateful.”[iv]  As I thought about her response this week, I realized that her response is probably one that took willful practice.  I am sure there were weeks when she really felt grateful.  But there were also probably weeks when she had to say she felt grateful even if she was not sure what there was to be grateful about.  But slowly, slowly, I imagine the practice cultivated a spirit of gratitude.  A practice like that can do exactly what Jesus wants for us all – a turning of the heart to praise and thanksgiving.  I know I will never be able to shift toward the kind of response that the man I knew always gave, rejecting praise altogether.  But learning to say, “I’m grateful,” might be a way for me to get a little closer to the same sentiment.

What that woman is doing, what Jesus is encouraging, and even what our Stewardship campaign is inviting is not a sense of guilt or burden, but a genuine invitation into a life that turns our heart to gratitude and transforms the way we see the world.  Now that does not mean that every time you write the check to fulfill your pledge you will part from that treasure with a joyful heart.  But that practice is a small invitation, every time, for us to turn our hearts and to see not only the God from whom all blessings flow, but to even see the blessings in the first place.  Jesus is not mad at those lepers because they are ungrateful – he is sad for them because they have denied themselves the gift of transformation.  That is the gift that he and the Church offer us every week – the gift of a transformed heart that can change everything.  For that, I’m grateful.  Amen.

[i] Audrey West, “Commentary on Luke 17.11-19,” October 9, 2016, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3029 on October 5, 2016.

[ii] Oliver Larry Yarbrough, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 169.

[iii] Margit Ernst-Habib, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 166.

[iv] David Lose, “Pentecost 21C:  Gratitude and Grace,” October 3, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/10/pentecost-21-c-gratitude-and-grace/ on October 5, 2016.

Sermon – Luke 17.5-10, 2 Timothy 1.1-14, P22, YC, October 2, 2016

05 Wednesday Oct 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

One of the funny things about wearing a priestly collar in public is that people tend to tell you way more about their lives than perhaps they should.  As soon as a person realizes you are a priest, the flood gates open and all of a sudden you are the guest on the “Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Church But Were Afraid to Ask!” Show.  I get questions about how one becomes a priest, what being an Episcopalian means, and what kind of Christian I am.  But mostly I get confessions.  People will confess they used to go to church, but once they became an adult, they had a hard time believing everything the church taught them as a child.  People will confess that they were raised in the church, but when a terrible tragedy hit, they felt abandoned by God and could never go back.  People will confess that they miss going to church, but that they always feel like they do not belong when the go to church – that everyone in the church seems to have their lives figured out except them.

What is interesting to me about those conversations with non-church goers or lapsed Christians is that they seem to think that their struggles with faith make them ineligible for church membership.  Perhaps that is true in some denominations in our country.  But one of the primary reason I became an Episcopalian was because the Episcopal Church not only made room for faith struggles, but expected those struggles.  Almost every time I have raised a question about a Biblical text in Bible Study, instead of someone explaining the answer to me, the response is almost always, “Yeah, that is a hard piece of scripture.”  Almost every time I have been with a grieving family who is on the brink of questioning their faith, no one in the room challenges them.  Usually someone says, “I could totally see how you would be doubting God right now.”  And almost every time I have been in a class about theology, the creeds, confirmation, or baptism, someone has asked, “What if I can’t believe that part.”  Never once has that person been told they do not belong if they cannot believe – in fact, usually the person is praised for naming the lack of faith we have all have had at some point in our spiritual journey.

I think that is why today’s Gospel lesson feels so real.  The disciples and apostles have been following Jesus for weeks, and Jesus has been handing them a lot of heavy stuff.  Jesus has told them to give up their possessions, to forgive those who wrong them, to take up their cross.  I cannot imagine anyone looking at the stark life Jesus describes and not calling out, “Increase our faith!”  How else can we be all Jesus wants us to be without increasing our faith?  Surely we have all had those trough moments – in the face of our mortality, at the betrayal of a friend or spouse, in the midst of anxiety and stress – when we too cry out to God, “Increase our faith!”

What might be helpful to do is talk a little about what we mean when we say faith.  Marcus Borg talks about two different kinds of faith:  faith of the head and faith of the heart.  Faith of the head is claiming something about God or the human condition.  This kind of faith is more about what we believe.  When someone says they have lost their faith, they have often lost this faith of the head.  They no longer believe something taught by holy scripture or the church.  In the Episcopal Church, we do not get too upset about this kind of faith struggle.  Instead, we see faith as ever evolving and growing.  Questions are at the root of a deep, mature faith.  Borg would argue that God cares very little about what beliefs are in our heads – if we believe the right things.  Borg knows that you can believe all the right things and still be in bondage, because, “Believing a set of claims to be true has very little transforming power.”[i]

Unlike faith of the head, faith of the heart is a little different, according to Borg.  Faith of the heart is characterized by three things:  trust, fidelity, and vision.  To have faith of the heart is to put a radical trust in God – to rely on God for grounding and safety.  Faith of the heart is also characterized by fidelity – an understanding that we will be faithful in our relationship with God and God with us.  Faith of the heart is finally characterized by vision – a belief that reality is life-giving and nourishing instead of threatening or hostile.  “To live in faith requires ‘a radical centering (of our lives) in God that leads to a deepening trust that transforms the way we see and live our lives.’”[ii]  So when the disciples ask Jesus to increase their faith, they are not necessarily asking Jesus to help them believe certain statements about God to be true (that faith of the head).  Instead, they are asking for faith of the heart – to get help in trusting God, remaining faithful in their relationship with God, and seeing life as God-given and gracious.

Now one would hope that Jesus would hear this request from the disciples and come back with a loving response – a pastoral word of encouragement that makes them feel affirmed in their fears and doubts.  Unfortunately, that is not what Jesus does at all today.  Instead he tells an abrasive story about masters and servants, which is basically Jesus’ way of saying, “You want your faith to increase?  Then get out there and do the work you have been given to do.”  Instead of assuring and coddling the disciples, Jesus sounds more like that old Nike ad that says, “Just do it!”

I do not know about you, but Jesus’ words are not all that comforting today.  I have sat with someone who is overwhelmed by the disappointments of life, and never once did it occur to me to tell them to just go out there and do the work they have been given to do.  I have counseled people who are facing death, divorce, job loss, or shame, and I have not told a single one of them to stop complaining and just get back out in the world doing what God has called them to do.  I myself have had moments when God felt absent, and I probably would have deemed any counsel to “Just do it!” as insensitive or unfair – to just trust that God is there anyway and get back to work.  Where are we supposed to find the strength to be faithful – to trust, to be loyal, to hold on to the vision of God’s goodness – when we feel completely unable to “Just do it!”?

As I struggled with Jesus’ harshness today, I remembered Paul’s second letter to Timothy.  Paul says to Timothy, “I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you.”  Paul’s words this week help me see how we get back to the work Jesus wants us to do.  In Paul’s encouragement, he is confident that Timothy can “Just do it!” because he knows Timothy’s identity.  Timothy is the grandson of Lois and the son of Eunice.  These women have taught him everything he knows about Jesus.  They have been through the depths of despair themselves, and yet they are faithful witnesses of God.  Timothy is not just a man fighting for faith – Timothy is known by God, and comes from a long line of people who have walked with God.  Timothy’s heritage is a heritage of people who have gone before, who have shown him the way through their lives, and who have encouraged him.  Now, you may be thinking, “Yeah, except my Grandma was a Southern Baptist who disagrees with what I believe, or my Mom stopped going to church ages ago.”  Whether biological or not, we all have grandmothers and mothers of our faith.   Maybe they are friends or fellow parishioners.  Or maybe those mothers and grandmothers are the matriarchs of our faith.  Regardless, we are all rooted in something bigger than us – something with much deeper roots that can ground us when we feel like we are flailing in our faith.

When I first read our gospel lesson this week, I thought we had been cursed with the wrong lessons – especially for those of you who brought friends today.  But the more the lessons unfolded, the more I realized they might be the perfect lessons.  We all struggle with faith – certainly of the head, but more importantly of the heart.  But as Paul reminds us, we come from a long line of people who have gone before who have struggled as we do, and who leaned into their identity as beloved children of God in order to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  We are encouraged today because we have seen the fruit of “Just doing it!”  We have prayed for someone struggling this week.  We have called or visited a friend who needed encouragement this week.  We stood up to a bully this week.   We gave money to support ministry this week.  We did something seemingly inconsequential, but those small, everyday acts of faith are powerful, and they are how we answer Jesus’ call to “Just do it!” – even when we did not think we could.[iii]  Paul and the Church remind us that we can – we can do those acts of faith because we are surrounded by matriarchs and patriarchs who encourage us along the way.  We all have those moments when we just want Jesus to increase our faith.  Today we are encouraged by doing – and eventually our faith increases in spite of us.  Amen.

[i] Marcus Borg, The Heart of Christianity, 30.  Argument about Borg presented by Br. David Vryhof, “Lord, Increase our Faith!” October 7, 2007, as found at http://ssje.org/ssje/2007/10/07/lord-increase-our-faith/ on September 28, 2016.

[ii] Vryhof.

[iii] David Lose, “Pentecost 20C:  Everyday Acts of Faith,” September 26, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/09/pentecost-20-c-every-day-acts-of-faith/ on September 28, 2016.

Sermon – Luke 16.1-13, P20, YC, September 18, 2016

21 Wednesday Sep 2016

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

Often when we talk about Jesus, we marvel at his parables, and we encourage each other to follow his teachings.  We ask questions like, “What would Jesus do?” as if the answers are obvious.  We describe Jesus as illuminating God, helping us to understand God in an incarnate way.  We even say that all things necessary for salvation are found in Holy Scripture.  And for the most part, all of those things are true – until we get to today’s parable.  Most of us listen to the lesson for today and can only say, “Wait….what?”

Here’s the problem.  Unlike many of Jesus’ parables and sayings, most of us come away from this one completely confused.  Jesus starts off simply enough.  A rich man has a manger, or steward, and the manager is accused of squandering the master’s property.  The master threatens to fire the manager, and so the manager goes off and talks to all the debtors of his master.  Knowing he is about to be fired, the steward strikes deals with the debtors, decreasing their debts, in the hopes of making some friends who will feel indebted to him and may take him in once he is fired.  But what happens next is where the parable gets confusing.  When the master finds out what the steward has done, instead of being angry, he commends the manager for being shrewd.  And to top off this odd response, Jesus completes this whole parable with an instruction that all of us should be like the shrewd manager, making friends by means of dishonest wealth.  Jesus concludes the story by telling us that no one can serve God and wealth.

Confused yet?  You are in good company!  Even most scholars disagree about what the parable is trying to do.  Though we all might understand the part about our loyalties being torn between God and money, the parable hardly helps us get there.  The manager is a schemer – he is about to be fired because he has mismanaged things.  But instead of righting the situation with his master, he confesses that he is both lazy and proud.  He sneakily makes deals with the master’s debtors in the hopes that the debtors will see him as an ally and will help take care of him when he is fired.  But what is most confusing about the whole story is that Jesus says we should go and do likewise.

What might be helpful in getting our heads around Jesus’ strange parable is to understand the economics of “Roman-occupied Galilee in the first century.  Rich landlords and rulers were loan-sharks, using exorbitant interest rates to amass more land and to disinherit peasants of their family land, in direct violation of biblical covenantal law.  The rich man … along with his steward or debt collector, were both exploiting desperate peasants.”  Wealthy landlords of the day would hide interest charges in the money owed by the peasants.  According to scholars, someone like the wealthy steward could be charging the average peasant anywhere from 25-50% for the landlord, an additional cut for the himself, and then a Roman tax on top of all that.[i]

Now before we get too self-righteous about the injustice of the Roman economic system, we have to remember the economic system we operate under today.  Think about modern college students, who not only attend colleges with soaring tuitions, but also are being offered student loans with higher interest rates that ever before.  Add on top of that a weak economy and you see our young people being buried under unfair debt.  Or think about predatory payday loans.  Those scraping by to make ends meet start slipping behind.  Bills are due and they do not have enough to make ends meet, so they get lured in by the immediacy of a pay-day loan.  But by the time all is said and done, they lose more of their paychecks to the interest charged by loan sharks than if they had just kept their money.  And just in case we think we can get away with blaming student loan and payday lenders, we cannot forget our own country’s lending policies with impoverished countries.  Leaders of third world countries agree to harshly austere loans we make, but the poor of the country end up bearing the brunt of the burden.  In fact, “the Lutheran World Federation calls oppressive debt terms imposed on Honduras and other Latin American countries ‘illegitimate debt’ and likens such debt itself to ‘violence,’ because of its crushing effects on people’s futures.”[ii]  Though we may not have everyday contact with stewards or managers, their economic system is more familiar than we may realize.

What is unclear about the steward’s actions is how he is able to forgive some of the debtors’ debts.  In forgiving the debts of the debtors, the manager may have been forgiving his own cut of the interest being charged.  In that way, his actions seem a bit more noble.  Obviously, he is cutting out his own salary, but he is doing so in a way that seems to, at least outwardly, condemn the system.  Or, the steward could have been eliminating all the hidden and prohibited interest in the contracts.[iii]  This would have been a bolder move, as he would have been denying the master his typical amount due.  But because he is enforcing Jewish laws around interest, he would have ingratiated himself to the local Jewish peasants.   This is why the steward may receive commendations from the landlord and Jesus – not because he is noble per se, but because he manipulates the unjust system to curry favor with his neighbors – the very ones who might lend him a hand when he is fired for doing something supposedly just.[iv]  Whatever the self-interest of the steward is, what he is able to do, and perhaps why his master calls him shrewd, is use an unjust system against itself.  Just or not, the steward is able to see that the power of mutuality, of relationship, is the better bedfellow than the unjust economic system of the day.

One of my favorite classes in college was a class called “Social Dance.”  We spent the semester learning the Fox Trot, Waltz, Tango, Cha-Cha, and Swing.  My class happened to have more men than women, so I never had to sit out a dance.  I just switched from partner to partner, trying to adjust as each lead learned the steps.  There were many hard lessons in that class, not least of which was learning how to let the man lead.  But the hardest lesson was learning that no matter what dance we were doing, and no matter how intertwined our bodies were, my frame was a vital component to the dance.  Even in a dance like the Tango, where bodies seem to be intertwined, each partner is holding on to their frame, protecting their space.   I was fascinated to see how two bodies could function in such unison, looking like one unit, and yet, be two differentiated, separate units.

As I studied our gospel lesson this week, I wondered if Jesus’ lesson about wealth is not unlike a couple dancing the Tango.  Living in the world that we do, there is no way for us to escape the dancing partner of wealth.  Given that wealth has the power to corrupt, we will always need to keep our frame in place – keeping the dance going in unison, but never letting ourselves forget to be differentiated from dishonest wealth.  Though the steward seems unseemly and self-interested, he shows us an intricate tango with wealth – how to manipulate wealth so that wealth only hurts itself, not those most in need.

The way that we keep that firm frame is by being in relationship – by making friends as Jesus tells us.[v]  When we invest in friendships (not just friendships with people we like, but kingdom friendships[vi] – the kind of relationships that are unexpected, but feed us more than any wealth can), then wealth begins to lose its power to weaken our frame.  Kingdom friendships are those friendships with people at church or in the world with whom you thought you would never have anything in common.  Kingdom friendships are those relationships you develop with those who are different – either socioeconomically, racially, or ethnically.   Kingdom friendships are those relationships that develop when you realize that despite the fact that you are trying to help someone else, they are actually helping you.  The steward may have made kingdom friendships out self-interest, but the results are the same.  He realizes once he sees the humanity in those he is oppressing – once he makes kingdom friendships, the wealth he is pursuing no longer matters.  That is what Jesus invites us into today – that is how Jesus knows that we can hold onto our frame when dealing with the master of wealth.  Jesus invites us to nurture our kingdom friendships because when we nurture those friendships, we strengthen our sense of self, ensuring our frame never slips in our tango with wealth.  Amen.

[i] Barbara Rossing, “Commentary on Luke 16:1-13,” September 18, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2982 on September 14, 2016.

[ii] Rossing.

[iii] Rossing.

[iv] G. Penny Nixon, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 95.

[v] David Lose, “Pentecost 18C:  Wealth and Relationships,” September 14, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/09/pentecost-18-c-wealth-and-relationships/ on September 15, 2016.

[vi] Thomas Long, “Making Friends,” Journal for Preachers, vol. 30, no. 4, Pentecost 2007, 57.

Sermon – Luke 15.1-10, Jeremiah 4.11-12, 22-28, P19, YC, September 11, 2016

14 Wednesday Sep 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

I remember that day like it was months ago, not years ago.  I was driving into work, and caught the story right as I was about to exit the car.  A plane had crashed into one of the twin towers.  I rushed inside to find a radio, and my boss and I spent the day listening to the story unfold.  That night, I got the first glimpse of the destruction on television, and the visual was worse than listening to radio updates.  When the first tower fell, and then the second, the wind rushed out of me as I watched the wind rush out of those buildings.  Life lost inside, life being forced away from the wreckage, chaos and rubble left in the wake.  An eerie silence fell upon us as we watched in horror.

In Genesis 1, the narrator tells us that God forms the earth out of the formless void – tohu wa-vohu, in the Hebrew.  Out of nothingness and chaos, God forms order – separating the watery chaos from the earth, dividing the day from the night, bringing vegetation, beasts, and humans to life.  God takes chaos and creates order.  But on that day fifteen years ago, many of us felt like the opposite happened.  All of our order, routine, and compartmentalizing exploded into havoc.  Two-hundred and twenty stories of order were thrown into disorder – which does not even take into account the madness of destroyed winding hallways in the Pentagon and the decision of victims to crash into their own deaths rather than allow terrorists to use their plane for more destruction.  That day, we felt thrown back into a formless void, unsure of what end was up, and what had happened to our world.

I would like to say all is back to normal now – that after fifteen years, we or God managed to bring order back to the earth.  But all one has to do is look at the news and the state of our planet and governments around the world and feel like we are still in the formless void of post-9-11.  That is what makes the reading from Jeremiah so unsettling today.  As a foil to Genesis 1, Jeremiah 4 describes the earth as waste and void – the same word tohu wa-vohu found in Genesis.[i]  Jeremiah says that a hot, destructive wind[ii] blows and the earth becomes a mess – there is no light, the mountains quake, the people and birds of the air are gone, the fruitful land becomes a desert, and cities’ lay in ruin.  Jeremiah goes on to say something even more jarring – that the people are foolish and stupid.

Now, I imagine you may be sitting here today thinking, “This is supposed to be a celebratory day, and I managed to invite a friend to church.  Can you find us some joy, preacher?!?”  Don’t worry – we will get there.  I am happy to name where hope is today, but before we get to hope we have to go with Jeremiah into that desolate place.  You see, for those of us who know hope and joy, we know we do not arrive there on a straight path.  With the exception perhaps of children who have not begun to sense the depth of our depravity, most of us have been through the barren land Jeremiah sees coming.  Perhaps we only saw that formless void in the midst of a national tragedy, but perhaps we found that nothingness in the face of death, divorce, or debt.  Perhaps the destructive wind blew through our lives when violence, illness, or loneliness overwhelmed us.  We do not need to live in this world too long before we know exactly what that barren land looks and feels like.  There is probably even a scar left behind, or a metaphorical box we keep so that the watery chaos does not drown us.

But here is the weird part.  Only when we claim those times in our lives of tohu wa-vohu, those moments when the world is a formless void, can we experience the fullest heights of hope and joy.  Jeremiah calls the people nasty names today not because they are bad people or because they are not smart.  He calls them those nasty names because they have failed to remember gratefully and loyally who created them.  They have begun to live as if there is no hope, no grace.[iii]  And that is why we come to church.  To not let the formless voids of life overcome us, but to surround ourselves with a group of people who will remind us that there is still reason and room for hope.  We eagerly gather in church because we want to be reminded that our God graciously, lovingly, and mercifully blows a creative air into our nothingness and creates again and again.

That is why we celebrate on this day that could otherwise be a day of overwhelming sadness.  We celebrate today because Jesus tells us two parables that remind us why we are a people of hope.  These parables of being lost are why we gather with laughter and smiles today.  These parables are why we host a party later this afternoon – because we want to mirror the joy that God has over lost coins and sheep.

So how do we turn ourselves from the depths of sadness to the rejoicing of a heavenly party?  We need to do some work first.  Because the parable of the Prodigal Son follows these two short parables in Luke, we sometimes jump ahead and want to conclude, “All we need to do is repent, and the Lord will be happy.”[iv]  But today we only get these two short parables, and for that we are quite lucky.  Here’s the thing:  sheep and coins cannot repent.  They do not have the capacity to understand their own sinfulness.  They do not even have the capacity to act.  The funny thing about sheep who are lost is that they do not go around bleating for help.  They know that such noise might attract a predator.   Instead, they crouch behind a bush or other cover, and try to become invisible – paralyzed by the fear of being consumed in addition to being lost.[v]  Likewise, coins have no agency.  They cannot shout from under the couch cushion, “Over here by the crumbs!!”  Those being found cannot cause God to find them.  Nothing we do can earn us being found by God.  Being found, as always, is a gift from our loving God – who is the kind of God who will always seek us, ever search for us, even when searching for us may seem like a lost cause.  And on top of that, when those who are lost are found, the party that ensues is lavish, extravagant, and a taste of the heavenly banquet, as the heavens rejoice with God.

When I was growing up, money was often tight.  Though my parents rarely talked about our finances, I could tell the financial strain made them anxious.  As an adult, my father finally explained how they got by in scarce times.  A box of produce would show up on our doorstep on a day my dad was wondering what we eat that night.  A large bill would be sitting on the table and in our mailbox he would fine an envelope of cash – sometimes with a note that said, “thinking of you,” but sometimes without even a name.  Now, I am not saying that our family’s experience was the best financial planning model, but what our experience taught us is that sometimes you have no control over the good that happens in your life.  Sometimes you do not even have a person to thank.  Regardless, whatever blessing, whatever good comes our way, what Jesus invites us to do today is to be people who celebrate the God who, sometimes completely illogically, searches us out and finds us – and then throws a party when we are found.

When I realized we would be kicking off our program year on the same day as the fifteenth anniversary of September 11th, I was overcome with dread, wondering if maybe I could just ignore the anniversary and turn our hearts toward celebration.  But our scripture today made me realize that celebration – true, deep, heart-rending celebration – can only happen when we understand the depths of our indebtedness toward our gracious God.  Once we understand that debt, then we can celebrate with grateful hearts.  I am thrilled to be embarking on a new program year with Hickory Neck and look forward to all that this year brings.  But that sense of excitement is especially deep because I know the depths of the formless void – the chaos from which we were created and back into which we sometimes slide.  Having seen the barren land that we sometimes create, I can only be even more filled with gratitude that our God is a God who scours every corner to find the coin She has lost.  Today is a day for sobriety – but that sobriety also leads us to a celebration of the heart:  a lavish party with the heavenly host.  I am grateful to be a part of a faith community that invites me to be a person of abiding hope.  Amen.

[i] Anathea Portier-Young, “Commentary on Jeremiah 4:11-12, 22-28,” September 11, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2973 on September 7, 2016.

[ii] George W. Ramsey, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 51.

[iii] Dwight M. Lundgren, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 53.

[iv] Karoline Lewis, “Lost and Found,” September 4, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post= 4708 on September 7, 2017.

[v] Helen Montgomery DeBevoise, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 70.

Sermon – Jeremiah 1.4-10, P16, YC, August 21, 2016

07 Wednesday Sep 2016

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”  I have lost count of how many times we have asked that question to our oldest daughter.  The answer varies widely depending on what phase she is in or what they have been talking about in school.  I confess that there have been times when I was disappointed when she changed her mind – “author and illustrator” was my favorite, though “engineer” was a pretty good one recently.  But my all-time favorite conversation about what she wanted to be when she grew up was actually a conversation about priesthood.  I asked her my typical question, “So have you decided what you want to be when you grow up?”  She replied thoughtfully, “I can’t decide.  There are too many options.”  Sympathetically I said, “I totally understand.  It took me years to decide what I wanted to be.”  And without a beat, she replied, with disgust, “And you decided to become a priest?!?”

The thing is, I do not think my daughter’s reaction is all that different than most people.  Very few people ever imagine themselves being ordained.  The vocation seems too foreign, to require some mysterious amount of holiness, or to just be too weird.  All of that makes sense to me – not everyone feels called to the priesthood.  But too often acknowledging we do not want to be a priest means that we stop using “call” language altogether.  Instead of being able to talk about what we feel called to do in life, we instead talk about what we want to be when we grow up.  A calling, a ministry, or even a vocation is something that clergy people do, not what we all do.

At least, that is what the secular world would have us believe.  The church says something a bit different.  Throughout our liturgies and Prayer Book, we talk about the ministry of all people.  Our Catechism defines the ministers of the Church as lay persons, bishops, priests, and deacons.  The Catechism further states that the ministry of lay persons is to represent Christ and his Church; to bear witness to him wherever they may be; and, according to the gifts given them, to carry on Christ’s work of reconciliation in the world; and to take their place in the life, worship, and governance of the Church.”[i]  In the baptismal covenant, we all promise to proclaim, by word and example, the Good News of God in Christ, to seek and serve Christ in all persons, and to strive for justice and peace.  Now some of you may argue that you do those things – just not as your daily work.  You are happy to be involved in church, but you do not see your life as a student, a secular worker, or a retiree as a vocation.

And stories like the one we hear in Jeremiah do not help us in this distinction.  You see, we hear Jeremiah’s call today like we hear the call of most prophets – and rightly so, since Jeremiah is so similar to other prophets.  Like Moses, Isaiah, and Ezekiel, Jeremiah balks at the idea that God may be calling him to do something.  Jeremiah protests that he is too young.  Similarly, Moses tried to argue he was unskilled, Isaiah that he was unworthy, and Ezekiel that he did not know what to say.[ii]  When God calls people to do big things, they often push back and seek an out.  In most cases, their fear is legitimate.  Being a prophet is often a thankless job – which can certainly lead to suffering, if not death.  But invariably, God reassures the person being called.  In Jeremiah’s case, God tells Jeremiah that he was born for this job.  “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.”

All of that sounds nice. In fact, many of us love this verse from scripture because the verse gives us a sense of comfort, belonging, and affirmation – a sense that we are all known by God.[iii]  But what we forget is that in knowing Jeremiah so deeply, God also knows that Jeremiah will have to do a really hard job.  The touchy-feely part of the text starts to wane when we hear the part about being a prophet – especially a prophet who will need to fear others.  But here’s the real problem with Jeremiah’s call:  we do not think God similarly calls us.  Not even all priests see themselves as prophets.  Prophets, priests, deacons – those are jobs that other people do.  Those are not jobs we do.  We go to school everyday.  We are teachers, financial consultants, government workers, stay-at-home parents, or journalists.  We are retired and are done with the “job” part of our lives.  We hear stories like the call narratives of Jeremiah, Moses, Ezekiel, and Isaiah, and we can keep ourselves at a safe distance because those are the jobs that those people do.

But remember that catechism and baptismal covenant?  The truth is we are all called to something.  We all have a vocation.  That calling or vocation may be our jobs or what we do every day.  We may live out our vocation as a student when we stand up to a bully, play with the new kid who seems lonely, or help tutor the troublemaker clearly needs help.  We live out our vocations at work when we advocate for justice for our coworkers, when we offer an ear to a coworker who is struggling, or when we organize a volunteer day for our company.  We live out our vocations as retirees when we volunteer at the local homeless shelter, when we treat with dignity the workers we encounter who provide us services, and when we use our time to advocate for the poor.

But vocation is sometimes found outside of those typical confines.  Sometimes living into our vocation means calling that person who has been on our minds – only to discover how much they needed a word of encouragement.  Sometimes living into our vocation means helping the mom in front of us in the grocery store line who is clearly juggling children, groceries, and dealing with a cashier who has never handled food stamps or WIC benefits.  Sometimes living into our vocation means praising and giving thanks to a preschool teacher who just got chewed out by a parent who thinks their child is just fine (when you suspect the child is actually really hard for the teacher to manage).

This fall, we will be starting up an adult education series called Discovery Class.  The class is for newcomers and members alike, who want to learn more about our Episcopal Identity, the work of Hickory Neck, and how we can connect to a ministry.  In the final session, participants will take a survey to help us discern how our gifts might best tie in with a ministry at Hickory Neck.  The survey is a great resource because sometimes teachers are the best matches for Sunday School and Youth Group leadership.  But sometimes, best matches for Sunday School and Youth Group are retirees who have been around the block and get how hard the teenage years are.  Likewise, someone may have been may have been in construction or administration during their career, but really want to learn how to arrange flowers with the Flower Guild, or play with babies in the nursery.  Though many of us have vocations and callings out in the world, sometimes the church is another place where our vocations and callings feed us and others.

So if we are willing to agree that we all have a calling or vocation, recognizing that some vocations can change and evolve over time, how do we know if we are living into our calling?  The true test of a vocation might be something like this:  whatever in your life is the most intimidating, daunting, or even terrifying task (be it teaching teenagers, asking for money for church, or praying in front of a group), and yet, when you try doing that task gives you an odd sense of deep satisfaction and meaning, is probably your vocation.  Prophets would not go kicking and screaming if being a prophet was easy.  And yet, prophets would not say yes without the assurance that God is with them, empowering them to be God’s agents.[iv]

This fall, I hope we will all prayerfully consider what ministry God is calling us to do.  Paul says in his letter to the Ephesians, “I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, …The gifts he gave were that some would be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ, until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ.”[v]  Though Church is certainly meant to give us comfort and encouragement each week, Church is also the place that strengthens us and sends us out into the world to do the work Christ has given us to do.  One of my favorite church signs looked simple enough from the road – with the name of the church emblazed on front, as you drove into the parking lot.  But on the backside, as you were leaving church each week, the sign had a separate message.  The sign read, “Go in Peace to Love and Serve the Lord.”  That is our dismissal this and every week – to not just consume Church, but to use Church as our foundation to go out into the world to love and serve.  And our response is, as always, “Thanks be to God!”  Amen.

[i][i] BCP, 855.

[ii] Bruce C. Birch, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 367.

[iii] John t. DeBevoise, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 364.

[iv] Thomas R. Steagald, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 366, 368.

[v] Ephesians 4.1, 11-13.