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Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CD, YC, December 25, 2015

06 Wednesday Jan 2016

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One of the things I have always found funny about Christmas is the number of hymns that talk about silence.  Our favorite is usually Silent Night.  When we sing the song on Christmas Eve, we dim the lights and enjoy a quiet moment of reflection.  But that holy night was anything but quiet.  Bethlehem is inundated with people coming in for the registration.  The fact that there is no room for Joseph and Mary tells us how crowded Bethlehem is.  But Mary and Joseph not only have to tend with homecoming revelers, they also have to contend with the animals over whose abode they have taken.  Add into the mix a screaming newborn, and the idea of a silent night is almost comical.

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

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

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

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

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

The question for us in our pondering is what we will do with that love.  Though we make space this morning for silence, we do not remain here all day.  Like any other Sunday, the priest will dismiss us to go in peace, and serve the Lord.  Anytime we feast at Christ’s table, that is our charge:  to take whatever sustenance we have gained and to go out into the world to do the work that Christ has given us to do.  Certainly that may involve cooking, travel, or more gift giving.  But the news we ponder in our hearts today is much bigger than today.  Today we are commissioned to consider the impact of the birth of the Christ Child on our lives.  What will our response be to the God who is so faithful to God’s covenant with us that God would take on human flesh to redeem us?  We may need still need to ponder in our hearts what that response will be.  I cannot imagine a better day than today to keep pondering what new work God is crafting in our hearts.  Amen.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2015

05 Tuesday Jan 2016

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In many ways, the story that we tell tonight is rather ordinary.  As the story begins, the government is doing what the government does – finding ways to tax the people.  And so the people without influence are herded – herded back to their hometowns to be registered so that the Emperor can be certain he is getting all he is owed.  But anytime you move masses of people, you get overcrowding.  That is what happens in Bethlehem this night.  Though Joseph’s extended family is expecting him, they run out of space.  Though the story says there is no room in the inn, the more likely scenario is that the family guest room was already full.[i]  So Joseph and his pregnant fiancé get the leftovers – the area of the home meant for the animals.  We’ve had those moments – when your delinquent uncle or your slacker friend shows up unexpected.  You grab a pillow and a blanket and offer space on the couch – or the floor if the couch is already taken.  This is just an ordinary night of making the space work.

Of course, no woman would want to give birth under these conditions, but that is the funny thing about birth – births happen all the time, whether people are ready or not.  Though every time a baby is born we marvel at the miracle of life, births are really much more commonplace that we give them credit for being.  Just like any other birth, Mary finds a place to lay the baby, and just like any other mother, Mary finds a way to swaddle the baby so that he can ease off to sleep.  And so in the messiness of managing civic life and familial life, here our story has us working through the ordinary mess of reproductive life.

And in case we were to get too excited about our story, God decides to reveal the occurrences of that night to even more ordinary people.  Enter the shepherds.  These are ordinary men, doing the necessary work of shepherding.  In fact, these men are so ordinary, they are almost invisible to the outside world.  They are not busy heading to their home town to be counted because according to the day, they are not worth counting.[ii]  They are the migrant workers that do the work no one else wants to do.  So while everyone is sleeping, or eating, or enjoying the warmth of a fire, the shepherds are out tending their flocks, focused on the ordinariness of agricultural life.

Of course, the story becomes interesting when we hear about all of the extraordinary parts of this story.  Yes, there is the same greedy government, the same crowded family, the same new parents, and the same business of farm life.  But something extraordinary breaks into the ordinary this night.  In the midst of everyday lives, God breaks in through the ordinary and proclaims good news of great joy.  The Messiah has been born – the long awaited Savior who will change everything.  In fact, the angels are so blown away by this extraordinary moment in time that they break into song, praising God.  That is what we do when faced with the extraordinary.  We praise God for God’s goodness and mercy and grace.  God takes on human flesh for us, and the angels do the only thing they can – they praise God in gratitude.

The shepherds’ initial reaction to the same news is quite ordinary – they go and talk to the family.  They tell Mary and Joseph what they saw.  Again, the scene is quite ordinary – a travel-worn family making due in rustic quarters having a conversation with equally worn shepherds.  No one is out of place in this scene – everyone is equally ordinary.  And yet, the extraordinary lights up the room.  So extraordinary is the night that the shepherds leave, glorifying and praising God.  They echo the response of the angels, expressing their overwhelming gratitude in the only way they know how – praising and thanking God.  Mary too knows how extraordinary this night is.  She treasures this extraordinary moment in her heart, left pondering what new thing God is doing.

That is what we love about this story:  the juxtaposition of the ordinary with the extraordinary.  The ordinary part we know intimately.  We too find ourselves living ordinary lives.  We work, we play, we laugh, we cry.  We pay our taxes, we deal with family, we go through labor pains.  We come to church, we pray together, we read scripture together, and we feast on the holy meal.  With the exception of a few fun vacations, nights out on the town, or the wedding of a friend, our lives are relatively ordinary.  I am pretty sure most of us have not witnessed a heavenly host bringing us good tidings of great joy.

We do not get the extraordinary most days:  except, of course, when we do.  Even in our ordinary lives, God breaks in with the extraordinary.  Just a couple of weeks ago a parishioner was telling me about how our conversations at church had finally worn him down.  When he ran into a homeless person on his walk in the City, he decided to finally give him some money – a practice that he never endorses.  Something about his experience with God was softening his resolve and he was able, in a moment of clarity, to see the humanity of the man.  Or the other week, I was talking to a teacher about the profound things her children sometimes say.  They sometimes say things that stop her in her tracks and make her reevaluate her way of being.  Or a few months ago I was talking to another person of faith about her prayer life.  She confessed rather sheepishly that sometimes in her prayers, especially when she makes room to listen to God, hears a response back.  She felt like she could not really explain the phenomenon well, but she knew the voice must be from God because the words rang so true and were nothing she would have come to on her own.

That is what happens in our ordinary lives – God breaks through again and again, overwhelming us with the extraordinary.  Those moments are gifts that we celebrate an honor, because they are just that – gifts.  That is the same reason we celebrate tonight.  We honor the gift that God gives us in Christ Jesus.  For all intents and purposes, Jesus is just another baby born under ordinary circumstances.  But we know that he is so much more:  God Incarnate, Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.  Tonight is about honoring the extraordinary in the midst of the ordinary.  Tonight is about claiming the joy that can only come from extraordinary acts of God.  But tonight is also about claiming the joy of a community that invites us to praise – to glorify God as we go our own ways this night.  We are blessed over and over.  In the trials and tribulations of ordinary life, we are so blessed by our extraordinary God and the community of faith that gathers with us.  In fact, the extraordinary nature of God hallows our ordinary lives, making them anything but ordinary.  Tonight, I invite you to embrace the extraordinary in our midst, to honor the holiness of the ordinary, and to find ways to share that extraordinary in our ordinary lives tomorrow.  Amen.

[i] Richard Swanson, “Commentary on Luke 2:[1-7] 8-20,” December 25, 2013, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1880 on December 22, 2015.

[ii] Michael S. Bennett, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 118.

Sermon – Luke 1.39-45, A4, YC, December 20, 2015

05 Tuesday Jan 2016

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This time of year, seven years ago, I was about a month into pregnancy.  The season was one of expectation, disbelief, and excitement, but we were not telling anyone about the pregnancy for fear that something could go wrong.  Hiding one’s pregnancy in those first months is a common cultural practice for many women and families who are sensitive about the uncertainty of pregnancy.  But holding a secret like pregnancy can invoke a mixture of emotions.  You may feel anxious that someone will discover your secret.  You may feel afraid that something will go wrong and worry about how you would share the news.  You may feel guilty about telling white lies to hide your ultimate secret.  Holding a secret about ourselves can create an inner tension and an outer isolation that is unsettling and unnerving.

We do not know whether Mary had planned to tell Elizabeth about her pregnancy.  In Luke’s gospel, Mary never gets the chance to tell Elizabeth the news herself.  Luke only tells us that after Mary is told that she is pregnant with Jesus, the angel tells her that Elizabeth, who is past the childbearing age, is six months pregnant.  Mary immediately goes to Elizabeth.  Most scholars believe that Mary goes to Elizabeth to offer care for Elizabeth’s pregnancy.[i]  But we cannot know whether Mary planned to tell Elizabeth about her own pregnancy.  Mary had every reason not to tell her.  To an outsider, Mary’s pregnancy is not good news. She is unwed, young, poor, and pregnant.  This combination would make her an outcast, and typically no man would take her as a wife.[ii]  In Mary’s day, her pregnancy and her resulting un-marriable status is almost a death sentence.  Women in this time depended on a husband for financial support and social acceptance.  Although Mary’s pregnancy is good news from God, in the social context, that joy is negated and forced into silence.  Given her situation, we can imagine that Mary might have wanted to keep her pregnancy a secret.  Although she is rushing to Elizabeth to care for her, Mary may have been dreading the pending time of holding a secret and the inner tension and outer isolation that her secret will cause.

In modern times, we too struggle with sharing information within a community.  One of our most common greetings is, “How are you?”  And the usual response is, “Good.”  But our common greeting is rarely a genuine question about how someone is actually doing.  In fact, many of us have a short list of people with whom we avoid asking that question altogether because we know we will be there an hour later hearing about aches, pains, and their crazy neighbor.  We prefer our short greeting and response because not only do we not want to really hear about someone else’s problems, we do not want to tell others how we are truly doing either.  “Good” becomes our code word for, “I am mostly fine, but I don’t want to tell you how I really am.”  Sometimes “good” is a necessary response for keeping others from prying into our lives.

But sometimes “good” is a way of preventing authentic relationship.  While I was in seminary we were required to serve part-time in local parishes.  At the church where I was serving, Easter Vigil was a big deal.  We had many more acolytes, ushers, and Eucharistic Ministers than normal.  As we prepared to line up the large group for the procession, I noticed one of the acolytes was not as chipper as she usually is.  I asked her if she was okay, and she blurted out that she had had a fight with her parents on the way to church and was still in a bad mood.  I was surprised by her candor, especially in front of all the other acolytes.  But as soon as she shared her frustration, several of the acolytes gave her a pat on the shoulder, or commiserated with her experience.  Somehow, saying out loud why she was in a bad mood allowed her to release some of her tension and start fresh that night.

Preventing authentic relationship is not just something we do with each other.  We also struggle with sharing information with God.  During worship, we model corporate confession to God.  But how many of us really take our personal struggles to God?  Perhaps we have been so ashamed of something that we could not even talk to God about it.  Or perhaps we have been angry about how something is going in our life – the job that we did not get, the unhappiness we are having in a relationship, or the illness that is not healing.  Sometimes our anger about a situation clouds our emotions so much that we cannot imagine lifting the situation to God in prayer.  At times of heightened emotions, we feel the least capable of inviting God into our shame, anger, or grief.

The encounter between Elizabeth and Mary today offers a complete counter to our natural tendencies toward being guarded and resistant to authenticity and intimacy.  Before Mary can offer a veiled “I’m good,” Elizabeth immediately greets Mary with joy and blessing.  If Mary is at all concerned about Elizabeth’s judgment, shunning, or slandering within the community, Mary misjudges.  Instead of the expected judgment, Elizabeth offers Mary warm acceptance and praise.  Elizabeth not only blesses Mary for being the carrier of the Savior, she also blesses Mary for being faithful to God.[iii]  Elizabeth does not tentatively ask Mary if she is going to be okay or encourage her to be quiet about her shameful pregnancy.  Instead, Elizabeth sees the glory of Mary’s pregnancy, ignores cultural norms, and celebrates loudly the magnificence of what God will do through Mary.  Elizabeth proclaims, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.”  Elizabeth’s response is the exact opposite of what Mary may have expected.

The countercultural response of Elizabeth to Mary is the same countercultural way that God operates among us.  God chooses Mary, a young, poor, unwed woman to be the bearer of God.  God chooses Elizabeth, a woman far beyond the age of conception, to be God’s prophet.[iv]  God lifts up the poor and oppressed and calls them blessed.  God takes on human form in Jesus, lowering God’s self to come and be among us.  God’s way is almost always countercultural.  God has a way of turning things upside down and shaking up our thinking.  Through the brief encounter between Elizabeth and Mary – two marginal women – God reveals the earthy, authentic, countercultural way that God calls us to be in relationship with one another and with God.  Looking through this very human interaction between two women, we are able to anticipate the very human child of Jesus who will transform all our relationships in a countercultural way.

As we anticipate the celebration of Christ’s birth and we await the coming of Christ again, we are reminded through Elizabeth and Mary of the invitation that we have into authentic, Christian relationship with one another and with God.  Mary and Elizabeth’s encounter reminds us that our church community is a gift.  Our community is a place where we can be vulnerable with one another, share our hopes and dreams with one another, and share our shame, guilt, and fear with one another.  Our community is a place where when someone asks you how you are, we really want to know how you are.  Our community is a place where we can expect beautifully, and often brutally, shared honesty.  Our community helps us model the kind of relationship that Elizabeth and Mary have.

Elizabeth and Mary also invite us into authentic relationship with God.  Most Sundays we open our worship with a prayer called the Collect for Purity.  We pray: Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid…”  Weekly we admit that despite the fact that we do not want to take our shame, our anger, our fear, or our secrets to God, God knows them anyway.  God is the Elizabeth for us Marys.  God greets us with joy and blessing before we can even share our secret.  God already knows and God loves us.  God wipes away tension and isolation and throws upon us the cloak of love.  As we enter into a time with family, friends, and church to celebrate Christ’s birth, I invite you to let go of anxiety and isolation.  I invite you to consider the warmth of Elizabeth toward Mary and God toward us, and to give that anxiety and isolation to God.  Give those feelings to God because perhaps this year, you will find an Elizabeth in your life who can warmly embrace you into the love and acceptance of Christ.  Amen.

[i] Robert Redman, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 94.

[ii] Judith Jones, “Commentary on Luke 1:39-45, (46-55),” December 20, 2015 as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2723 on December 12, 2015.

[iii] Stephen A. Cooper, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 95.

[iv] Charles C. Campbell, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 95.

Homily – Isaiah 25.6-9, Cemetery Memorial Service, December 19, 2015

05 Tuesday Jan 2016

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One of the little secrets that they don’t tell you about in ministry is that this time of the year is filled with death.  While the rest of the world is running around singing about this being the most wonderful time of the year, priests are bracing themselves for a slew of funerals.  I remember my first year as an ordained person our parish having five or six funerals in December.  I mentioned the oddity to my fellow clergy and they gave me a knowing nod.  “Oh yeah, December always has lots of deaths,” they told me.

A month of concentrated deaths would be strange in and of itself.  But probably what is even more strange is the juxtaposition of death and life in December.  You see, every year we celebrate new birth – in fact one of the most important births of our Christian identity.  And yet every year, in the face of wondrous new birth is the overshadowing of death.  Last year at St. Margaret’s, one of our beloved parishioners died days before Christmas.  On the morning of Christmas Eve, we celebrated his death.  That afternoon we celebrated Christ’s birth.  Life and death seeped into each other, making separating the two realities impossible.

I imagine the reality of death clinging so closely to life is not new to most of you here.  We gather this evening every year to honor the reality of celebrating Christmas in the shadow of death.  We set time apart to honor how fresh the death of our loved ones is at this time of year – whether they died months or weeks ago, or whether they died thirty years ago.  The problem is that no matter when our loved one died, they left a mark on our collective experience of Christmas.  Maybe they cooked Christmas dinner every year.  Maybe we always visited their house and exchanged presents.  Maybe they always told loud, awful jokes or made the holidays a little more bearable.  Whatever their legacy on this time of year, there is some part of our heart that is missing without them here.  Sure, we make new Christmas memories without them.  Eventually, there will be new babies, cousins, and grandchildren who will never know those loved ones we knew.  But for us, those loved ones are never far this time of year, however briefly stealing away some of the joy that this time of year can bring.

I think that is what I love about our Old Testament lesson today.  Isaiah talks about the coming kingdom of God.  Isaiah says, “…the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.”  There is something about that image of a feast that gives me great comfort this time of year.  Maybe the image is comforting because this holiday is often about comfort food – recipes that give us a sense of nostalgia or make us feel safe just through their familiarity.  Maybe the image is comforting because we can imagine that raucous table with a large crowd gathered eating, drinking, laughing, and sharing in each other’s joy.  Or maybe the image is comforting because we can connect our earthly banquets with the heavenly banquet – imagining those sacred moments and places where we really feel like our loved one’s presence is palpable at our Christmas table – a mystical union between the two feasts.

I cannot promise you that Christmas will be easy this year.  In fact, I suspect that those of you whose loved ones passed away years and years ago already know that Christmas will always have a tinge of sadness and loss.  Death and new life will always be oddly intermingled this time of year.  But I also suspect that may be on purpose.  Even though death is inevitable and keeps coming at us, reminding us of our own mortality, we keep celebrating the birth of the Christ Child and the new life and promise of hope he brings.  Nothing quite warms the heart like warmth of a swaddled baby.  Nothing gives us greater hope and wonder than the miracle of new life.  Nothing brings us deeper joy than the innocence and purity of a newborn.  We know that any baby can bring that kind of joy.  But celebrating the Christ Child is about even more – celebrating the Christ Child is a celebration of all that he will bring – the banquet that his life inaugurates and the feast that he creates for us.  Christmas will not be the same without our loved ones.  But Christ promises to keep bringing us new life until we can join our loved ones in that heavenly banquet that never ends.  Amen.

Sermon – Philippians 1.3-11, A2, YC, December 6, 2015

11 Friday Dec 2015

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This sermon was given on the occasion of our Annual Meeting.

My dearest St. Margaret’s, “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, because of your sharing in the gospel from the first day until now.  I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.  It is right for me to think this way about all of you, because you hold me in your heart, for all of you share in God’s grace with me…For God is my witness, how I long for all of you with the compassion of Christ Jesus.”

If ever I were to write a love letter to St. Margaret’s, I would steal these words from Paul to the Philippians.  You see, Paul saw in the Philippians what I see in you:  a community of faith alive with the Holy Spirit, sharing the Good News of Christ Jesus in our community.  A little over four years ago, I became your rector.  You were bruised and battered, having not only survived a tumultuous relationship with your last rector, but also a strained relationship with an interim, as well as the absence of consistent leadership for over two years through the limits of a supply priest.  Having had years of struggle, I quickly came to realize that St. Margaret’s had some baggage.  But St. Margaret’s also had a sense of tenacity, determination, and a deep-rooted joy that could not be stifled.  You see, as Paul writes, I could see that over fifty years ago, “the one who began a good work among you [would] bring [that good work] to completion by the day of Jesus Christ.”  I knew God was not done with us yet.

And so, over time, I came to love each of you:  not the dreamy romantic love of love birds, but the kind of love that family has for each other.  That is what people usually describe as being so wonderful about St. Margaret’s:  that we are like family.  Now when I first heard that description, I got a little nervous.  I have served at too many funerals and weddings to know that every family has some drama.  Every family has a loud Uncle Carl, crazy Aunt Bessie, or overbearing Grandma Jones.  Every family has experienced sibling drama or tensions between parent and child.  Describing St. Margaret’s as being like a family made me wary.  I began to wonder who the loud uncle, the crazy aunt, or the overbearing grandma were in this community.  But over the years, I began to understand more fully why the description of St. Margaret’s as family works so well.  Don’t get me wrong, we have our loud uncles, crazy aunts, and overbearing grandmas – though I will never tell you who they are!  But like a family, we know each other.  We know each other’s foibles, quirks, and tendencies.  We know each other’s hurts, failures, and embarrassing moments.  We even know how to predict the reactions of each other to any given situation.  But also like family, we love each other anyway.  We love each other in the way that loving mothers, protective fathers, supporting sisters, and encouraging brothers can.  We love each other not despite our weaknesses but because of those weaknesses.  In fact, no matter how much we might annoy each other at times, those foibles, quirks, and tendencies are what we have come to love about one another.  In essence, we have come to see each other with the loving eyes that Christ has for each of us.  We have come to love like Paul.[i]  Somewhere deep in our hearts, we too pray, “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you.”

Paul gushes about the Philippians today:  about how much he loves them, how proud he is of their work to spread the Good News, and how he sees Christ moving and acting among them for good.  But Paul’s letter is not simply a letter of affirmation – a love letter for the Philippians to put under their pillows and pull out when they are feeling low.  Paul’s letter is more.  Paul’s letter comes with a charge.  “And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you to determine what is best, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless, having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.”  Paul does not want the Philippians to keep this love to themselves.  He wants them to let their love overflow into action.[ii]

The more and more I read Paul’s charge this week, the more and more I began to see the mission of St. Margaret’s in his words.[iii]  Several years ago, St. Margaret’s took up a mantra.  We want to be a community of faith seeking Christ, serving Christ, and sharing Christ in our community and beyond.  First, we want to be a community seeking Christ – a community committed to learning more about this God we follow, and deepening our journey with Christ.  As Paul says, we want to build up knowledge and full insight to help us determine what is best.  And so that is a part of our work here.  We are teaching our children how to walk in the way of Christ.  We are studying God’s word and challenging one another to grow through prayer, reading, and reflection.  We are engaging in meaningful worship that inspires and delights us, and helps us to connect with our God.  We are a community of faith seeking Christ.

We are also a community of faith serving Christ.  As Paul says, we are letting our love overflow.  St. Margaret’s is a community that cares about others – not just those inside the doors, but outside the doors too.  I see that love in the ways that wallets open as soon as we learn of a need in our community.  I see that love when you think of others when grocery shopping for yourselves, adding in a few extra cans or boxes for people you have never met.  I see that love when we spread peanut butter and scoop jelly, praying that the recipient of that sandwich might know the love of Christ that you have known and be encouraged in their struggle.  Our love overflows into vegetable gardens, into grief support groups, and into the hearts and minds of those who long for love.  We are a community of faith serving Christ.

We are also a community of faith sharing Christ.  As Paul says, we are to let our love overflow so that it might produce a harvest.  What I have loved about this community is that although we are nervous about sharing the Good News – of evangelizing – we share the Good News anyway.  When you gush with friends about the meaningful thing that happened at church, when you tell a stranger about how your church is doing good work, or when you serve as an example of Christ-like love in the world, you are sharing the Good News.  We do that when we walk in the parade, we do that when we put our name on baseball jerseys, and we do that when we wear our St. Margaret’s shirts to the gym, grocery store, or shopping mall.  We are a community of faith sharing Christ.

We are a community of faith seeking Christ, serving Christ, and sharing Christ because the love, joy, and acceptance we have found inside these walls is not just for us.  Fifty-two years ago, God began a good work in us.  God planted the seeds of righteousness in this community, and today we are invited to harvest that work.  And Paul assures us, as he assured the Philippians years ago, that God will bring to completion the good work began in us.  All we have to do is let our love overflow – overflow from us, overflow from our beautiful, complicated relationships with one another, and overflow from our community out into the world.  So tuck that love letter under your pillow when you need affirmation and a reminder that you are doing the good work that God calls you to do.  But also pull out that love letter when you feel weary – when you need to be inspired to get back out there, to seek Christ, serve Christ, and share Christ.  God loves you with a deep affection; and God wants your love to overflow to others more and more.  Amen.

[i] Leander E. Keck, ed., New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 11 (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2000), 484.

[ii] Philip E. Campbell, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 39.

[iii] Edward Pillar, “Commentary on Philippians 1.3-11,” December 6, 2015 as found at  http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2695 on December 3, 2015.

Sermon – Luke 21.25-36, A1, YC, November 29, 2015

03 Thursday Dec 2015

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Many years ago, when my husband and I were driving from our honeymoon in the Outer Banks back home to Delaware, we decided to take the scenic route.  At the time, the idea of a scenic drive sounded romantic.  We were excited to take the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.  And of course, as newlyweds, we were just excited to have more time together.  But by hour ten, I thought I was going to lose my mind.  I devolved into a whiny mess who could not keep still and who huffed and puffed in frustration.  I kept shifting around and fidgeting in my seat, and I am pretty sure I groaned at some point, “Are we there yet?!?”  Any notion of a romantic journey was lost – all I wanted was to get home immediately.

Truthfully, I feel similarly about Advent.  As a priest well-trained in preaching from the lectionary, I know I am supposed to be appreciative of the intentional ways in which the lectionary shapes, prepares, and teaches us.  But as soon as Advent starts, I get overly excited.  I think about the Advent candles, the purple vestments, and the greenery.  And because I know what is waiting for us on December 24th, I turn into that car-trapped honeymooner, complaining, “Are we there yet?!?”  Since I know a baby is coming, all I want to think about is Mary’s pregnancy, her relationship with Joseph, and the long journey to Bethlehem.  I am not saying I need to celebrate baby Jesus right away, but I at least would like to throw a baby shower or see Mary’s baby bump.

But that is not how Advent is presented to us in the beginning of Advent.  Instead of talking about the first coming of the Christ child, we talk about the second coming of Christ.  Instead of giddy, romantic stories about lovers making it work with an unexpected pregnancy, we get dark, foreboding tales of earthly disorder and destruction.  Instead of happy expectation, we get somber warnings to prepare ourselves and to stand guard.  Normally, I do not mind these texts at the beginning of Advent.  Theologically, I understand the concept of framing the first coming of Christ within the second coming.[i]  I understand that in order to appreciate Christ’s birth I need to remember what his birth means many years later.  I understand the need for a warning about being on guard for the second coming – a reminder that I do not get to enjoy all the fun stuff of Christ’s birth without realizing the significance of Christ’s death and return as well.  But emotionally, I am tired of being on guard.  I am tired of earthly destruction.  I am tired of feeling like the end is upon us.

That is what is so hard about Advent this year.  We are already on guard this Advent.  With terrorism striking worldwide, with gun violence in our own country, and with debates about welcoming refugees, we are already “alert at all times,” as Jesus demands.  I know people who are avoiding shopping in Manhattan this year because they are afraid of potential threats.  There are rumors of out-of-state school field trips getting canceled due to fear of danger. And some states have shut down their borders to refugees because of suspicions of terrorists in refugee disguise.  We know all too well the reality of living in fear, guardedness, and preparation for the darkness of this world.  And quite frankly, when we come to church, especially in this season of preparing for the Christ Child, the last thing we want to do is dwell on the darkness.  We want a little bit of light from Christ too.

Last weekend, the final movie in The Hunger Games series premiered.  For those of you unfamiliar with the series, the movie features a dystopian future after a failed revolution.  As punishment for revolting against the Capitol, the Capitol designs what is called The Hunger Games – a battle to the death in which two children from each of twelve districts faces one another in an arena.  Not unlike ancient practices in Rome, and yet uncannily familiar to modern times, the residents of the Capitol watch the games with a detached sense of enjoyment as they cheer for their favorites.  In the first film, President Snow talks to the head of the Games about why they have the games and a winner in the first place.  “Hope:” he explains, “It is the only thing stronger than fear.”  He goes on to say, “A little hope is effective.  A lot of hope is dangerous.”  You see, the President wants to keep people oppressed.  He knows that the people need to fear him – but he balances that fear with a tiny bit of hope so that they do not revolt again:  if they can believe that there is hope for a slightly better life while keeping the status quo, then they will strive to stay in line.  But the hope most be managed so that the hope does not liberate people from submission to the Capitol.

We could easily live lives of fear when hearing Jesus’ words today about the Second Coming.  We could worry about natural disasters, about violence, and about destruction.  We could hear Jesus’ words about being on guard, being alert at all times, and standing up to raise our heads, and be worried about the burden of constant vigilance.  But Jesus is not trying to scare us into preparation.  Jesus does not want us to live in fear.[ii]  Quite the opposite, Jesus wants to give us a big dose of hope today.  Unlike President Snow, Jesus does not manipulate us by only giving us a small amount of hope.  Though today’s text can feel full of gloom, Jesus, in his weird Jesus way, is actually trying to give a large dose of hope today.  Instead of asking us to cower in fearful anticipation, he is inviting us to stand tall, raise our heads in certainty, and be people of sober, joyful expectation.

In our collect today, we prayed these words, “…give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light…”[iii]  Many of us may question whether we can put on an armor of light in such a despairing world.  Perhaps we worry about sounding like Pollyannas or being insensitive to the suffering of the world and our communities.  But putting on the armor of light is not putting on the armor of denial or dismissiveness.  Putting on the armor of light is an act of seeing and experiencing the deep groaning of our time and proclaiming that God works as an agent of light despite what feels like overwhelming darkness.  By putting on our armor of light, we are acknowledging that “God in Christ is coming because God loves us – because God wants to redeem us.”[iv]  Putting on the armor of light means that despite all that is falling apart in our lives, our communities, and the world around us, we claim hope over despair.

Now some of us may think that putting on armor is preparing us for battle – that we are going to be issued lightsabers like the Jedi fighters of Star Wars.  But the armor of light is a bit different.  The armor of light requires us to stand tall as beacons of light in the world – much like the lighthouses that line our shores on Long Island.  Now, I do not mean putting on that armor is a passive act.  In fact, as N.T. Wright explains, our armor is not for an “exciting battle, with adrenalin flowing and banners flying, but the steady tread, of prayer and hope and scripture and sacrament and witness, day by day and week by week.”[v]  Knowing that we are slowly, steadily treading toward Jesus’ return, we need that armor of light more than ever:  to protect us from allowing fear to overcoming us, and to remind ourselves of how we are grounded in liberating hope.

And just in case you are not convinced that you can survive a long, steady tread, the community of faith gathers here every week to witness and wear that armor of light with you.  We are like those freedom fighters from the Civil Rights movement, who steadily marched – from Selma to Montgomery, through the streets of Washington, D.C., and anywhere else where fear was reigning.  Their power was in their numbers, their fortitude, and their hope.  They wore the same armor that we don today.  Yes, we will get to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child soon enough.  But before he comes, when he comes, and after he comes, we will still need to stand up, raise our heads, and be agents of light and hope.  The world needs our light – and so do we.  Amen.

[i] Mariam J. Kamell, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 21.

[ii] David Lose, “Advent 1 C: Stand Up and Raise Your Heads!” November 23, 2015, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2015/11/advent-1-c-stand-up-and-raise-your-heads/ on November 25, 2015.

[iii] BCP, 211.

[iv] Kathy Beach-Verhey, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 25.

[v] N. T. Wright, Luke for Everyone (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 260.

Sermon – John 18.33-37, P29, YB, November 22, 2015

25 Wednesday Nov 2015

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Every once in a while, I am reminded of how bizarre our faith can sound to others.  When a child asks a seemingly basic question, or when a non-believing stranger asks me a question that is not easy to explain, I can imagine how strange my responses sound.  But having been raised in the faith, the strangeness never bothered me.  And if I really was not sure about something, I found myself comfortable with the explanation, “It’s a mystery.”

But lately, I have been barraged by incidents where “It’s a mystery,” just does not cut it!  The first instance was the First Holy Communion class I did with David and William a few weeks ago.  David and William actually went pretty easy on me.  But those classes are always challenging because they do not allow you to simply experience Holy Eucharist – I have to explain Holy Eucharist:  from why we process and reverence an instrument of death (the cross had the same purpose as our modern-day electric chair); to what to do when we don’t necessarily believe everything in the Nicene Creed; to why the priest holds out her hands during the Eucharistic prayer.  The second instance of “It’s a mystery,” not cutting it was in Bible Study class last week.  The group is reading John and John’s rather gory discussion of eating flesh and drinking blood.  The group wanted to know what Episcopalians believe about what happens to the bread and wine when the priest consecrates the elements – and how that differs from what other denominations believe.  I am fairly certain that if I had told the group that what happens in Eucharist is a mystery, they would not have let me off the hook so easily.  The final instance of “It’s a mystery,” not cutting it has been in reading the book, The Year of Living Biblically.  In this past week’s assignment, our author, A.J. Jacobs finally makes his way into the New Testament.  As an agnostic Jew, the author discusses his fears about trying to live the Bible literally if he cannot get behind the idea of Jesus as the Messiah and the idea of Jesus being both human and divine.  As a cynical New Yorker who confesses he has no desire to convert, I am sure my “It’s a mystery,” explanation would get him nowhere.

The challenges of our faith are not limited to worship, Eucharist, and Jesus’ divinity.  Today we celebrate yet another bizarre element of our faith – Christ the King Sunday.  On this last Sunday of Pentecost, before we enter into the season of Advent, we declare Christ as our King.  On the surface, that is not a bizarre claim, I realize.  Many communities have kings, and the way we venerate Christ is not unlike the way many kingdoms venerate their kings.  Given the familiarity of that image, we might imagine that Christ the King Sunday is about regal processions, festive adornments, and praise-worthy songs.  In fact, we will do some of that today.  The problem though with Christ the King Sunday is not that Jesus is our King.  The problem is what kind of king Jesus is.

We have seen evidence of what kind of king Jesus is.  Most famously would be the Palm Sunday procession.  Jesus does not ride into Jerusalem on horseback with a sword and an army.  No, he rides into town on a borrowed donkey, accompanied by a little crowd – nothing newsworthy really.  There are other clues too.  There is that time when the Samaritans refuse housing to Jesus and his disciples.  The disciples ask, “Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?”[i]  But Jesus just rebukes the disciples and keeps on going.  Even when Jesus knows Judas is going to betray him, he does not stop Judas.  Instead of stopping Judas or outing Judas, Jesus quietly lets Judas leave to betray him.

So we should not be surprised today at the interaction between Pilate and Jesus and why this passage, of all passages, should be selected for Christ the King Sunday.  Pilate is perplexed by this man who is being labeled (or more accurately, is being accused of having claimed to be) the king of the Jews.  So Pilate asks repeatedly whether Jesus is indeed the king of the Jews.  Jesus mockingly explains that if he were a traditional king, his people would be fighting to save him – which they are decidedly not doing.  Jesus cryptically further explains that his kingship does not look like kingship in the traditional sense – and in fact, his version of kingship is the only kind of kingship that can save anyone.  Violence, retaliation, and revenge will not work.[ii]  A battle of wills will not win control.  The only thing that will win is sacrifice, selflessness, and ceding.  Jesus will not overcome the evil of the world by matching wills with rulers like Pilate.  Jesus will only overcome by allowing himself to be overcome.  When we really think about Jesus’ kingship, his kingship is yet another bizarre thing about our faith.  Who pins their faith on a weak, non-violent, forgiving man?

Given the multiple terrorist attacks we have witnessed over the past week, the irony of Christ the King Sunday is not lost on me.  Just this past week, at Lunch Bunch, we were discussing the challenges of engaging in war to stop terrorism verses isolationism.  The discussion we had was the same discussion that hundreds of theologians have had for centuries.  I have even witnessed top scholars debate the ethics of intervention versus non-violence.  We watch Jesus turn the other cheek – in fact, Jesus tells us to turn the other cheek, give away our tunics, go a second mile, give to borrowers, and love our enemies.[iii]  But we watched what happened in World War II when we stayed out of the war as long as possible – a genocide happened.  And we have seen what sanctions do in foreign countries – though they are non-violent, the brunt of the restrictions hit the poorest of the country.  And yet, we are also only one country.  We cannot possibly fight every force of evil, have troops in every country, and wage war every time evil emerges.

This is one of those times when I would love to say, “It’s a mystery!”  We say that phrase because the answer is beyond our knowing – or because we just do not know the answer.  Any kind of guessing about “What Would Jesus Do,” is not likely to get us very far.  We know that Jesus does not fight Pilate today, and has no intention of answering evil for evil.  But we also know that Jesus is wholly other – the Messiah, the Savior, the sacrifice for our sins.  His death is different from our deaths, and the kingdom he brings is both already and not yet.

Despite the fact that I cannot give you answers about what we should do about ISIS, about terrorism, or about violence, what I can tell you is that the ambiguity of Jesus’ identity as Christ the King is actually good news today.  Now I know ambiguity does not sound like a gift.  But in this instance, I believe ambiguity is where we can put our faith today.  Ambiguity is a gift today because ambiguity makes us uncomfortable.  Because we do not have definitive answers, we are forced to stay in prayer and keep discerning God’s will in this chaotic world.  Because we do not have a king who answers violence for violence (which is quite frankly, a very easy black-and-white formula to replicate), we are forced to contemplate our faith in light of the world.  Because we follow Christ the King, we do not get to say, “It’s a mystery,” as an excuse not to wrestle.

As I think about the conversations I have had with David and William, with our Thursday Bible Study Group, and even the conversation I would have with A.J. Jacobs, I realize ambiguity is the most honest, vulnerable, real way we can start any conversation about faith and Jesus Christ.  And if we ever want a young person, a non-believer, or even someone wise beyond their years to trust that they can have an authentic, meaningful conversation with us about faith, then we have to be willing to step into the ambiguity of faith.  One of Jacobs’ advisors talks about the “glory of following things we can’t explain.”[iv]  That is what Christ the King offers us today – the opportunity to follow things we cannot always explain.  Jesus invites us share our ponderings and struggles with knowing this king who is sometimes counterintuitive.  He invites us to relinquish our angst about the ambiguity, and instead to celebrate the King of ambiguity.  Amen.

[i] Luke 9.54.

[ii] David Lose, “Christ the King B:  Not of this World,” November 16, 2015 as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2015/chirst-the-king-b-not-of-this-world/ on November 19, 2015.

[iii] Matthew 5.39-48.

[iv] A. J. Jacobs, The Year of Living Biblically (London:  Arrow Books, 2009), 203.

Sermon – 1 Samuel 1.4-20, 2.1-10, P28, YB, November 15, 2015

19 Thursday Nov 2015

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At some point in life, most of us have the experience of having a best friend.  Perhaps we met the person on the playground as a child; maybe we met him in college or at work; perhaps our best friend is a cousin or sibling; or maybe our best friend is our spouse or partner.  Regardless of how we met her, that best friend has seen the best and worst of us.  He has congratulated us when we got a part in the play, when we got a promotion, or when we found new love.  She has consoled us when we failed a test, when our heart was broken, or when a family member died.  He has seen us laugh so hard that we snort or pee in our pants, and he has seen us sob so hard that snot runs down our faces.  She has seen us dressed to the nines, and she has seen us in our stained, ill-fitting sweats.  And our best friend has taken the best and the worst from us too:  we have danced together, yelled at each other, confessed our darkest secrets to each other, and, yes, we have even hated each other at times.  Despite having experienced the very best and very worst of us, we know that she loves us deeply, he always forgives us, and she is always there for us.  The relationship is far from perfect, but the relationship is beautiful.

In many ways, the relationship we have with our best friend is similar to the relationship we have with God.  On our good days, we come to God with our thanksgivings and praise, offering our adoration and humility to God.  On our bad days, we are angry and curse God.  We confess things to God that we confess to no one else:  both those things done and left undone, but also those deep longings and desires that we do not admit to others.  We have cried a thousand tears with God and we have laughed with great mirth.  Although our best friend knows us better than any other human being, God knows even the stuff we are embarrassed or afraid to share with that best friend.  And since our Lord is not human, God’s forgiveness does not know the limits of human forgiveness.  Through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, our relationship with other human beings will never quite equal our relationship with God.

Given that intimacy, I am often surprised when people ask me about prayer.  Throughout my ministry I have had people ask me how they should pray, what they should say, or when or where is the best time and place to pray.  I think the challenge is that most of us have some notion of what prayer should look like.  We imagine the pinnacle of brayer being the Zen-like posture of monks in silent prayer.  Or when someone offers a prayer, we assume we should bow our heads, fold our hands, and shush others into silence.  Or when someone asks us to offer the prayer, we scramble to remember common prayer phrases like, “Holy God…Bless us, we pray…you alone are worthy…”  Our prayers sound very little like our everyday speech.  Sometimes, if we are feeling especially uncomfortable, we peek around the room to see what everyone else is doing.  People often ask me how to pray because they do not feel like they are doing it “right,” because their usual method of prayer has become stale or dissatisfying, or because when they pray, God seems far away or even like a stranger.  Or sometimes people come to me about prayer because they are overwhelmed with the suffering of the world:  the poverty, the gun violence, the terror that keeps striking in places like Paris.  How do we pray to God when suffering seems like an endless abyss?

In scripture today, we see Hannah pray twice.  In the first occurrence, Hannah looks nothing like our notions of prayer.  She has been emotionally tortured by Elkanah’s second wife, Peninnah – just like Peninnah does every year when they travel to make their annual sacrifice.  Peninnah is ever fertile and Hannah is barren.  And, probably because Elkanah loves Hannah more, Peninnah throws Hannah’s infertility in her face whenever she can.  Meanwhile, Elkanah is acting like a wounded puppy.  He does not understand why Hannah is so upset – isn’t he enough?  So Hannah escapes to the Temple to pray.  Her prayer is unlikely offered from a pew, while she delicately flips through a prayer book to find some pre-written prayers.  Her prayer is not said reverentially, with a bowed head.  In fact, she does not quietly whisper prayers to God with her eyes closed.  No, when Eli, the temple priest, sees Hannah praying, he accuses Hannah of being drunk in the Temple.  Now I do not know if you have ever been in the presence of a drunken person, but people who are drunk are rarely still and reserved.  No, I imagine Hannah was pacing.  Maybe she was waving her fists at God as the tears spilled down her cheeks.  Maybe there was rage and devastation in her eyes.  The text says that she is silent, but that her lips are moving.  I imagine she was giving God a piece of her mind.  And in fact, the text tells us that she even resorts to bargaining with God – promising to commit his life to the Temple if God gives her a male child.  If Eli thought Hannah looked drunk, the scene could not have been pretty!

The second occurrence of Hannah praying today is found in the Song of Hannah from first Samuel.  Here we see a very different posture of prayer from Hannah.  Instead of ranting and raving in the temple, here we see Hannah giving praise to God for the deliverance of a child.  Hannah is full of gratitude for her own good fortune.  But Hannah’s prayer is bigger than herself too.  She proclaims the Lord to be a liberator – one who frees the oppressed, brings low the privileged, honors the faithful, and cuts off the wicked.  In Hannah’s personal experience with God, she is given a glimpse into the global nature of God.[i]  Hers is revolutionary song because God has heard her prayer and answered her.  We see a very different form of prayer from Hannah the second time than we do from Hannah the first time.

For those of you reading along with A.J. Jacobs’ The Year of Living Biblically, prayer is common topic from the author.  Not a believer himself, Jacobs struggles with prayer.  He does not know what to do or say.  But he feels compelled by the Bible to be in prayer.  One of his spiritual guides suggests that there are four types of prayer – Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, and Supplication.[ii]  Jacobs latches on to Thanksgiving at first.  He starts by thanking God for the food that has been prepared, in its many stages.  As he thinks about all the stages – the earth, the farmer, the packager, the person who puts on labels, the grocery stockers, the cashier – his prayer lengthens.  Jacobs also takes on intercessory prayer as a form of prayer – praying strictly for the needs of others.  Jacobs confesses, “It’s ten minutes where it’s impossible to be self-centered.  Ten minutes where I can’t think about my career, my Amazon.com ranking, or that a blog in San Francisco made snarky comments about my latest Esquire article.”[iii]  Slowly, Jacobs’ ideas about and experiences of prayer become transformed.  Prayer is not like what he thought prayer would be like.

That’s the great thing about prayer.  Hannah’s first “drunken” prayer of desperation and self-pity, her second prayer of adoration and revolution, and Jacobs’ ten minutes of intercessions that keep him from being self-centered are totally different.  My prayers in the car on the way to pick up the kids are very different from the prayers our Contemplative Prayer Group offers on Friday nights.  And the prayers of an evangelical pastor, which are accompanied by the creative tinkling of the keyboardist to emphasize and dramatize the preacher’s prayers, are totally different from the chanted prayers of the officiant of Evensong.  There is no single wrong or right way to pray.  And the same person who offers eloquent, beautiful prayers in the day can be the same person who rages against God in the night.

When we allow prayer to be what prayer needs to be, we let go.  Then our prayers become not some preconceived notion of what we think they should be, but become a real conversation between us and the living God.  Whether we are wrapped up in our own suffering, totally ceding our worries to God, or railing at God for the injustice and the inhumanity in this world, something powerful happens in prayer.  Where else can we stomp our feet at God, looking like a drunkard, except at the feet of God?  Ultimately, that is what is most important in our prayer life – being our honest, vulnerable, mercurial selves.  As one priest explains, “…The relationship we’re offered with God is a real one.  A genuine relationship.  The God who made the heavens and the earth wants to know us, and wants us to know [God].  And when we’re excited, we’re to gush out like Hannah breaking out into song.  And when things are falling apart, we’re to gush out like Hannah at Shiloh.”[iv]  God does not care what our prayers look like or even what we say.  God is just glad we show up.  Our invitation this week is to show up.  Amen.

[i] Kate Foster Connors, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 298, 300.

[ii] A. J. Jacobs, The Year of Living Biblically (London:  Arrow Books, 2009), 95.

[iii] Jacobs, 128.

[iv] Rick Morley, “Pouring Out Our Souls – A Reflection on 1 Samuel 1.4-20 & 2.1-10,” November 8, 2012, as found at http://www.rickmorley.com/archives/2052 on November 12, 2015.

Sermon – John 11.32-44, AS, YB, November 1, 2015

04 Wednesday Nov 2015

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There is a lot about the Lazarus story that I do not understand.  I do not understand why Jesus allows Lazarus to die if he is only going to bring him back to life anyway.  I do not understand why Jesus weeps when he knows he can fix things.  I do not understand why Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead when eventually Lazarus will have to die again.  But mostly I do not understand why we never hear from Lazarus about how he feels about all of this.  The text tells us Lazarus has been dead for three days.  We do not know much about the afterlife, but presumably, after three days, one’s body and soul have already moved beyond this earthly life.  For all we know, Lazarus is at peace, already enjoying eternal rest with God.  Whatever pain and suffering he has endured in life is gone.  Maybe he is relieved to be free of the stress and battles of earthly life, and to be released to enjoy the peace of eternal life.  When he has reached that point of peaceful bliss, why would he want start over – knowing he will eventually have to go through death all over again?[i]

I used to watch the television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, the premise is that throughout time there has always been one young woman in the world chosen to be the Vampire Slayer – a young woman trained and “called” to protect the world from vampires.  In season five, after having prevented at least five apocalypses, Buffy faces one more.  In the episode, the only way to stop the end of the world is for her to sacrifice herself.  She dies and the world is saved.  Of course, the next season, her friends use magic to bring her back from the dead.  But the rest of that season, Buffy struggles.  She finally confesses that she did not want to be brought back from the dead.  She had been happy and at peace.  All of the fighting and struggling against evil was over, and she was finally free from all obligation and strife.  Being brought back was even worse than before.  Not only did she have to continue fighting evil, but also she was now aware of the freedom she could have had.  She didn’t want to be resurrected.

What Buffy eventually discovered, and I am sure Lazarus did too, was that there was still some purpose left in her life.  In fact, she was able to transform the entire vampire slaying industry.  Unfortunately, we never really get to hear what happens to Lazarus – how his resurrection transforms his life.  We eventually read that the chief priests plot against Lazarus because people are beginning to follow Jesus after he raises Lazarus from the dead.  Perhaps there were times when Lazarus would have preferred to have stayed dead than to be raised again and face all the controversy.  But perhaps, Lazarus found new purpose and was able to use whatever additional earthly time he had to do something good.[ii]

When Scott and I first moved to Delaware after graduating from college, we found a church home at the Cathedral.  The Cathedral was a special place for us.  The Cathedral was where we were both confirmed as adults.  The Cathedral was where we had our first experiences serving on Vestry, leading Bible Study, officiating Morning Prayer, and teaching a Rite 13 class.  The Cathedral was the place where I fell in love with Anglican Choral Music and chant.  The Cathedral was where I was ordained as a Deacon in the Church.  So, a few years ago, when the Cathedral closed because the congregation could no longer support the cost of ministry in that space, you can imagine that I and hundreds of others were devastated.  Those pews, those stone walls, that altar rail was the site of transformation and holiness in our lives.  Now, the fate of that sacred space would depend on who bought the Cathedral and what they decided to do with it.

This past week, a story broke about the Cathedral.[iii]  Another non-profit in the same town purchased the property and would be converting the church and all the office and classroom spaces into housing for moderate- to low-income elderly persons.  When the project is done, there will be 53 housing units, housing over 116 residents.  Though I never wanted the Cathedral to die – in fact, I was devastated by its death – I also must admit that the news of the resurrection of this church into a powerful new ministry brought me infinite happiness this week.  What I could see was that something good would be coming out of the Cathedral’s death.  The Cathedral had always been a place of service and mission, bringing Christ’s light into the community.  Once this new residence is completed, the Cathedral will continue its work of bringing Christ’s light into the community.

As I was thinking about the Cathedral and Lazarus this week, what I began to wonder is whether earthly death was necessary for each of them to be reborn into new life.  In many ways, when we do a baptism, that is what we say happens.  As we enter into the waters of baptism, the old self dies and a new self emerges from the waters on the other side.  We die to earthly life and are reborn into the life of faith.  In fact, in ancient days, baptism happened in a pool of water so that the whole body could be immersed in water, signifying the old self being washed away and the new self emerging out of the watery womb of Christ.  But in order to be baptized, in order to have new life, death must first happen.

When we think about All Saints Day, which we celebrate today, that pattern is quite familiar.  Most of the saints that we honor today experienced a death of sorts before their earthly deaths.  I can think of countless saints who renounced their wealth or their privilege in order to begin a new life:  St. Francis, Mother Teresa, and Oscar Romero.  And we know everyday modern saints who experience the same thing:  that young adult who spent thousands of dollars on a University education to go spend two years in the Peace Corps; that person who worked on Wall Street, making millions, who left to start a non-profit; or that well-paid doctor who spends weekends at the community clinic and summers traveling with Doctors Without Borders.  What those ancient saints, famous saints, and everyday saints teach us is that sometimes a part of us has to die in order for us to truly experience resurrection life.

I imagine each of us here has something we have been holding on to – or even clinging on to – that needs to die before something can be reborn in us.  Maybe we need to let go of a memory – the memory of that perfect long-tenured rector or the memory of that painful experience with a rector – so that we can reassess what new life is blooming right in front of us.  Maybe we need to let go of a resistance to change – letting the familiar die so that something new and fresh (and perhaps, just maybe, shockingly better) can be born anew in our community.  Or maybe we need to let go of a theology of scarcity – that fear that I or my church will not have enough – so that we can allow a theology of abundance to grow in us.  In many ways, I see that new life already budding here at St. Margaret’s.  I see those glimpses of resurrection life pushing their way out of our protective arms.  The invitation from the saints today is to let go.  Let death happen so that new life can emerge.  Let that new hope spring out of the tightly sealed containers in which we have hidden budding hope.  And maybe, like Lazarus, when Jesus calls for us to come out of the tomb, we won’t be afraid to take off those binding cloths and to embrace whatever new, scary, uncomfortable, and awesome new life awaits.  Amen.

[i] Suzanne Guthrie, “Back to Life,” Christian Century, vol. 122, no. 5, March 8, 2005, 22.

[ii] Henry Langknecht, “Commentary on John 11.32-44,” November 1, 2009, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=429 on October 29, 2015.

[iii] Robin Brown, “Historic church complex set to continue ‘Lord’s work’,” October 29, 2015 as found at http://www.delawareonline.com/story/news/2015/10/22/historic-church-complex-set-continue-lords-work/74269674/?hootPostID=ab06f2224fc6ba16ac4e81312a021ffa.

Sermon – Job 42.1-6, 10-17, P25, YB, October 25, 2015

28 Wednesday Oct 2015

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I remember well the reentry experience I had after my first major international mission trip.  A team of about 20 of us traveled to Honduras for ten days, spending seven of those days in a rural, impoverished village.  When I came back to Duke, I came back a changed person.  Suddenly the mounds of food available in the dining hall seemed exorbitant, if not wasteful when I remembered the hungry children of the village.  Although the long, hot showers felt glorious, I also could not help but feeling guilty for using so much water and having that water so ready at my fingertips when I had become so accustomed to having only a bucket of water to bathe with every other day – a bucket that I had to share with someone else.  Even being able to go to the student health center for the stomach bug I brought back with me felt like a luxury after having run a health clinic with meager supplies and only one doctor.

All that would be enough to make me feel out of place.  But what made the experience worse was that I felt like a transformed, confused, vulnerable person in a sea of people going about their everyday lives.  In fact, I was very clear that I was the weird one.  All I had to do was have the basic, “What did you do for Spring Break?” conversation, and I could tell that no one could relate to my new reality.  They had been to Cancun, Cabo, or Costa Rica for Spring Break.  They had stories about partying, pools, and pina coladas.  There biggest stressors were navigating taxis without speaking Spanish, haggling with shop owners about prices, and trying to figure out how much to tip the cabana guys.  My stories about a lack of indoor plumbing, sleeping on cement floors, and boiling water to drink just led to blank stares and quick exits.  Instead, I was left alone, on a campus full of abundance, with students who have never had to worry about money or even their basic needs being met, in a place where my only responsibility was to study and attend classes.  Having seen real poverty, I would never again be able to look at the campus and people and privilege around me and see all of that in the same way again.

I think that is what makes me so uncomfortable about the happily-ever-after ending we get in Job today.  These last few weeks we have been reading through Job.  We hear the confusing conversation between the Adversary and God about how the Adversary will test Job’s righteousness by taking everything away – his children, his livestock, his home.  We remember how his friends try to tell him he must have done something to deserve his suffering.  We hear Job lash out at God, demanding to know why he is suffering so.  And last week we heard God put Job in his place, asking how Job thought he had any right to presume he knew God’s ways.  The today, when Job humbly confesses and submits to God, God suddenly relieves Job of his suffering.  He brings back his wealth – twice as much as he had before.  He blesses Job with children and livestock again.  On the surface, the whole story sounds so simple.  Job has everything taken away, he remains faithful, and then is restored his fortunes.  But something about that ending does not sit well with me.  How could Job ever look at his ten children without remembering the ten he had before?  How could Job ever look at that livestock and wealth without remembering how he once had nothing?  How could Job receive his consoling brothers and sisters without remembering how they had all deserted him and left him to sit with his sores and grief?  For some reason, I just cannot imagine how all that abundance in the face of recent tragedy somehow makes up for all his suffering.

Of course, we all try to make that transition in life.  I know widowers or divorcees who have had countless people ask why they do not start dating – as if a new spouse could ever make them forget the one with whom they shared a lifetime.  I know pet owners who have lost a beloved pet, only to have someone say, “You should just get a new puppy.  A puppy will make you forget your old dog.”  I even know young mothers who have lost a pregnancy or even an infant, only to have someone say, “You’re young.  You can always have another.”  To their credit, I genuinely think our friends and family are trying to say something that they think is helpful.  They are facing the abyss of pain too, and simply want to make everything okay.  And so they, and we, say something that even sounds awful to us coming out of our mouths.  But we do not know what else to say.

As I have thought about Job this week, I realized the end of his story is not a happily-ever-after ending.  The end of his story is a story about the new normal.  The new normal is not just a return to the same – or even a doubling of what was before.  The new normal for Job is learning how to be a person of faith in the midst of abundance.  Job teaches us a lot about living in the new normal.  Job prays for his friends who tried to blame Job’s suffering on Job.  Job eats with his siblings who disappeared during his suffering.  And Job does something radical.  When he has those ten children, three of them are daughters.  The text tells us that he gives the daughters an inheritance along with their brothers.  That kind of action was unheard of in Job’s day.[i]  Women were not given inheritances.  If they wanted security, they got married.  But Job, in his new normal, decides not just to enjoy his wealth, but to make his wealth count for others – for the most vulnerable:  for women.

Though I would never wish Job’s fate on anyone, Job’s suffering and trials teach him something about faithfulness.  Job moves from basically espousing a prosperity gospel – one in which he was blessed with good things because of his faithfulness – to espousing a theology of gratitude.  His wealth is no longer something for him to possess as a reward, but is now a tool for making a difference in the world.  That is not to say that Job is not a righteous man before his trials.  The text tells us he is.  What the text does infer is that Job’s relationship with his wealth is transformed, along with his faith.[ii]

A few weeks ago, Deacon Anthony told us about an experience of a man in New York City that he saw on the website, “Humans of New York.”  The story about the man in his own words goes like this, “Not long ago it looked like I was about to get everything.  I was one of the first employees at a company that sold for a billion dollars.  So I started a new company, and everything seemed to be going perfectly, but suddenly everything came apart.  This has been the toughest year of my adult life.  I went bankrupt, my company failed, and a person I loved died.  I didn’t commit suicide—though I considered it.  But my ideas of myself have definitely died.  I thought I was better than everyone.  I saw my success as the culmination of all my positive merits.  Losing everything forced me to realize how much of my good fortune was due to things that had been given to me.”[iii]  I think that man from New York understood Job’s reality deeply.  His year of tragedy taught him the same thing that Job’s time of tragedy taught him.  Everything is a gift:  our wealth, our abundance, our comfort, our security.  Everything is a gift.  And once we realize that everything is a gift, we are irrevocably changed.  We cannot go back to living life in a haphazard, oblivious way.  Our perspective toward abundance, and our responsibility to manage that abundance, changes.

Job found a way to transform the lives of his daughters with his wealth – even though society would have never have considered asking him, let alone expected him to do so.  Often we talk about wealth being a burden or a responsibility.  All we need to do is think about the lesson we heard recently about the rich getting into heaven being like a camel going through the eye of a needle.  Or we know those familiar words from Luke, “to whom much is given, much is required.”  But Job does not teach us that lesson today.  Wealth is not a burden or a responsibility.  Wealth frees us for opportunity – opportunities to bless, to transform, and to flourish.  Like that man in New York understood, wealth is a gift.  Our invitation this week is to consider how we might use our wealth as a gift.  Instead of seeing this stewardship season as a reminder of the burden we all have to support the operating budget of the church, I invite you to consider this stewardship season as a gift – an invitation to use your wealth to create opportunities to bless, to transform, and to flourish the ministries of this place.  Like Job joyfully watched his daughters experience a new freedom, I wonder what new opportunities your wealth might create in this community.  Amen.

[i] Dale P. Andrews, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 199.

[ii] Kathryn M. Schifferdecker, “Commentary on Job 42:1-6, 10-17,” October 28, 2012, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1455 on October 22, 2015.

[iii] Found at “Humans of New York,” October 10, 2015, found at https://www.facebook.com/humansofnewyork/photos/a.102107073196735.4429.102099916530784/1105944539479645/?type=3&fref=nf on October 23, 2015.