Tag Archives: Sermon

Sermon – Acts 16.9-15, E6, YC, May 1, 2016

06 Friday May 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

One of the things that the Search Committee, Vestry, and I all talked about during our time of discernment was church growth.  Now church growth is a loaded topic because inherent in the conversation are a lot of assumptions.  One assumption is that we can talk about church growth without talking about change.  Many churches say they want to grow, but what they mean is that they want to find fresh meat for volunteer positions and new pledgers for the budget.  But inherent in church growth are not just bodies to fill out needs:  church growth means incorporating new people who will have new ideas, new dreams, and new ways of doing things.  The second assumption when we talk about church growth is that we can go about church growth passively.  In other words, as long as we have a good website, we have good programs, a shiny new Rector, and we are nice to people once they arrive, we will grow.  While those things are important and necessary, those things do not fully address how we get people to step on our property, how we encourage people to come back after a first visit, or how we incorporate newcomers fully into the life and ministry of the church.  The final, and my personal favorite, assumption is that church growth is done by the Rector.  The Rector can certainly help lay the foundation of a strong system of invitation, welcome, and incorporation.  But the primary way that church growth happens is through Church members inviting others to church.

All that is to say that my response to the Search Committee and Vestry went a little like this:  I am more than happy to give Hickory Neck all of the infrastructure Hickory Neck needs to grow; but Hickory Neck is going to have to work, be open to change, and get real comfortable with talking about their faith in the neighborhood.  Now I know many of you may be sitting here right now, cursing the Search Committee and Vestry for signing you up for some hard, scary work ahead.  But let me let you in on a little secret:  church growth (or evangelism, if we are feeling really sassy) is not that hard or scary.  That is the great thing about the readings from the Acts of the Apostles during Eastertide:  they are all about the growth of the church.  Last week we heard about how Peter began to understand that God was calling him to share the Good News with the gentiles.  Today, we hear about how Paul is diverted to Europe to share the Good News with the people of Macedonia.

Many of us get a little uncomfortable talking about apostles spreading the Good News because the stories about Peter and Paul seem strange and foreign.  They involve dreams or visions in which God tells them what to do.  They involve going to foreign lands to talk with strangers.  And they sometimes involve, as we will hear next week, getting arrested and sent to jail.  Most of us hear these familiar stories and assume that the stories do not really apply to us because they are historical, ancient stories.  But after the drama of being diverted to a foreign land and searching for a place to join with sympathetic people, what happens to Paul in our text today is not actually all that foreign or unrelatable.  The story tells us that on the Sabbath day, Paul and his companions go find where faithful people are gathered and simply start talking.  The text does not say that Paul gives a presentation about the merits of converting to Christianity.  The text does not say that Paul leads a worship service, with music and the holy meal.  The text simply says that Paul sits down among those gathered, and starts talking.  While Paul is talking, a woman in the group, Lydia, who we understand from the text is an independent woman of wealth[i], overhears what Paul is saying and is so compelled by what Paul says that she and her household are not only baptized, but insist that Paul and his companions come stay with her during their stay in Philippi.

Soon after I became a rector for the first time, I realized I had a lot to learn about church growth.  I read books, poured through research, and talked with experts in the field.  One of my favorite conversations about church growth was with a friend who does church consulting on growth.  In her formation, she had a professor who insisted as part of her training that she needed to go out into town and just start talking to people about Jesus.  She was terrified.  For the first few weeks of class, my friend, now a priest, lied to her professor.  Each week he would ask her how the project was going, and she would tell him that the project was going well.  Finally, the professor called her bluff and insisted that she immediately go somewhere and do her assignment.  So my friend went to a coffee shop, wrote on a piece of paper, “Talk to me about Jesus and I will buy you a cup of coffee,” and then set up her laptop in the hopes that no one would take her up on the offer.  Much to her chagrin, a patron came up to her and said, “I’ll talk to you about Jesus, but I’ll buy the coffee.”  The conversation that ensued was full of the stranger’s story – about how she used to go to church, how she still believes, how the church hurt her, but how she still misses having a church community.  My friend listened to the story, honored the stranger by acknowledging how hard her journey had been, and then did the one thing that is key when talking about church growth.  My friend acknowledged where she saw the presence of God in this stranger’s journey.  And, for good measure, my friend told her that if she ever wanted to try church again, she knew a great place that might just work.

That is the funny thing about church growth.  Church growth happens through real people having real conversations in real time.  Paul sits down with a bunch of women and starts talking.  My friend sat down with a stranger and listened and reflected back on the stranger’s journey.  That is the same invitation that I will be giving us to do over and over again in my time here at Hickory Neck:  that we start having real conversations with real people in real time.  Now I know what some of you may be thinking.  First, you may be thinking, “I cannot believe the Search Committee and Vestry decided to hire this priest who is going to make me do this!”  Second, you may be thinking, “I have no idea how to have real conversations with real people in real time!  What does she expect me to do?  Start talking to strangers at the coffee shop, on the golf course, and at the Little League game?”

Before you get too anxious, I want to give you a little piece of comfort from scripture.  In Peter’s story last week, in Paul’s story today, and in the texts coming up next week and at Pentecost, we learn that all of these encounters happen with the Holy Spirit going before, making a way for the encounter to happen.  In today’s story, Paul has no intention of going to Macedonia.  In fact, in the verses we did not read today, Paul and his crew actually had plans and made attempts to go to other places, but their plans were thwarted by the Holy Spirit.  Finally, Paul has a vision that he was supposed to go to Macedonia.[ii]  Once he and the group decide to follow that vision, everything becomes smooth.  Their travel is not thwarted, they easily find their way to Philippi, they stumble onto a group of women who are believers, and out of nowhere, just through conversations about faith, Lydia steps up and not only desires baptism, she demands that Paul and his company accept her hospitality.  That is the reality about growth:  yes, growth involves putting ourselves out there to have hard conversations, and yes, growth involves being vulnerable and uncomfortable, and yes, growth will even involve change to us personally and to our community as a whole.  But God shows us through the story of scripture, that the Holy Spirit is ever before us, making the way smooth.  When our intentions are simply to share our story, to listen to the stories of others, and to honor the ways in which God is already active and blessing us, then the rest flows smoothly.

We are probably going to be talking about church growth a lot in the years to come.  We will talk about how to grow, we will make changes that will create a strong foundation for invitation, welcome, and incorporation, and we will get out there and talk to our neighbors.  But at the heart of all that work is the promise that the Holy Spirit is ever before us, making the way smooth, calming our nerves so that God can work in spite of us, and showing us how our holy conversations will be a source of blessing to us as much as those conversations are a blessing to others.[iii]  We will do this work together:  you, me, and the Holy Spirit.  The work will be hard, scary, and beautiful.  The work will be a blessing to us all and allow us to be a blessing to this community.  We can do this work together, because the Holy Spirit goes before us.  Amen.

[i] David G. Forney, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 476.

[ii] Brian Peterson, “Commentary on Acts 16:9-15,” May 5, 2013, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1627 on April 27, 2016.

[iii] Peterson.

Sermon – John 13.31-35, E5, YC, April 24, 2016

27 Wednesday Apr 2016

Posted by in Sermons

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

A few years ago, some friends of mine engaged in the elevator speech challenge.  The idea was simple.  If you were stuck in an elevator with someone for thirty seconds and were asked to tell them about your faith, what would you say?  The challenge was to explain to someone your faith in Jesus Christ in thirty seconds or less.  I remember when my friends started sharing their elevator speeches, I was totally intimidated.  First, I knew that if someone actually asked me to do this in an elevator, I would probably stutter through some answer, mostly filled with “ums” and “you knows,” and not much of substance.  But more importantly, even when I tried to sit down and give myself way more than thirty seconds to formulate my thirty-second speech, I could not do it.  I could not figure out how to distill everything that had happened to me in my faith journey, why I still believe and am so devoted to church, and who I believe the three persons of the Godhead to be.

The last night in the upper room that we hear about in our gospel lesson today is a little like Jesus’ elevator speech.  Although the disciples did not fully grasp the importance of that night, Jesus certainly did.  If you remember, back on Maundy Thursday, we joined Jesus and the disciples on this night.  Jesus tells the disciples many things.  He teaches them about the importance of servitude as he washes their feet.  He teaches them how to celebrate the Lord’s Supper.  But when Judas leaves at the beginning of our reading today, Jesus knows he is out of time.  The end is coming and he desperately wants to leave the disciples with a few words of wisdom.  Knowing his time is up, Jesus does not tell anymore parables or give them any convoluted metaphors.  He keeps his words simple and direct.[i]  “Love one another,” he tells them.  “Love one another as I have loved you.”  That is all he gives them.

His words are simple, perfect, and beautiful.  I am sure those words were in many of the elevator speeches I read.  God is love.  Our call is to love as Jesus loved us.  That is how others will know us to be Christians – through our love.  The problem is this:  though “love one another” sounds simple, perfect, and beautiful, loving one another is really hard work.  Think about that one family member who is so difficult – the sibling who always tries to start a fight, the family member who always has some story about why they need to borrow money from you, or that aunt who is just plain mean.  Jesus says we must love them.  Or think about that classmate who started a nasty rumor about you, the coworker who took credit for your idea, or that friend who shared your confidence with someone else.  Jesus says we must love them too.  Or think about that political candidate that you cannot stand, that religious leader who constantly says offensive things, or that homeless person you tried to help who was completely ungrateful.  Jesus says we must love them too.  Jesus words, “Love one another,” are simple, perfect, and beautiful.  But Jesus’ words are also hard, frustrating, and sometimes seemingly impossible.  Loving one another is at times the most wonderful, rewarding thing we do in this life, and at times is one of the most challenging, difficult things we do in this life.  But we love because that is what Jesus taught us to do.

Today we will baptize a child into the family of God.  Baptism is our sacred initiation rite.  During any initiation rite, we normally summarize what is most important to us so that the newly initiated person knows what we expect from her.  In this case, the parents and Godparents will be reminded of our ultimate priorities so that they can teach her in the years to come.  Most of those promises and priorities come in the baptismal covenant.  We ask five questions:  Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of the bread, and in the prayers?  Will you persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?  Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?  Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?  Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?   The questions are big questions – the guiding principles of our faith.  But most of the questions boil down to that night in the upper room:  love one another.

As we think about baptizing Elaina today, and teaching her to love, some of us may feel overwhelmed.  We know how hard loving is.  Elaina will even teach her parents and godparents how difficult loving is:  when she learns and uses the word “no!”, when she throws her first epic temper tantrum, or when she first utters those dreaded words, “I hate you!”  But Elaina will also teach the parents and godparents how wonderful love is:  when she first calls you by name, when you first see her helping someone or tenderly comforting a crying friend, or when she finally learns those wonderful words, “I love you!”  Everyday her parents and godparents will have the chance to teach her about what her baptism means by showing her how to love.  They may not have a patented elevator speech, but Elaina will understand what her Christians identity means when she sees what “love one another” really means.

But today is not just about Elaina, her parents, and her godparents.  Today is for all of us.  Today is a day when we too can take stock of how well we are living into our own identity as baptized children of God.  Every day we can take a moment to remember where we have failed to show love and where we have excelled in showing love.[ii]  The moments will be small and sometimes seemingly inconsequential.  But all those tiny moments add up to a lifetime of loving one another.  And today we will promise to, with God’s help, keep trying to be a people who love another.  Loving one another may not be a fancy elevator speech.  But loving one another might be much more powerful in the long run than any fancy words we can assemble – because Jesus’ commandment today is not so much about what we believe, but about how we live.[iii]  Jesus did not tell us to love one another because he knew loving one another would be easy.  But Jesus did tell us to love one another because he knows that we can.  He has seen each one of us do that simple, perfect, and beautiful act.  Today, he invites us to keep up the good work.  Amen.

[i] Gary D. Jones, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 468, 470.

[ii] David Lose, “On Loving – and Not Loving – One Another,” April 21, 2013, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=2542 on April 20, 2016.

[iii] Jones, 470.

Sermon – Acts 9.36-43, E4, YC, April 17, 2016

20 Wednesday Apr 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

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

This morning I want start with some thanksgiving.  I would like to thank the members of the Search Committee and the Vestry for being so faithful in prayerful discernment with me and the other candidates for Rector of Hickory Neck Episcopal Church.  My interactions with them gave me a sense of hope and joy about what lies ahead for us as a community of faith.  Though I know he has moved on to his next cure, I would also like to thank Henry for being such a faithful shepherd among us, especially during a time of transition and upheaval while still being new to the priesthood.  He paved the way for us to be ready for this next phase of ministry.  And finally, I would like to thank each one of you.  You have put a tremendous amount of prayer and trust into this process, and I am grateful for your support of this parish.  I am looking forward to learning about your ministries in this place and helping bolster your good work in the world.

The people of Hickory Neck are in good company today.  In our reading from Acts this morning, we hear about another faithful servant of God.  Tabitha, also known in her community by the name Dorcas, is a disciple renowned for her good works and acts of charity.  We know that she is an adept seamstress, who uses her sewing prowess to clothe the needy in her community.  We know that her witness and work are so powerful that the widows who benefit from her charity are found weeping by her deathbed.  We know that her discipleship is so profound that two men journey to a nearby town to find Peter in the hopes that he might be able to do something miraculous for the woman who was a miracle for so many others.[i]

As I prayed with Tabitha this week, I realized how many similarities her witness shares with Hickory Neck’s witness and ministry.  One of the reasons I was attracted to Hickory Neck during the discernment process was the vibrancy of ministry and the health of the congregation.  I was impressed to learn that thousands of dollars raised by your annual Fall Festival go directly to supporting local outreach ministries.  I have enjoyed hearing stories about making meals, visiting prisoners, and collecting goods for our neighbors in need.  But even more impressive to me is the desire among parishioners to do more:  to dream bigger dreams about how not only we can use our hands to more directly serve the poor, but also how we might use the gift of this property more creatively to be a living witness of the love of Jesus in our community.  What I saw in the discernment process was a church who is healthy and vibrant and who is poised for new and exciting work.

Now what is funny about all those good vibrations is that juxtaposed with that percolating vision is a community who has been treading water.  After the decline of your last rector, a shortened interim period, and making due with only an assistant, many of you have also shared with me your sense that these last few years have also been a time of getting by, but maybe not necessarily thriving.  I would never suggest that these last years have been like a death – but maybe like a time of hibernation.  Like an animal who lives off their stored up energy and fat over the winter, Hickory Neck has been getting by with the things that she learned long ago:  good worship and music, solid pastoral care and welcome, and powerful outreach ministries and educational opportunities.

Now Tabitha is not hibernating.  According to Luke’s writing in Acts, Tabitha is not just sleeping.  She becomes quite ill and dies.  Truthfully, if Tabitha had been in a deep sleep, her story might be a little easier to believe.  I do not know about you, but miracle stories like Tabitha’s are always a little strange to me.  Whether the story is the one from First Kings, where Elijah brings the son of the widow back to life after a strange ritual of laying himself over the dead boy’s body three times[ii]; or whether the story is of Jesus raising his friend Lazarus from the dead after four days in the tomb[iii]; or whether the story is this strange one where Peter prays over a dead disciple and simply says, “Tabitha, get up,” and she does, these stories always seem strange to me.  One, I do not really understand the mechanics of raising someone from the dead.  Having never seen such a miracle myself, I cannot imagine how or why such a thing happens.  Perhaps I am too jaded by modern science, but part of me just does not understand raising people from the dead.  Two, I do not understand why people are raised from the dead.  The idea sounds great in principle.  I am sure the mourning families and friends are incredibly relieved.  But, with the exception of Jesus, all of the people who are raised from the dead must have to die again eventually.  I’m not sure why people even bother.  Finally, what I really do not understand about these stories is what they mean for us today.  Though we love these biblical stories, I know plenty of people who would like to see their loved ones raised from the dead.  Many of them might even have a case based on the good works they have done, like Tabitha.  Surely people like Tabitha deserve another chance to keep making a difference in the world!

Regardless of the fact that the text does not tell us how, or why, or even why not someone else, what the text does tell us is that Tabitha is in fact dead, Peter in fact raises her from the dead, and then the alive Tabitha is presented to her people, presumably to get back to doing all the good works and charity she had been doing before – or perhaps even better works of charity.  Implicit in Peter’s words, “Tabitha, get up,” is the notion that Tabitha’s work is not done yet.  In fact, Tabitha must have even greater works to do.  God is not done with Tabitha yet.

That is what I love about this story for Hickory Neck.  God is not done with us yet either.  As I was reading up about hibernation, one of the things I learned is that some species, like polar bears, hibernate while gestating their young.  I was blown away by that realization.  Pregnancy is that time when the host is usually taking on more calories, building up muscles to prepare for the birth, and dealing with the activity of a developing fetus – especially once the kicking begins.  I cannot imagine sleeping through that whole process or storing up enough sustenance to help both bodies grow and thrive during hibernation.

But the more I thought about the hibernating polar bear, the more I realized that is exactly what has been happening with Hickory Neck.  Perhaps these last couple of years have felt like a hibernation period – a time of lower energy and output.  But I wonder if Hickory Neck is not unlike a hibernating mama polar bear.  Though we have been keeping things steady, we have also been working hard on nurturing and producing new life.  We have not been sleeping to survive a cold spell.  We have been resting to cultivate and grow new life – a new life which is about to be born.

Today, Peter’s words and actions are for us too.  The text tells us that when Peter arrives he sends everyone outside, kneels down, and prays.  We have been praying too.  We have been praying that God guide us through a time of turbulence and transition, we have been praying that Jesus nurture us during our time of hibernating, and we have been praying that the Holy Spirit help us explode with renewed energy and life.  After Peter prays, his words to Tabitha are simple, “Tabitha, get up.”  Hickory Neck has received a similar charge.  When the Holy Spirit led us to one another, we heard the same words.  “Hickory Neck, get up.”  God is not done with us yet either.  That new life we have been gestating is eager to be born in and through us.  Finally, one more thing happens in our text.  The text says, “Peter gave Tabitha his hand and helped her up.”  Though Peter’s words are unambiguous to Tabitha, Peter does not expect Tabitha to get up and get to work alone.  He offers her a hand.  The same is true for us.  Though we are charged to get up and start caring for this new life we have been nurturing, we do not do the work alone.  The Holy Spirit is reaching out to us to help guide us to our feet.  I will be reaching out my hand to each of you, but I will also need you to reach your hand out to me.  And, more importantly, we will also need to reach out our hands to those not yet in our midst, who will be a part of the new life we have been gestating.  I do not know about you, but I cannot wait to see what our new growing family looks like.  So, Hickory Neck, get up!  Amen.

[i] Stephen D. Jones, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 429.

[ii] 1 Kings 17.17-24

[iii] John 11.1-44

Sermon – Luke 24.1-12, ED, YC, March 27, 2016

29 Tuesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

Where I grew up, the practice of sharing a “testimony” was commonplace.  In fact, many of my friends had no problem asking what my testimony was.  Usually what someone meant when they asked, “What’s your testimony?” was they wanted to know the story of when you were “saved.”  Now, just because I grew up in the culture did not mean that I felt comfortable with that question.  In fact, I can tell you that the question usually led me to lots of stammers and fidgeting.  Once I actually asked, “What exactly do you mean when you say ‘saved’?”  But the answer made me even more uncomfortable.  The basic assumption seemed to be that being “saved” was like having an epiphany moment – a moment of clarity when you heard the voice of God, and you made an active decision to accept Jesus as your “personal Lord and Savior.”

So you can imagine how profoundly grateful I was to stumble into the Episcopal Church as an adult and find that no one ever asked me about my testimony or being saved.  In fact, I am not even sure most Episcopalians have that kind of language around their faith.  If you asked an Episcopalian when they were saved, they might tell you about a near miss with a car or a time when doctors had to administer CPR.  Once I realized most Episcopalians were not going to demand to hear my testimony of how I came to accept Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior, I realized I might have actually found my people.

Of course, I am not sure either tradition really has it right.  In fact, I think the two cultures represent two extremes – the culture I grew up in believed being saved and being able to retell the story was crucial to membership; and the culture I chose to stay in believed that asking anyone about their faith life was way too personal of a conversation that should be avoided at all costs – we are just glad you are here.  Of course, I lean toward the Episcopal extreme, but I do see some of the dangers of our extreme.  You see, in our efforts to be polite and unobtrusive, we forget something very important about testimonies:  testimonies help us grow together.

Perhaps I should back up and talk about what testimonies are.[i]  Now, my childhood friends would define a testimony as the story of how you were saved.  I would actually describe a testimony as the story of how you came to know Jesus – whether you came to know Jesus through all the Sunday School stories you learned, whether you found the church as an adult and slowly felt yourself more and more drawn in by the story of Jesus, or whether you are still figuring out your journey and you are not really sure what you are doing but you know you want to be here.  The cool thing about a testimony is that there is no right or wrong testimony.  Your testimony is unique to you, and your testimony is not only good, but is compelling.

That is what I love about our gospel lesson today.  Today’s story sets the stage for a lot of testimonies.  On this day three women go to the tomb to tend to Jesus’ body and instead have an incredible experience.  On this day the disciples listen to some crazy story by the women of their group – believing that clearly the women are either seeing things, are suffering from sleep-deprivation, or are just out of their minds with grief.  On this day, Peter cannot resist the temptation to check out the scene in the tomb himself – and he is rewarded by being amazed at what he sees.

But those are just the facts of the story as we read them.  Those details are not their testimonies.  No, I imagine the testimonies are quite different.  I imagine Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James’ testimony would go something like this, “You are right.  Sometimes people will think you are crazy when you tell your story.  I remember back when Jesus first died, we had this amazing encounter at his tomb.  We were overwhelmed and overjoyed, but do you think the men would believe us?  They eventually came around, but those first few weeks were hard.”

I imagine the disciples’ testimony came from a different angle.  Their testimony might have gone something like this, “I totally get what you mean.  The story really is crazy.  Even I, one of his closest disciples, did not believe the story when Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James told me.  In fact, I wondered if their grief had not left them mentally unstable.  But slowly my heart warmed.”

And I imagine Peter’s testimony was even more different.  “Trust me,” he might have said.  “I totally understand what you mean about not feeling worthy.  I felt like I behaved even worse that Judas.  I did not betray Jesus for money, but I did deny him three times in public.  When that cock crowed, my heart shattered.  I never thought God would forgive me.  But when I stood in that empty tomb, and remembered what Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James told me, a spark of hope lit in my heart.  Suddenly I understood that Jesus could redeem me – even me – the worst friend and disciple you could be.”

Testimonies are not stories about how pious we are.  Testimonies do not fit into a formula or even make us look particularly good.  Testimonies are stories – our stories – of how we have encountered God.  They are not meant to be perfect stories.  In fact, the more imperfect the story, the better, because testimonies are meant to be shared.  I do not know about you, but I find imperfect stories much more compelling than perfect ones.  When Mary Magdalene tells me people thought her story was crazy, I feel like I can be more honest about my own story – no matter how crazy my story may sound.  When Peter tells me about how unfaithful he was, I feel like I can be more honest about my own unfaithfulness.  When the disciples tell me how dismissive they were, I can be more honest about how I am not always a good listener for God.

On this Easter Sunday, the Church shares her testimony.   We wake up this morning as if from a bad dream.  Lingering in our subconscious are stories of betrayal, unfaithfulness, brutality, and death.  The sting of grief and the sobriety created from deep failure still tingles.  But on this day, something utterly unexpected, confusing, and amazing happens.   Jesus warned us this would happen, but we did not really understand him at the time.  But in the empty tomb hope bursts forward.  Our hearts are filled with joy at the possibility that Jesus’ death changes things.  In the coming weeks, we will hear the rest of the Church’s testimony about how, in fact, Jesus resurrection does change things – stories of eternal life, of the kingdom made present, of sins washed away, of forgiveness and a New Covenant.  The story is admittedly a bit crazy.  But the story, the Church’s testimony, is full of hope, love, and grace.

St. Margaret’s has its own unique testimony.  The St. Margaret’s testimony begins with the stale stench of cigarettes in the Plainview American Legion Hall and journeys through baptisms in a church that was still under construction.  The testimony is full of bowling leagues, choirs, progressive dinners, and youth groups.  The testimony is full of leaders – both lay and ordained – who shaped the different eras of our life together.  No single part of our story is perfect, and no single part of our story is without redemption.  And our testimony is still unfolding, year after year, even when some questioned whether we could keep going.

Our individual testimonies are the same.  Some of them are circuitous, as we took a winding path to get to know our Lord.  Some of them are strange, involving odd encounters and sacred moments.  Some of them have yet to be articulated or understood.  Whatever our testimony may be, our testimonies are not meant to be kept to ourselves.  They are meant to be shared.  Just like the Church models for us today as we shout our long awaited alleluias, we too are meant to share our imperfect, strange, quirky testimonies.  We share them with one another and out in the world because our stories have had a tremendous impact on our lives.  Those stories, in all their glorious imperfection, are also the stories that help us connect with others, to share the Good News, and to grow the body of faith.[ii]  My testimony will now include the stories of my time here at St. Margaret’s, as your testimony and the testimony of St. Margaret’s will also include parts of these last four-plus years.  The joy of this day, the comfort of the Church’s story, and the satisfaction of the Holy Meal are all meant to empower us to go out in the world and share our imperfect, beautiful testimonies.  The world is waiting – and Jesus goes with us.  A

[i] Martin E. Marty, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 350.

[ii] Marty, 350.

Sermon – John 18.1-19.42, GF, YC, March 25, 2016

29 Tuesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

One of my favorite places is the garden at a monastery called Mepkin Abbey in South Carolina.  The trees are old and large, many dripping with Spanish moss.  There are a few statues and pieces of artwork that are artfully nestled in the gardens.  There is an old, small cemetery surrounded by a rusty wrought-iron fence.  But the most wonderful part of the garden is the river that runs along the edge of the gardens.  Benches are strategically placed near the water’s edge so that visitors can sit and listen to the lapping water, hearing the whir of insects, and rustle of the breeze.  The gardens of Mepkin Abbey are one of the most peaceful places I know.

Or at least, they are supposed to be.  Everything there, from the beauty of God-made creation to the beauty of man-made art, is supposed to invite the visitor into holy contemplation.  But I rarely find contemplation peaceful.  Contemplation usually leads me to a quiet conversation with God – which certainly sounds peaceful and serene.  But the trouble is that more often, my prayer life is about talking to God.  When I make space for the kind of quiet I need to actually listen to God, I sometimes hear things I do not want to hear.  God uses the rare gift of silence to put before me the things I have been avoiding with all my busyness.  So what should be a time of peaceful bliss more often becomes a time of sobering reflection.

The agonizing story we tell this day is rooted in gardens too:  three of them to be exact.  As the story opens we are told that Jesus and the disciples go to a garden – one where they had frequented, as Judas is familiar with the garden where they often met.  The garden was a place of peace for Jesus – the place where he retreated for prayer after long days of teaching, preaching, and healing.  The garden was a place of familiarity – a home for the man who really had no home.  The garden was a place of affirmation – a place where he and his closest companions went together without pressure to perform or do, but to just be together.  Into that peaceful garden violence erupts.  “Sinful men, violent men, men with weapons, come to the garden in the dark, looking for someone,” as one scholar writes.  “The someone who was the father’s only son.  Like all humans, they are looking for God, but they don’t know that’s what they are doing.  They think they are only doing their job…”[i]  But unlike in Matthew, Mark, and Luke’s gospel, John does not paint the garden as one of agony.  No, Jesus has already done his grieving.  In this garden, Jesus is ready.  We hear his resolve in his conversation with the armed men.  Jesus has no intention of hiding or grieving in the darkness.

The story of that garden is laced with the story of another garden:  the garden in which John’s gospel is rooted.  If you remember, John’s gospel is the gospel which starts on a much more philosophical note than the other gospels.  “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”  In the beginning there was a garden too – the Garden of Eden.  In the Garden of Eden, the roles were reversed.  Instead of men coming to look for God in the person of Jesus, God goes looking for man – Adam, specifically.  N. T. Wright describes that day in Eden artfully, “[God] came on the evening breeze, came as he had always come.  Came because they knew each other, and used to spend time together.  Came to the garden because that’s where they always met.  That’s where he was at home.  And there was no answer.  The man had hidden.  Something had happened.  The friendship was soured.  There was a bad taste in the air, a taste made worse by the excuses and feeble stories that followed.  Love, the most fragile and beautiful of the plants in that garden, had been trampled on.  It would take millennia to grow it again.”[ii]

In the garden of Eden, God comes searching for a sinful man.  In the garden of betrayal, sinful men come looking for God.  The first Adam entered into sin, forever straining the relationship between humankind and the Creator.  John’s gospel presents Jesus as the true Adam, the man without sin, who is sent to his death by sinful Adams, so that “the garden may be restored, and instead of bloodshed there may be healing and forgiveness.”[iii]  From the beginning of our story today, the two gardens are ever intertwined, holding for us the tension of the significance of this event.  For although this story today is the story of our Savior crucified, the story today is also a cosmic one, one we understand to be rooted in the oldest of stories – the fall of humankind that is not redeemed until the fall of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Of course, Jesus standing boldly in the garden of betrayal is just the beginning of our story.  We listen intently as we hear the painful story retold – of God’s chosen ones betraying God by putting Caesar in the place of God, of Pilate sacrificing his ethics because of peer pressure, of disciples abandoning and denying Jesus, of Jesus’ suffering to the very end.  And where do we end our story, but in another garden – the garden that holds a new tomb that Joseph of Arimathea offers.  This is the garden that will host sacred events.  The redemption begins right away.  Though Joseph and Nicodemus were ashamed and afraid of their discipleship, when the opportunity comes to show their loyalty, they do not waiver.  Their shame is washed away by their royal care of Jesus’ body.  With enough spices for a king, in an untouched tomb, in the beauty of a garden, they put to rest the new Adam, who redeems the age-old Adam in us all.

Now I said initially that there are three gardens in our text.  That number is still true.  But today, we create our own garden as well.  Our garden is bare – stripped of beauty and adornment.  But our garden is still here – a sacred place of comfort, companionship, and company with God.  Stripping our garden of its usual adornment allows us to strip ourselves of our normal busyness and sit with our God.  That is what gardens do for us anyway.  No matter how many beautiful pieces of art or flowering beauties we see, at some point we have to sit down, take a deep breath, and listen to our God.  That is what we do today.  We come to the garden of the redeemed to ponder how we got here.  We come to remember our roots in the sin that severed our relationship with God in the Garden of Eden.  We come to remember those times when we have taken up arms as we stormed into the Garden of Betrayal.  And we also come to remember those moments of redemption when we did the right thing, placing our Lord in the Garden of rest.

Our time in the garden of redemption will not necessarily leave us feeling fulfilled.  In fact, our leaving here pondering the cosmic nature of what Jesus has done to remedy the sin of humanity is all we are given today.  We know good news is coming – that the garden of rest will become the garden of resurrection.  But not today.  Today we leave this place pondering our own participation in the action of the gardens of today’s story:  those times of our sinful fleeing from God, those times of our sinful persecution of God, and those times of our abandoning God or our fear of proclaiming God.  We are blessed by the garden of redemption, the garden of St. Margaret’s, to sit and listen.  We share the experience and draw strength from one another.  Our joy will come soon.  But not today.  Amen.

[i] N. T. Wright, John for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 102.

[ii] Wright, 102.

[iii] Wright, 104.

Sermon – John 13.1-17, 31b-35, 1 Corinthians 11.23-26, MT, YC, March 23, 2016

29 Tuesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

As I was writing the sermon for tonight, I realized that maybe we have structured our evening all wrong.  We actually started off on the right foot.  We gathered over a common meal, assembled by dishes from each of our homes (or from the deli you swung by on the way here).  Our meal was a feast made by many hands, and completely organic – shared out of the varying gifts we bring.  In fact, we even did things in a way that was more in line with what Paul wanted for the Corinthians.  The passage that we read tonight from First Corinthians is mostly just the familiar text that includes Jesus’ institution of Holy Eucharist.  But in the verses before what we read tonight, Paul admonishes the Corinthians.  Instead of a true Eucharistic meal, where bread and wine are shared equally and intentionally, the Corinthians have gotten into the habit of having communal meals, but everyone fends for themselves.  In other words, their meal would be like if Kathleen had made a homemade casserole, Kim had grabbed Chinese takeout for her and the kids, Lois had brought the finest filet mignon with a glass of wine from a local fine dining establishment, and I showed up empty-handed.  Except in Corinth, you eat what you bring.  If you show up empty-handed, you leave hungry.  Unlike the Corinthians, at least we got that part right tonight.

But if I had been thinking, instead of coming up here to our beautiful worship space, we would have stayed downstairs.  Mid-meal, I would have taken off my jacket, rummaged around for a towel and bowl from our kitchen, and started washing your feet.  As I moved from table to table, we would have talked about what I was doing, and why Jesus did the same for his disciples.  You see, tonight, we hear the story that is only found in John’s gospel about how Jesus teaches the disciples to love and serve one another and their neighbors.  In order to love, which is going to be their primary mission, they will need to be able to get down on the floor among the crumbs and the remains of the festivities, and tenderly care for one another.

And further, had we been feeling really countercultural, I would have grabbed a loaf of bread that someone got at Stop-N-Shop, and some wine sitting on the beverage table, and we would have talked about how on the night before Jesus is betrayed, he breaks bread with his friends, telling them that the bread is his body, and the wine is his blood – given for them.  We would have passed the loaf around, tearing the bread into bite-sized pieces, dropping blessed crumbs everywhere, and looking into each other’s eyes as we pass the bread, reminding each other that this is the body and blood of our Lord.

If I had been thinking, that is what we could have done tonight – because that is what happens on this last night for Jesus:  a downhome, shared, messy meal, with uncomfortable, intimate moments, and a meal that does not necessarily feed our bellies but feeds our souls.  But Jesus’ words and experiences that night are not just for the disciples.  His words are words for the future.  He knows his death is coming.  In the face of death, he longs to remind the disciples what they will need to do after his death.  This last night is all about Jesus’ final instructions to the disciples.

That is why we call this day Maundy Thursday.  Maundy comes from the Latin word for mandate.  On this night we remember Jesus’ mandate to love one another as he has loved us.[i]  We remember Jesus’ mandate to serve.  And we remember Jesus’ mandate to eat together, feasting on the holy meal.  Where we remember that mandate does not actually matter – whether we remember among the old stones of a Cathedral, in the cozy, board and batten sanctuary of St. Margaret’s, or in the bustling, laughter-filled, sometimes messy Undercroft.  The location matters much less than the intentionality with which we listen to Jesus’ words.

Tonight I invite you walk through the last night of Jesus experiencing the tangibility of this night:  a meal with fellow believers, the washing of feet, Holy Communion, and the stripping of the altar as we head into the night watch.  But I also invite you to remember Jesus’ final mandate:  to love as he has loved us, to serve others, and to sustain our work through the holy meal.  The actions of this night are important, but even more important is the way that this night changes us tomorrow.  Amen.

[i] Mike Graves, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 271.

Sermon – Luke 22.14-23.56, PS, YC, March 20, 2016

29 Tuesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

What strikes me this year about the passion narrative is the profound depth of failure.  We start off today with the glorious action of waving palms and declaring Christ to be the King, only to betray him and to deny that truth over and over again.  Judas, one of Jesus’ faithful disciples, fails Jesus by betraying him to the authorities.  The disciples fail Jesus by getting caught up in an argument about whom among them is the greatest – a self-centered argument on the best of days, but an utter failure of focus on Jesus’ last day.  Later the disciples fail Jesus by falling asleep while he prays in Gethsemane – when he had specifically pleaded with them to pray with him.  One of the disciples fails as he resorts to violence, striking one of the slaves of the high priest.  Peter, one of Jesus’ most loyal and insightful disciples, three times denies having known Jesus before others.  The leadership of the faithful fail over and over as they insist on Jesus’ death out of fear.  Pilate tries three times to release Jesus but succumbs to peer pressure and has Jesus killed despite the fact that he knows Jesus is innocent.  All the people gathered are willing to release a known murderer and insurrectionist in order to kill innocent Jesus.  Hanging in death, one of the two criminals by Jesus’ side derides Jesus to the end.  Even the soldiers mock Jesus as he hangs helplessly approaching death.

Jesus’ death on the cross is a grave enough sin to mourn today.  But when that sin is preceded by failure after failure after failure of the people to right their relationship with God, we see more clearly the deep recesses of human depravity.  The staggeringly long list of sins would be easy enough for us to dismiss as “those peoples’ sin.”  But that is part of the reason that we participate so tangibly in the liturgy today: waving palms, reading parts of the passion narrative, shouting “crucify him!”  We play an active role in the liturgy today so that we can understand how active our role is in the same sin of “those people.”  Listening to the story is heartbreaking – not just because watching others sin is hard to do, but also because we see ourselves in their sinfulness.  We know their failures because we fail too. We fail to honor Christ in our own day, we deny our Lord, we betray our God, we fail to be faithful disciples.[i]  Though there is a part of us that wants to claim we would never have been bystanders or participants in Jesus’ death, the scary reality is that we know we would have.[ii]  Their failure is our failure.

Acknowledging our utter depravity is important today.  We have spent the last six weeks pondering our sinfulness and working on amendment of life.  But perhaps we can never truly amend our lives without recognizing how deeply our sinfulness goes.  Our Lenten disciplines are meant to help us focus on one specific area of life that needs amendment, and in that way, our disciplines are effective means of bringing us closer to God.  But today, the Church reminds us that we have so much further to go.  Even if we managed to see amendment of life this Lent, today we are reminded of how our very nature is one of repetitious sinfulness that knows no bounds.

So why does the Church have us wallow so deeply in our sin today?  The primary reason we journey through the dark tunnel of our sinfulness and failures is so that we can more fully appreciate the enormity of next week.  Next week, our tone and content is almost the opposite – total joy and jubilation that our Lord is risen from the dead.  But in case we were tempted to become jaded by Easter – to be distracted by our new suits and dresses, the festive songs and flowers, or the bountiful meals – the Church wants us to remember how profoundly full of blessing Easter is.  The profound depth of our sinfulness is matched by the profound depth of love and forgiveness offered in Christ’s resurrection next week.  So although the depravity of this day may feel like overkill, that overkill is necessary for us to understand the shocking gift of Christ’s resurrection.  Although today’s sense of failure may feel overwhelming, I invite you to absorb the sobering reality of this day.  Carry that weight with you this week as we journey through the Holy Days.  If you are able to do that, the release of that burden on Easter Day may be more profound than any of the surface trappings of Easter.  And your cries of rejoicing will be born out of a place of deep gratitude and appreciation for the Lord our God, who loves us despite our failings.  As a people who know how little we deserve our Lord, we will rejoice with newfound appreciation of the God of love – the God who gave his only begotten Son, so that all that believe in him might have eternal life:  a tremendous gift indeed!  Amen.

[i] William G. Carter, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 182.

[ii] H. Stephen Shoemaker, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 181.

Sermon – Luke 15.1-3, 11b-32, L4, YC, March 6, 2016

10 Thursday Mar 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

Growing up, my Grandfather was considered a saint.  He was kind and funny.  He was a wiz in the kitchen, and he always made you feel good.  He was beloved by all, and was known as a champion for the underdog.  That narrative was affirmed at his funeral as we told stories of his kindness and generosity.  He was without blemish and probably could have remained so had I not asked questions.  But over coffee one day, I had a conversation about the saintliness of my grandfather with my aunt and uncle.  Over the course of our conversation they slowly opened my eyes about how my grandfather was more nuanced that I realized.  What I interpreted as kindness they helped me see as, at times, avoiding conflict to the detriment of others.  What I saw as peacemaking could be interpreted as not standing up to bullies.  Slowly the one-dimensional man I knew developed layers – layers of goodness and weakness; layers of helpfulness and harm; layers of perfection and flaws.

We regularly do the same thing with those who have died – whether canonized saints or beloved family members.  In death, we honor all the goodness about them and gloss over the bad parts.  A classic example is one of my favorite modern-day saints, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  He spearheaded a movement with grace, insight, and boldness and inspired generations.  But I remember reading later in life how his treatment of women in the Civil Rights Movement was not always as admirable.  Slowly his layers emerged for me.  Although I still admire his work and writings, his life is more nuanced now.

Now some people will argue that we should not speak ill of the dead – that we should show our respect by letting go of the bad and only honoring the good.  In some respects, I understand why people do not want to dishonor the dead.  But I think telling stories that only make others seem perfect without honoring their flaws hurts us more than helps us.  That is why I love the parable of the two sons from our gospel today.  I resists calling the parable the parable of the prodigal son because I think both sons have something to teach us.[i]  In the parable, we can easily see the two brothers in one-dimensional ways.  The older brother is the good and faithful son for loyally supporting his father and the family business.  The younger brother is the bad son who insults his father, squanders his ill-gotten inheritance, and shamefully asks for more than he deserves.  Those one-dimensional stories are stories we know.  We have friends, family members, or maybe some of us even who are those characters – the responsible older sibling, or the troublemaking younger sibling; the child whom the parent always brags about, or the child about whom the parent seems embarrassed; the child who brings the family honor, or the child who brings the family shame.

But like any good parable, these characters are not as one-dimensional as they seem.  I was thinking about the younger brother this week and I realized we never hear about his impression of the party his father throws.  We suspect he is grateful for his father’s forgiveness, and we honor the humble way the younger son repents, but that party must have been hard.  Everyone at the party knows his sin.  Asking for his portion of his father’s inheritance before his father’s death was tantamount to wishing his father were dead.[ii]  In order for his father to give the younger son the money, he would have had to have sold off some land – a fate even worse for a culture who understood their land to be God’s promised gift.[iii]  Though his father’s forgiveness must have been a relief, I cannot imagine the rest of the town being so gracious.  I wonder whether the son stayed humble and repentant during the party; whether he was able to relax into his newfound forgiveness, laughing and joking; or whether he felt uncomfortable, bristling from his neighbors’ judgment and sideways glances.

Of course, we cannot forget the older brother.  The dutiful, obedient, hardworking brother loses all his perfection in his reaction to this party.  The older brother throws a temper tantrum of epic proportions.  He whines about the abundance his father shows his brother – perhaps rightfully so, since the money and fatted calf used for the party comes from what is left of the older son’s inheritance.[iv]  He complains about how he has never experienced such bounty and celebration.  He resents his father’s lack of gratitude for all the older son’s dutiful work.  Some of the son’s indignation is warranted.  He was, in fact, the good son, and his younger brother had behaved badly.  But the rewards of the story are not playing out so simply.  The older brother overreacts.  You see, his response is equally disgraceful to his father.  In the day of this parable, the host of a party was never to leave his guests.  Going to his older son would have been seen as disrespectful to the guests he had invited.[v]  But just like he goes out to meet his younger son, the father goes out to meet the older son, offering him similar generosity and abundance in the face of his son’s sin.

Part of why we love this parable so much is that we can identify with all the characters.  We are a people of nuanced layers too.  We have our younger son moments and our older son moments.  We have moments when we are bastions of forgiveness and grace, and moments when we withhold that forgiveness and grace.  Those among us who are known as having deep wells of patience have our moments when we snap.  And those among us who are known as being judgmental or stern have our moments of insightful kindness.

Our layers are why we have seasons like Lent and days for healing prayers.  In Lent, we shuffle home from our partying, wastefulness, and self-centeredness and return to our forgiving Lord.  In Lent, we bring our resentfulness, jealousy, and self-righteousness to the altar as we long for another way. In Lent, we bring our judgment of others and our judgment of ourselves and exchange them for freedom for humility and compassion.  Having a healing service in Lent allows us to do those things in a tangible way – not just to pray for physical healing of ourselves and others, but to pray for spiritual healing for those layers that are not as beautiful as others.

In order to honor that work of self-reflection and repentance, the church gives us what is called Rose Sunday, Refreshment Sunday, or even Mothering Sunday.  The idea is that being half-way through Lent, we take a day to break our fasting in these forty days.  In many parishes, to reflect the respite from penitence and fasting, the vestments and paraments change from their usual Lenten array to a beautiful rose-colored array.  On this day, we take a break from wallowing in ashes and our sack cloths, and we find refreshment in our Lord’s forgiveness and redemption.  In England, apprentice boys took this day off to visit their mothers, hence the one designation as Mothering Sunday.  We hear that invitation into gladness today in our psalm, “Happy are they whose transgressions are forgiven, and whose sin is put away!  Happy are they to whom the Lord imputes no guilt, and in whose spirit there is no guile!”[vi]  After weeks of repentance, heaviness, and weight, today the church invites us into forgiveness, lightness, and joy.

Rose Sunday is like the father in our parable today – full of forgiveness, grace, and love for us and all our layers – the good and the not-so-good – because we all have the layers.  Today the church runs out to greet us, leaves a good party, and meets us where we are – and loves us.  Today, the church says, “I see your layers, and I love all the parts of you, fully.”  Today the church is a fool for forgiveness, not wisely teaching us a lesson about humility, but senselessly lavishing upon us grace, love, and freedom from our self-centeredness and self-righteousness.  On this refreshment Sunday, the church invites us to remember that we are beloved children of God, a God who knows all our layers and loves us anyway.

I invite you today to take on the fullness of refreshment this day.  Whatever you have been working on this Lent, whatever guilt you have been harboring, or whatever sinfulness you have been examining, know that your sins are forgiven.  Know that you can come forward for healing prayers, not asking for healing and wholeness, but celebrating the healing and wholeness you have already experienced.  Know that you can come to the Eucharistic table not just for solace only but for strength; not just for pardon only, but for renewal.  As we say in our Rite I prayers, Jesus says to us, “Come unto me, all ye that travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.”[vii]  Amen.

[i] Karoline Lewis, “Perspective Matters,” February 28, 2016, http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4553 as found on March 3, 2016.

[ii] N. T. Wright, Luke for Everyone (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004),187.

[iii] Leslie J. Hoppe, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 119.

[iv] Barbara Brown Taylor, “The Parable of the Dysfunctional Family,” April 17, 2006, as found at http://www.barbarabrowntaylor.com/newsletter374062.htm on March 3, 2016.

[v] David Lose, “Lent 4 C:  The Prodigal God,” February 28, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/02/lent-4-c-the-prodigal-god/ on March 3, 2016.

[vi] Psalm 32.1-2.

[vii] Matthew 11.28.  BCP 332.

Sermon – Luke 13.1-9, L3, YC, February 28, 2016

02 Wednesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

My dad, a retired Methodist Minister, and I have always disagreed about the use of the Revised Common Lectionary.  He always felt that the pastor’s duty was to listen to the movement of the Spirit and select scripture lessons that were relevant to what was happening in the life of the parish.  I argued that his method was rife with pitfalls.  The pastor could end up confusing personal preference with the movement of the Spirit, could push one’s own agenda too far, or could end up avoiding hard texts out of laziness or fear.  Instead, I argued, following the lectionary forces the preacher to be truly open to the Spirit – totally giving up control over what text is offered on any given day, trusting that the Lord will provide the message.

This week, I wished I had adopted my dad’s practice.  I looked at the gospel lesson and immediately, said, “Nope!  No way, now how.  There is no way I am going to preach that text to my people when we are in the midst of transition!”  My list of reasons for avoiding the text from Luke were long and, I believe, well-reasoned.  I did not want to preach about a tree not bearing fruit because in no way did I want to infer that I think St. Margaret’s is not bearing fruit, especially because my pending departure has created a sense of insecurity about the strength of St. Margaret’s.  The truth is, St. Margaret’s is bearing fruit.  There is the literal fruit that we are bearing in our Garden of Eatin’ which is feeding our hungry neighbors.  And then there is the figurative fruit:  the children we are raising up through reinvigorated Christian Education programs, the pastoral ministries we are offering to our cemetery families, and the love and care we offer to each other.

But I didn’t just want to avoid talking about barren trees.  I also had no desire to talk about manure today.  Quite frankly, I could just imagine how in the midst of transition a community could feel like they are getting a whole lot of manure dumped on them.  A gardener knows that to keep plants thriving we have to aerate the soil, pull out weeds, and double up with nutrient-rich manure.  But anyone who has driven by a recently tended garden knows that the stench of manure can make you want to quickly run in the other direction.  As we think about the burdens of a transition, the last thing I wanted to talk about today is the gardener’s suggestion of piling on hot, smelly manure.

Besides wanting to avoid talking about barren trees and smelly manure, I had zero desire to talk about trees getting chopped down.  For all of the conversations I have had with parishioners over the past few weeks, the most common one has been about fear for the future of St. Margaret’s.  Many of you are worried about our viability and fear what the instability of transition and new leadership will bring.  On one hand, your fears are not unwarranted.  We have watched neighboring churches decline to the point of closure.  We also know that we are in a time and culture when churches have to work a lot harder to grow and thrive.  But I do not think St. Margaret’s has to fear the ax in our passage today.  If we were having this conversation five or six years ago, I could see where the damage of past leadership could have been the end of St. Margaret’s.  But even that challenge did not pull St. Margaret’s under.  And we are in a much stronger place – we have changed so much for the better and grown into a tree producing fruit.  Are we in a transition?  Yes.  Is change coming?  Yes.  Is our tree going to be cut down?  I do not think so.

Unfortunately for me, we actually do follow the lectionary.  And since we do not get to pick and choose what scripture fits our needs at a particular time, we look for the ways that a text speaks to us despite our personal preferences.  The good news is that some of our initial reactions to this text are rooted in a misunderstanding of the allegory Jesus gives us.  Many of us assume that the landowner is God and the gardener is Jesus.  But nowhere in Luke’s gospel is God portrayed as an angry, vindictive God that needs to be placated or negotiated with by Jesus. Instead, God is the one who waits every day for the prodigal son to come home.  God is the woman who leaves no pillow unturned looking for her lost coin.  Luke’s depiction is of a God who rejoices over one who repents than over the remaining ninety-nine who need no repentance.

Instead, as one scholar suggests, “Given Luke’s consistent picture of God’s reaction to sin, then perhaps the landowner is representative of our own sense of how the world should work.  That is, from very early on, we want things to be “fair” and we define “fair” as receiving rewards for doing good and punishment for doing evil.  (Except of course, when it comes to our own mistakes and misdeeds – then we want mercy!)”[i]  But our God is a God of justice, not fairness.  When I struggle with these two words, I always remember a cartoon that has floated around.  The cartoon has three people trying to see over a fence.  One is short, one is medium-height, and one is tall.  All three are given two boxes to stand on.  Of course, the tall person can easily see over the fence.  The medium-height person can just barely see over, but the short person cannot see, even with the two boxes.  This frame is called fairness or equality.  But the next frame is called justice.  In this frame, the short-statured person gets three boxes, the medium-height person gets two boxes, and the tallest person gets just one box.  All three people can now see over the fence equally.

I tell you this story not because as short-statured person I totally get this cartoon!  I tell you this story because I do not think our God is an angry landowner demanding results and expecting everyone to figure things out themselves – to produce fruit without adequate help.  No, I think the gardener is actually God – our advocate looking for justice, not just fairness.    Perhaps God is the one raising a contrary voice to suggest that the ultimate answer to sin is not punishment – not even in the name of justice – but rather mercy, reconciliation, and new life.[ii]  So, in the threat of danger and even death, God is a god who intercedes, who demands mercy, and in fact, is willing to get down in the manure to make sure we thrive and bear that delicious, life-giving fruit.

Now, even the gardener is not naïve to think that our window for productivity is unlimited.  Even the gardener submits to the owner that if after a year, the tree does not produce, the owner may cut the tree down.  But I do not think God will let that happen.  God is “all in” with making sure we are redeemed – whether by getting dirty with us to help us grow, or by interceding again, even when the produce is just not there.  Not unlike Abraham who argued and argued with God to spare ten, twenty, even fifty people, our gardener is one of mercy, reconciliation, and redemption.

And that is why I love the lectionary.  Even when I fight, and kick, and say, “No way!” God finds a way to speak despite my reservations.  Where I had feared sending the wrong message about our walk with Christ, God comes through bringing good news of mercy, reconciliation, and redemption.  Bishop Curry says this about our text today, “The task of the disciple is to witness and then wait, to take our best step and leave the rest to God…We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.  Being freed from managing the results of our actions enables us to do something, and do it well.  We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.  We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.  We are prophets of a future not our own.”[iii]  I do not know about you, but I am over the moon that our God is one who is willing to fight to the last pile of manure to encourage and strengthen us.  If our God can do that, we are bound to rise again in hopeful new life.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Lent 3 C:  Suffering, the Cross, and the Promise of Love,” February 22, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/02/lent-3-c-suffering-the-cross-and-the-promise-of-love/ on February 25, 2016.

[ii] Lose.

[iii] Michael B. Curry, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 97.

Sermon – Luke 4.1-13, L1, YC, February 14, 2016

17 Wednesday Feb 2016

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

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

The irony of this being the first Sunday in Lent after the week we have had is not lost on me.  By now our parish should have received a letter from me explaining how I have accepted a call to a new position in Williamsburg, Virginia.  The letter has been met with a variety of reactions, from surprise to disappointment, from understanding to hurt, from confusion to anger.  But no matter what the initial reactions have been, the primary question from all has been, “What does that mean for St. Margaret’s now?”  That question and the news of coming change alone would have been enough for the week.  But then on Friday we lost one of the patriarchs of St. Margaret’s.  Though any death is hard, as a founding member and a perpetual evangelist, Chet will be deeply missed.  Given the week we have had, I cannot think of a better Sunday to talk about the wilderness.

In Luke’s gospel today, Jesus goes from the high of his baptism, where God proclaims Jesus’ identity as God’s son, out to the wilderness where he will be tempted for forty days by Satan.  The people of God are no strangers to the wilderness.  Before the people of Israel entered the land of promise in our Old Testament reading today, first they wandered for forty years in the wilderness.  Those years typify what a wilderness experience is all about:  confusion, fear, wariness, hunger, dissatisfaction, mourning, regret, anger, jealousy, and impatience.  In the wilderness, the people of Israel wondered why they had ever left Egypt, even though Egypt had been a place of slavery.  At least in Egypt they knew from where their next meal would come.  In the wilderness, the people of Israel whined about everything – a lack of food, a lack of water, a lack of direction.  They lost hope in God to provide for them so, in a moment of weakness, they had their priest construct a golden calf for them to worship.  They behaved so badly that a whole generation did not get the chance to see the promised land.  For Jesus, the wilderness is no different.  The wilderness is marked by scarcity and temptation.  Voices try to sway Jesus away from God.  And when Jesus was at his weakest, Satan himself came to tempt Jesus to take matters into his own hands instead of trusting God to stand with Jesus.

Of course, St. Margaret’s is no stranger to wilderness times.  Before we had parish status we went through several vicars, experiencing one transition after another.  When the twenty-year tenure of our first rector ended, many wondered how we would survive.  Clergy transitions can feel much like those wilderness moments for the Israelites.  On the one hand, transitions are full of promise as we imagine what new life a different clergy person might breathe into our community.  On the other hand, there are days when we glorify Egypt, when although our time in Egypt was not perfect and maybe had even become stale, at least we knew what to expect or had the stability of Father so-and-so.  Likewise, we have been through many parish deaths.  Each one hits us in a unique way, and each one makes us wonder what we will do without the person we have lost.  Who will be our warden, our treasurer, our coordinator of ushers, or our major donor?  How will we sing in the choir, laugh at coffee hour, or balance the budget without them?

That is the scary thing about the wilderness.  The wilderness tempts us into thinking and doing all sorts of things.  Although the three specific temptations of Jesus that Luke describes are certainly challenging, what is more unsettling is the underlying nature of temptation itself.  As one scholar argues, “…temptation is not so often temptation toward something – usually portrayed as doing something you shouldn’t – but rather is usually the temptation away from something – namely, our relationship with God and the identity we receive in and through that relationship.”[i]  What the wilderness has the chance to do is undermine our confidence in ourselves and in the community God made us to be.  That is what Satan is trying to do to Jesus:  erode Jesus’ confidence in his identity, in his security, and in his worthiness before God.  Satan did the same thing to the people of Israel for forty years, and Satan will do the same thing to St. Margaret’s if we let him.  Satan will try to erode our confidence that God is still acting and moving in this place and will continue to make this community a place of sacred encounter and experiences with God and God’s people.

As I was thinking about the wilderness of Lent, transition, and death, I kept coming back to the Holy Spirit.  You see, when Jesus goes into the wilderness, he does not go alone.  The text tells us that the Spirit led Jesus into the wilderness.  The Spirit does not just drop Jesus off to fend for himself.  “…the Spirit continues to abide with him, enabling him to grow stronger through this season.”[ii]  Being filled with and accompanied by the Holy Spirit is the only way one gets through the wilderness.[iii]  The Spirit stays with Jesus in the wilderness because being chosen and anointed for one’s mission is not enough.  Jesus must be tested, being led to places of hunger and despair.  Only then does he learn dependence on God, who graciously provides for all our needs in all of life’s seasons.[iv]  The Holy Spirit enables Jesus to journey through the wilderness so that Jesus can learn that lesson about dependence upon the Lord our God.  The Holy Spirit’s company allows Jesus to see the powerful presence and abundance of God in his deepest need.

Thinking about the Holy Spirit this week has shifted my energy.  Instead of thinking about the wilderness with a sense of dread and familiarity, instead of bracing myself for impact, and instead of erecting soaring walls of protection to keep pain out, I found myself asking a different set of questions.  Where have I experienced God’s faithfulness in the wilderness?  How has my relationship with God been transformed?  How strong are the temptations of returning to old ways – to ways of relying on myself?[v]  Somehow, shifting the questions from where has God been absent in the wilderness to where has God or the Holy Spirit been present in the wilderness gave me a sense of hope.  Instead of looking for the bad – the dreariness of Lent, the burden of transition, the grief of death – I found myself wanting to look for the good – the blessing of time set apart with God, the opportunity for new life and growth, the reminder of resurrection promised for us all.

I will not tell you that the next forty days or even forty weeks will be easy.  In fact, I know that many of those days and weeks will be very hard.  But having been through Lents, transitions, and deaths before, and having watched Jesus held up by the Spirit, I can tell you that we have all experienced God’s faithfulness in the wilderness.  Though none of us likes the wilderness, the wilderness is a necessary part of our formation in Christ – like the necessity of wildfires to restore health and wholeness to ecosystems.  Just like those fires can contribute to overall forest health, the wilderness can contribute to our overall spiritual health.  In these next forty days, I invite you to not turn inward toward fear, protection, and isolation.  I invite you to turn to one another for strength and companionship.  I invite you to come to me as we all process what this change means for St. Margaret’s.  But mostly, I invite you to remember the Holy Spirit who is keeping vigil with each one of us.  The wilderness of Lent this year may be more palpable than in years past.  But I invite you to hold on to the hope of God’s promise to be with you in the midst of the wilderness.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Lent 1 C: Identity Theft,” February 9, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/02/lent-1-c-identity-theft/ on February 11, 2016.

[ii] Jeffery L. Tribble, Sr., “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 44.

[iii] Karoline Lewis, “Filled With the Holy Spirit,” February 7, 2016 as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4291 on February 11, 2016.

[iv] Tribble, 44.

[v] Kimberly M. Van Driel, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 47.