Tag Archives: share

On Invitations to Compassion…

30 Wednesday Jan 2019

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

This past week I have been pondering the notion of compassion.  The notion first struck me as I visited one of our parishioners at the hospital several times.  Each time I have visited, someone else had already visited or was on their way to visit.  Having been to many a hospital room, I know this is not the norm.  Often, people in the hospital are there without much support.  To see the community rally around this parishioner – both fellow parishioners and personal friends – was such a potent witness to the power of compassion.

Midweek, our own parish began to wonder how we might show compassion to our neighbors in need who were struggling due to government shutdown furloughs.  As we shared ideas as a community, and as we checked on our own parishioners, we discovered that several of our parishioners were already acting on behalf of our neighbors in need.  In fact, several parishioners were quietly gathering funds to support our local Coast Guard members.  I was so proud to learn about the quiet, unassuming compassion of our church.

Finally, my daughter and I paid a visit to a Children’s hospital for some routine checkups.  As we were waiting in three different waiting rooms, we watching families pass us by with children who were much sicker, or who had challenges that I will never face with my children.  I found myself humbled by journeys I could not imagine, and wondering how I might move from sympathy to compassion.

My ponderings reminded me of something Father Gregory Boyle articulated in his book Tattoos on the Heart.  Father Gregory teaches a class in the local prisons, and in one of the classes they talked about the difference between sympathy, empathy, and compassion.  As the inmates discussed the topic, they agreed that sympathy is the expression of sadness for something someone is experiencing.  They defined empathy as going a step further and sharing how your own similar experience makes your sympathy more personal.  But compassion was a bit harder to define.  Father Gregory argues, “Compassion isn’t just about feeling the pain of others; it’s about bringing them in toward yourself.  If we love what God loves, then, in compassion, margins get erased. ‘Be compassionate as God is compassionate,’ means the dismantling of barriers that exclude.”[i]

I wonder how God is inviting you this week to step beyond sympathy and empathy, and step into compassion. That kind of work is not easy, and will likely mean getting a bit messy.  But I suspect that same kind of work takes us from looking at the world around us and saying, “That’s too bad,” or “I’m so sorry,” to “Let me walk with you.”  That is the sacred spot where we experience God between us.  I look forward to hearing about your experiences of accepting God’s invitation to compassion this week.

[i] Father Gregory Boyle, Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion (New York:  Free Press, 2010), 75.

Sermon – Luke 4.7-18, A3, YC, December 16, 2018

19 Wednesday Dec 2018

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

Today we are honoring the beginning of Bob Gay’s diaconal ministry with Hickory Neck.  We do not arrive at this day lightly.  Bob and his family had to discern if coming out of retirement was what God was calling him to do.  Bob had to confirm that call with church leaders, church members, and Diocesan staff.  Bob had to prayerfully consider what a diaconal ministry at Hickory Neck would look like and how that ministry might be different than at other churches.  And today, Bob and our community make commitments to not only support his call, but also recommit to our own senses of call.  Though our celebration of Bob’s ministry may feel brief in relation to all we do today, the gravity of what we do in and through Bob is serious.

Although I am thrilled to honor Bob’s new ministry among us, sometimes these types of days can leave us with the impression that “calling,” is something that happens to those with collars – people are called to be priests, deacons, and bishops.  Sometimes we are willing to expand the notion of calling to certain helping professionals – people are called to be nurses, social workers, fire fighters, and teachers.  But we get a little tripped up imagining being called to be other things – a lawyer, an engineer, a stay-at-home parent, an investment banker, or a business owner.  And when we are younger, we almost never hear people saying we are called to be a student, a babysitter, a friend, or a sibling.  We might think we are good at some of those things, or we enjoy those jobs or roles, but we do not always say we are “called” to do them.

I met a retired priest once, and he said his greatest joy in retirement was in helping parishioners experience God on Mondays.  In partnership with the clergy of his church, his “calling” in retirement was to set up what he called “Sunday-Monday Appointments” with church members.  He would go visit members of Church on Mondays in their places of employment and talk about where they see God in their everyday life – how they make the connection between what they do on Sundays and what they do on Mondays.  Those conversations are meant to help the parishioners name how they experience “calling” in their work place.  For some parishioners, that conversation is quite easy.  But for others, that conversation is much more difficult.  Many of them have never had a priest visit them at work, and they have certainly never prayed aloud at the end of a meeting at work.  When the retired priest asks them about their Sunday-Monday connection, sometimes he finds parishioners do not really have a connection.  Those two days feel very separate in their minds.

Part of what is challenging in claiming that we are “called” to a role outside of church is we feel intimidated declaring what God would want us to do outside of church.  We imagine something a bit like what happened to those around John the Baptist in our gospel lesson today.  We do not like the idea of being called a “brood of vipers.”  We do not like the idea of being told our ancestry does not matter – that being a descendant of Abraham does not hold sway with God.  We do not like hearing about repentance, or axes lying at the root of trees who do not bear fruit.  Perhaps if we had been one of those gathered around John the Baptist, we might have simply concluded that the whole baptism thing was not for us.  Baptized living sounds hard as John describes baptism.

But before we get too far down the path of defeatism, something interesting happens in our gospel story.  Instead of walking away with their heads hung low when John starts calling them broods of vipers, the crowd asks a question, “What then should we do?”  After being called broods of vipers, you might expect the eccentric John to tell them to sell all their possessions, eat insects, and live in rags.  Instead, John says something quite simple, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.”  Basically, John says, share your stuff when you have more than you need.  That is all:  share your stuff.  We can tell John’s answer is pretty benign because the tax collectors jump in, “Teacher, what should we do?”  They ask because although the others get off pretty easy, the tax collectors know they are in a bit of hot water, resembling broods of vipers more than they might like to admit.  But John is mild again, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.”  In other words, John says, “Just do your job fairly.”  The soldiers are emboldened now too, asking, “And we, what should we do?”  John gives them an easy out too, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.”  That one is pretty basic too:  appreciate what you have, and don’t be a bully.

What scholar David Lose appreciates “is how mundane, if not downright obvious, John’s admonition proves.  I mean, this is not rocket-science; indeed, [John’s admonition] is the logic of the classroom and playground most of us first heard in kindergarten: share, be fair, don’t bully.  But if somewhat obvious, [John’s admonition] is at least also within their reach.  John does not tell the crowds to join him out in the wilderness, he does not ask the tax-collectors to abandon or betray Rome, and he does not urge soldiers to a life of pacifism.  Instead, he points them to the very places in which they already live and work, love and laugh, struggle and strive, and suggests that these places are precisely where God calls them to be, where God is at work in them and through them for the sake of the world.”[i]

This month in our Sunday Forum series we are talking about our spiritual gifts.  We are hearing diverse voices talk about what gifts each of us have and how we can use those gifts in our various callings.  The idea is not simply to discover what gifts we have so that we can use them in the world; the idea is also to name how we are already using our gifts in the world, and to understand the use of those gifts out in the world and within this community as our calling.  You know as well as I do that some of us are called to teach children, some to read scripture in worship, some to advise the church about financial decisions, some to plan parties, and others to find and stop leaks in water pipes.  And some of us are not called to do any of those things.  But each of us has spiritual gifts unique to ourselves, and each of us are invited to use those gifts in the church and the world.  Those spiritual gifts can be as simple as the fidelity of a parent or spouse, the attentiveness of a friend, the hard work of an employee, the honesty of an employer, the steadfastness of a volunteer, the generosity of participating in an outreach ministry, or the compassion of visiting the sick or homebound.[ii]

What Bob’s new ministry and John’s invitation in our gospel lesson today do is not send us home thinking we must be ordained or be some crazy wilderness prophet to be faithful to God and live out our calling.  What we do liturgically and hear scripturally today is remember that the connection from Sunday to Monday matters.  The things we do in our everyday lives are opportunities to stop seeing work, home, school, and community as simply work, home, school, and community, but instead as our mission field – as the places where we live out the calling we discern here on Sundays.  And if we are not certain what that calling is, the crowd surrounding John encourage us to ask the same question they ask, “And me, what should I do?”  I promise the answer will not be overwhelming.  The answer will be simple:  show God’s loving-kindness in the workplace, at home, at school, and in the community; be Christ’s light in the grocery store, on the playground, with your loved one, and with the stranger; share the Holy Spirit’s love while driving, while emailing, while eating, and while playing on a team.  Our job each Sunday is to keep asking, “And me, what should I do?” and then trust on Monday the answer will be unique to our gifts, within our reach, and fulfilling beyond measure.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Advent 3C:  Beyond Scolding,” December 11, 2018, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2018/12/advent-3-c-beyond-scolding/ on December 14, 2018.

[ii] Lose.

On Sacred Listening…

26 Wednesday Sep 2018

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

trh_the_act_of_listening_wide-dbad5dfa36f0cf8f405acaa9ba328c0dc33de9b8-s800-c85

Photo credit:  https://www.npr.org/programs/ted-radio-hour/411697251/the-act-of-listening

Last week and this week, our curate is leading Hickory Neck in a forum on evangelism.  The work of the class is ultimately about sharing and listening to sacred stories.  True evangelism happens not when we tell people what they should believe or that they should come to church with us, but when we listen deeply to people’s stories and reflect where we see the sacred in those stories.

I realize this all may sound a little touchy-feely for many of us, but the truth is, even if you never called it “sacred storytelling and sacred listening,” you have likely experienced the phenomenon.  Think about the last time you encountered someone who was such a good listener you were pouring out your soul to them, without even actively choosing to do so.  Or recall those times when you have shared some of the heavy things on your heart and the listener pointed out where they saw God in the darkness in a way that lightened your entire perspective.  Those holy moments do not happen very often, but when they do, we feel a sense of transformation and the nearness of God.

That’s what evangelism is all about – not a manipulative way of coaxing out stories so that you can convert someone, but a willingness to stand in the fray with people (be it friend, neighbor, or stranger) and wait for God.  That kind of openness is a tremendous gift and privilege – to you, to the other, and to the world.

This past week, I have had the privilege of having lots of conversations – about faith, religion, children, church, and politics.  Some have been with church members, some have been with new acquaintances, and some have been with strangers.  And to a person, in every conversation, I find that I experience more blessing and renewed faith in our God than I even realized I needed.  This week, I invite you into those sacred storytelling and sacred listening opportunities, whether it’s with someone you know or someone you have never met.  I know that sounds scary, but you will be surprised how often someone is willing to share if they know someone is really listening.  If you are willing to accept the invitation, I suspect you will come to church on Sunday with a sense of renewal and restored faith.  I can’t wait to hear your stories!

On Finding and Sharing Joy…

19 Wednesday Sep 2018

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

IMG_2901

Photo credit:  Robin Razzino; permission required for reuse.

This past Sunday, I was ready to head off for church bright and early.  My younger daughter was still asleep, so I went in to her room to give her a kiss goodbye.  She stirred and very sleepily asked me, “Is today Sunday School?  And Children’s Chapel?”  I almost giggled that this was her first thought upon arousal from sleep.  When I told her, “Yes,” she would be going to Sunday School and Children’s Chapel, she groggily replied, “It’s going to be fun.”

As I have been thinking about my child’s simple question and sense of joy about church, I had two thoughts.  The first was, I am so happy to know that my child is finding joy, happiness, and fun at church.  As a parent, you hope your child will find as much joy in Jesus as you do, but you learn pretty quickly that every child is an individual with their own passions and sources of joy.  To see my child develop a love for church and the experiences she has there has been so thrilling.  And even more importantly to me (especially as a clergy person), I am so grateful that her positive church experiences are almost totally independent of me.  Other adults are guiding her faith journey.  The community is raising her up in the faith.  Our church family is helping her find joy in God that is all her own.  That reality is one that I have deeply desired for my own children, and I am so proud that my church is a place that does the same for so many other children and families.

The second thought I had about my daughter’s early morning pronouncement was that I want adults to have that same sense of anticipatory joy about church too.  Sometimes we struggle to get ourselves to church because our lives are so over-scheduled that church feels like just one more burden.  Sometimes we go to church out of habit, but go through the motions without much joy or food for our souls for the week.  What I long for is church to be a place that when we first awake on Sunday mornings we think of church and we think, “This is going to be fun!”  We can do that at Hickory Neck because we know we will see people who have given us so much joy in our spiritual journey.  We can do that at Hickory Neck because the worship, preaching, and learning will give us new insights and renewed energy and passion for God.  We can do that at Hickory Neck because we know, somewhere during the morning, we will encounter God – and it’s going to be awesome!

This past Sunday at our Rector’s Forum, someone asked about how we invite people to church, how we share the Good News with others.  Where we start is sharing those stories of how, when we wake up on Sundays, we think about Hickory Neck and think, “This is going to be fun.”  When you tell the story of how your church brings you joy, your countenance changes, your energy shifts, and your enthusiasm is contagious.  The only thing left for you to do is say, “Hey, you want to come with me next time?  It’s really fun!”

Sermon – John 15.9-17, E6, YB, May 6, 2018

09 Wednesday May 2018

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

Jesus’ words today from John’s gospel have been beckoning me all week.  “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love…I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete…You are my friends…You did not choose me but I chose you.”  These are words that our weary souls need to hear.  We long for the wide, open embrace of God, the unconditional acceptance, the assurance that everything will be okay.  Jesus’ words today are a warm blanket we crawl into and wrap around ourselves, draping over our feelings of sadness, loneliness, doubt, insecurity, and uncertainty.  Jesus’ invitation to abide in his love is the fulfillment of every longing, aching need in our lives, and today Jesus offers that love freely, abundantly, joyfully, completely.

For some of here today, that is your sermon:  Jesus loves you, chooses you, befriends you, and completes your joy.  The humbling, overwhelming love of God invites you into that warm blanket, and you do not need to speak – just accept the gift and abide with God this week.[i]

For others of us, we may be a little too hardened to fully receive the invitation to abide in God’s love.  I used to serve with a priest whose main sermon, no matter what the text, was God loves us.  She said those words so often I remember I would sometimes stop listening.  My cynical self would start the diatribe, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.  God is love.”  The problem for many of us is love has failed us.  We have been in love, been loved by family or friends, or even have felt God’s love.  But we have also been hurt, rejected, or felt abandoned by all those parties.  And if we feel the failure of love too often, “Abide in my love,” sounds too shallow to have meaning, too romantic to last, too wonderful to be sustained.

For those of us who might roll our eyes at the saccharine nature of love we have experienced in the world, we may need a different sermon today.   Part of our challenge is we have defined love in such a way that we will be disappointed every time.  We watch movies, read books, even gaze at couples in those first dreamy weeks of new love, and think we know what love is.  Love becomes two people who agree all the time, who are always able to look lovingly at another never noticing imperfections, who never experience conflict, and who are always happy.  And if that is our expectation of love, we will always be disappointed.  For those of us in this camp, our sermon today is to redefine love.

A few years ago, Paul and Lucy were such a couple.  They had a romantic beginning – meeting in medical school, Paul was funny, smart, and playful.  As they built a life together, they began to dream and to plan.  When Paul finished his 90-hour workweek rotations, and life got back to normal, they would try to have a baby.  Everything was perfect – at least everything was perfect if you did not look too closely.  And then Paul got the diagnosis – a cancer that would give him two more years of life.  And suddenly everything changed.  Lucy’s life began to become about taking care of Paul, walking him through treatments, holding him in pain.  And Paul’s life became about making sure Lucy could enjoy life beyond him.  At one point, Paul assured Lucy he wanted her to remarry after he died.  The two even agreed to have that baby they had been planning.  Lucy worried having a child would make dying worse for Paul.  “Don’t you think that saying goodbye to a child would make your death more painful?” she asked Paul.  He replied, “Wouldn’t it be great if it did?”[ii]

What Paul and Lucy show us is love is not some sappy, sentimentalized emotion best captured by a romantic comedy with a great soundtrack.  Love is beautiful not because love is perfect, pretty, polished.  Love is beautiful because love is “all in,” ready for the ugliness of life, willing to take on pain and suffering and see that pain as a blessing.  Of course, Jesus describes love in the same way in today’s gospel lesson if we are paying attention.  We find ourselves so tarrying in the comforting love language and we sometimes miss the other love language in the text.  “Keep my commandments…love one another as I have loved you…lay down one’s life for one’s friends…go and bear fruit, fruit that will last.”  Jesus shows us what love looks like throughout his life.  He kneels down and tenderly washes the dirty, worn feet of his companions.  He accepts and welcomes adulterers, oppressors, and outcasts of every kind.  He loves and forgives, even when betrayed by his closest friends.  He gives up his life in the most gruesome, humiliating way.  Jesus’ love is not pretty or polished.  But Jesus’ love is profound.

That kind of love is the kind of love that drove most of us to Hickory Neck.  Maybe we came thinking we wanted a perfect, polished, pretty loving community that would make us feel loved too.  And many times, Hickory Neck is just that.  But other times we find a different kind of love at Hickory Neck – a love that stands by us when spouses die, when marriages fail, and when children stumble into dark places; a love that stands by us when diagnoses come, when tragedy strikes, and when sinfulness overcomes us; a love that stands by us when we disagree, when we hurt one another, and when we fail to meet each other’s expectations.  That kind of love sits next to us when we cry, even when no words are exchanged; that kind of love receives awful news and is able to simply say, “this is awful,”; that kind of love prays for us even when we do not realize we are receiving or need prayer.  The love we often find at Hickory Neck may seem to others to be messy, imperfect, and even difficult.  But the love we find at Hickory Neck is much more akin to the kind of love that mimics God’s love for us, that lays down our lives for one another.

The challenge for us today is in four tiny words from Jesus, “Go and bear fruit.”  Both the unconditional blanket of Christ’s love and the messy, ugly, beautiful love of Christ are for us today.  But that gift of love becomes fullest when shared.  We practice that sharing of love every week here at Hickory Neck – with the people we like, and even the people we may not like as much.  But our practicing is preparation for sharing that love beyond these walls – with the family member who drives us crazy, with the neighbor whose annoying habits reveal a lack of love, with the stranger who makes us uncomfortable.  Now, you may go home today and start thinking to yourself, or your friend might say to you, or even Satan himself may start asking you, “Yeah, but won’t that kind of love hurt?  Won’t you be risking pain and hurt by giving that kind of love?”  Today, Jesus invites you to say, “Wouldn’t it be great if it did?”  Amen.

[i] Karoline Lewis, “Abide in my Love,” April 29, 2018, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=5142 on May 2, 2018.

[ii] David Greene, “Inside A Doctor’s Mind At The End Of His Life,” February 12, 2016, as found at https://www.npr.org/templates/transcript/transcript.php?storyId=466189316 on May 3, 2018.

Sermon – John 20.1-18, ED, YB, April 1, 2018

12 Thursday Apr 2018

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

Last weekend, before Holy Week started, our family celebrated my youngest’s fourth birthday.  A dear friend was there and asked me how I was doing, knowing full well that Holy Week and Easter were coming.  I launched into a diatribe about all the things I was juggling – birthday party, work commitments, packing for Spring Break, and the pressures of writing an Easter sermon.  The last complaint caught her attention.  “You’re worried about an Easter sermon?” she asked.  “Oh, yes!” I explained.  “It’s a big day.  The sermon needs to be good!”  She looked at me, dumbfounded, and said to me, in a way that only a best friend can, “You know nobody comes to church on Easter because of the sermon.”

Now as a preacher, you can imagine my ego was a little bruised.  But the more I thought about her observation, the more I realized she was right.  We come to church on Easter for a whole host of reasons.  We come to church on Easter because that is what our family has always done, and the continued observation of Easter somehow connects us to the past, present, and future, creating a sense of belonging and identity.  We come to church on Easter, because we long for a good word – a reminder that even in a tumultuous world, there is the promise of resurrection life, joy, and hope.  We come to church on Easter because we love the music, the flowers, the crowded seats, the Easter attire, and the experience of being a part of community.  And some of us are not sure why we come to church on Easter, but we suspect, or at least hope, we will find something that can revive our weary souls.

I suspect what most of us are hoping for today is an experience like Mary Magdalene’s.  I am not sure Mary knew why she went to the tomb that fateful day.  In John’s gospel, Mary is not there with spices to anoint Jesus’ body.  She does not bring flowers or some memento to leave at the tomb.  In fact, she comes to the tomb in darkness, before the morning light has arisen, perhaps in a fog of knowing she needs something but not sure what that something might be.  And then, not unlike the chaos that may have been your morning to get here on time and half-way presentable, Mary’s life gets thrown into chaos.  An empty tomb means she and the disciples run around like chickens with their heads cut off.  Later, Mary finds herself bemoaning to angels and a stranger alike that she just wants Jesus’ body – a physical reminder of all the horror and love and pain that has happened.  And in the midst of this chaos, a simple, profound thing happens.  Mary is called by her name.[i]  And her world gets turned on its head.

There is something very powerful about being called by your name.  We will frequent restaurants or coffee shops because we love being recognized by name by our favorite barista or shop owner.  If you have ever received a blessing or healing prayer by a person who knew your name, you know the intimacy that is created between the two of you, and the power of hearing your name lifted up to God.  We even try to use nametags here at Hickory Neck because we know how wonderful being known by name feels.  Being known by name creates a feeling of acceptance, affirmation, affection, and acknowledgement.[ii]  I can only imagine the rush of emotions when Jesus calls Mary by name today – not just the recognition of who Jesus is, but the reminder of how much he has loved her.

I suspect we should add that to the list of reasons why we come to church on Easter Sunday.  We want to be known too.  Perhaps we want to literally be called by name.  But perhaps we know just being here creates the same sense of belonging that being known by name creates.  When we sit in these seats today, we know that we are sitting next to someone who is longing for belonging today too – who also rallied to get to church on time – maybe with kids in cute dresses, or maybe just pulling their aching bodies to church.  When we sit in the seats today, we know that we are surrounded by a group of people who also love having their senses overwhelmed – from the smell of fragrant lilies, to the joyous sound of song [brass], to the taste of communion bread and wine, to the sight of fanfare and smiles, to the feel of another hand at the peace.  When we sit in these seats today, we know that we will be offered a word of joy, light, love, hope – and we want our lives to be marked by that same sense of promise.

Now you may feel tempted today to take all that affirmation, encouragement, and joy, and go about the next days on your own personal high – as though the gifts you receive today are solely for you.  But what all this fanfare, acknowledgment, and hope are meant to do is to propel you out into the world.  When Mary is called by name, receiving the blessing of recognition and encouragement, she does not stay at the feet of the resurrected Jesus.  She becomes John’s gospel’s first preacher.  “I have seen the Lord,” Mary says to the disciples.  Now I know some of you will go out from this place today and do just that – you will put on your Facebook page, “Alleluia, Christ is Risen!” or you will hug your neighbor and tell them what a joyous day you just had at church.  But for others of you, sharing today’s joy may take you a little more time, or may look a bit different than proclaiming, “I have seen the Lord,” to your favorite barista.  But what Mary invites us to do today is find our own way of sharing the beautiful gift we receive today – to give someone else the gift of joy and hope, to quietly tell a friend what a cool experience this day was, or to simply call someone else by name – sharing that same sense of belonging and affirmation you receive today.   You came to church this Easter Sunday for something.  Mary invites you to give that something to someone else.  Amen.  Alleluia!

[i] Serene Jones, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 378.

[ii] D. Cameron Murchison, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 380.

On the Power of Hospitality…

02 Wednesday Aug 2017

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

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

Hospitality

Photo credit:  www.riversouthbay.org/my-river/opportunities/hospitality-team

As a priest, it is pretty rare that I get to sit in the pew, let alone worship in or experience another church’s community.  But last week I had the opportunity to do that in two very different, but blessed ways.  The first was taking my children to Vacation Bible School (VBS) at a local Disciples of Christ church.  The church is one of our ecumenical partners, and I had preached there during a pulpit exchange last Lent.  Our children had requested attending VBS, but our shared Episcopal offering was at a time we could not do.  So off to the Disciples of Christ church we went.  As we ate dinner each night, and as the kids ran off to crafts, music, teaching, and play, and as I sat in on the adult class, I felt like a guest in a wonderful house of hospitality.  I watched as within just a week, the church members fell in love with our children, giving them hugs and high fives, teaching them powerful lessons about how they are made for a purpose and that God is always in their corner.  It was a wonderful gift to be welcomed as strangers and sent off as fellow disciples in Christ.

The other experience was quite different.  A gentleman who had worked for the cleaning company we use at our church passed away unexpectedly a few weeks ago.  His church hosted the funeral, and I attended the service on Sunday.  The funeral was admittedly a difficult one.  Lonnie had experienced a rough road in life – from the loss of family, addictions, homelessness, imprisonment, recovery, and new life.  I only knew his story superficially, having been introduced to him through one of our parishioners who was a mentor of his.  But what I witnessed was a community of faith who completely embraced Lonnie in every way – loving him fully, accepting him as he was, incorporating him into the life of the church, welcoming him into their homes, and being active agents of his recovery and faith life.  They offered me a powerful witness about what Christ-like relationship looks like.

I come out of those experiences with two distinct conclusions.  First, I have a renewed appreciation for my own faith community.  Though I learned powerful lessons last week, I also developed a renewed love for Hickory Neck and our distinct work in furthering the kingdom in the greater Williamsburg area.  My experience reminded me of what radical hospitality can feel like as a recipient and made me want to offer it more.

Second, I am impressed with the broad range of expressions of faith in Williamsburg, and I am grateful that there is a place where anyone can find a church home.  The witness for Jesus is strong in this community.  I suspect that the more we appreciate our collective witness, the stronger our individual witness will become.  If you have not invited a friend or acquaintance to church lately, I encourage you to do so.  Experiencing the gift of Christian hospitality, community, and formation at Hickory Neck is not a gift to keep to ourselves.  That gift can be life changing!

Sermon – Genesis 18.1-1, 21-1-7, P6, YA, June 18, 2017

21 Wednesday Jun 2017

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

Today we get one of my favorite stories in scripture – Sarah’s laughter at God’s promise.  The story is perfectly crafted.  The story with a flurry of activity.  Abraham is sitting in his tent in the heat of the day when three guests suddenly appear.  As soon as Abraham sees them, he runs to greet them, begging them to stay.  Then Abraham sends the entire household into a tizzy.  He barks orders about baking cakes, grabs a calf and commands the calf be prepared for the guests.  He gets curds and milk and rushes to plate the feast for the guests.  We can almost imagine Abraham panting as he finally delivers the meals to the guests.

But then the story comes to a screeching halt, with a question that tells us what is really important.  “Where is your wife, Sarah?”  And slowly, the promise of a child to a barren, post-menopausal woman unfolds.  Abraham and Sarah were promised long ago to be the parents of a great nation.  But Sarah had given up on that dream.  She had already asked Abraham to go to her slave-girl and have a child with Hagar as a representative child for her.  Her action with Hagar had been a desperate move, but what else could she have done?  So when this guest, or God, as the text later tells us, says that Sarah will conceive herself, after years of longing, hoping, feeling devastated and powerless, Sarah does what we all might do.  She laughs.  She laughs at the prospect of pleasure in her marriage when she and Abraham are so advanced in age.  She laughs at the impossibility that their pleasure might lead to progeny.  She laughs at the promise because believing the promise would mean opening herself up to unfilled dreams yet again.

Sarah’s laughter has long been used as a criticism for a lack of faith in God.  When God asks, “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” and when Sarah quickly denies her laughter, countless readers have wagged their fingers at Sarah as if to say, “Oh ye of little faith.”  And I can see how we get there.  The exchange between Sarah and God – the laughter that bubbles out from years of hurt and disappointment, the scolding by God, the attempt to lie to cover up embarrassment, and the scolding yet again when God calls Sarah on her dishonesty – is all too familiar to us.  What the accusation of lacking faith forgets is how terribly vulnerable and resigned Sarah is.  I cannot tell you the number of people I have counseled who at the end of second marriage have begun to doubt God’s presence.  I cannot tell you the number of people I have sat with after receiving a bad diagnosis for themselves or their loved one who has begun to whether God has abandoned them.  I cannot tell you the number of people have received yet another rejection letter who have begun to question God’s call on their life.  When Sarah laughs, I do not feel justification for judgment against her level of faith.  When Sarah laughs, I hear the ache of countless believers who know how ludicrous God’s promises can be.

What gets me about the judgment of Sarah is the short memory of scripture readers.  In the chapter before what we heard today, Abraham is given the same promise that Sarah hears – a child by Sarah.  And his reaction?  He does not simply laugh quietly to himself as Sarah does in that tent.  He falls on his face and laughs full-bodied at God.  The only difference in laughter between Abraham and Sarah is that Abraham laughs in front of God where Sarah tries to hide her laughter.  Both are an acknowledgement of doubt about what God can do.  Both take all their disappointment, pain, and hurt, and dissolve into laughter because, quite frankly, sometimes God is laughable.  Sometimes God makes no sense at all, and laughing is the only release and protection from more hurt.  Humans questioning God is a natural part of a genuine God-human conversation, a conventional motif we see throughout the Old Testament.[i]

This week, I stumbled on an Old Testament scholar, Kathryn Shifferdecker, who suggests that God may not be a God of judgment in this passage.  In fact, she sees God as fully understanding the comedy of the situation.  She sees a God with a sense of humor, who when God says, “Oh yes you did laugh,” says so with a twinkle in his eye.[ii]  The theory totally shifted the reading for me.  Suddenly the pieces all fit together.  Instead of an angry or disappointed God, who judges disbelief, our God is a God who understands that God’s promises are sometimes laughable – even if they are true.  Why else would God tell Abraham to name his son Isaac, which means, “he laughs,” in Hebrew?[iii]  As Schifferdecker explains, “Abraham falls on his face in a fit of laughter.  Sarah laughs behind the tent door.  And the LORD (I believe) laughs with them at the divine, wonderful absurdity of it all.  Given the humor of the scene under the oaks of Mamre, and the comedy of a God who acts in unexpected ways to fulfill God’s promises, it is entirely appropriate that the child of the promise should be named ‘Laughter.’”[iv]

The image of the three of them laughing – Sarah, Abraham, and God, makes a lot of sense once we hear the final words of Sarah.  In chapter 21, Sarah, perhaps initially embarrassed or doubtful of God, now says, “God has brought laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh with me.”  This story is not a story of shame for those of us who struggle with doubt, anger, or frustration with God.  This is not a story of an unfaithful follower of God.  This is a story about a woman and a man who look at the absurdity of God’s promise with the fullness of their humanity and laugh – hard, belly-shaking, on-the-floor laughter that only comes when the divine finally breaks through our disappointment, shame, and anger, and brings us to laughter.

I love this story even more as I think about the trinity of Abraham, Sarah, and God laughing.  Their laughter affirms our own incredulous walks with God.  Their laughter takes those moments when we no long trust God’s promises, and transforms them.  No longer do we need to hide away our deepest doubts, but instead we honor them.  We share them.  And we create communities of laughter with them.  Amen.

[i] Leander E. Keck, ed., New Interpreter’s Bible Commentary, vol. I (Abingdon Press, 1994), 465.

[ii] Kathryn M. Schifferdecker, “Commentary on Genesis 18:1-15 [21:1-7],” June 18, 2017, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3301 on June 14, 2017.

[iii] Tamara Cohn Eshkenazi, ed., The Torah:  A Women’s Commentary, (Women of Reform Judaism URJ Press, 2008), 97.

[iv] Schifferdecker.

Homily – Luke 2.15-21, Holy Name, YA, January 1, 2017

05 Thursday Jan 2017

Posted by in Sermons, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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

Our gospel today picks up where we left off a little over a week ago.  On Christmas Eve, we heard how Mary and Joseph journeyed to Bethlehem to be registered.  We learned of how there was no room for them in the inn, and how they ended up delivering little Jesus, the savior of the world, in a room designated for animals.  Exhausted, they placed him in a manger, in bands of cloth, making the best of an awful situation.  We also learned of some unsuspecting shepherds who experienced an angelic encounter.  An angel appeared to them in the fields and told them of the messiah who had been born, where they could find the messiah, and what they could look for – that manger and those bands of cloth.

Today we pick up where we left off.  The angels leave, and the shepherds decide to check out the story.  They visit with Mary and Joseph, confirm the story, and then share their experience with the tired couple.  We are told Mary treasures the words, but ponders them too.  She is clearly still figuring all this out.  Meanwhile, the shepherds go back to work, praising God.  And Mary and Joseph go back to work too – following the circumcision customs, but perhaps, more importantly, following through with what they were asked to do – naming Jesus as the Angel commanded.[i]

What I love about this story is that no one acts alone.  Mary gets the bizarre news of her pregnancy alone, but then her cousin Elizabeth affirms her and confirms the good news.  Shepherds are minding their business when the angels appear to them.  They could have stayed at home that night, but they go and share the news.  Mary and Joseph go on a scary journey that seems to be making one bad turn after another.  But then shepherds come and give them a good word.  Even the naming of Jesus takes place in community – at least a rabbi or priest comes and performs the naming right, knowingly or not, naming the child the same name the angel gave Mary – Jesus, or “Joshua, meaning salvation”[ii].

Going at things alone is part of our contemporary mindset.  We place a value on people being able to fend for themselves.  The number one goal of parents is to teach their children independence.  And Lord knows we hear a lot of, “I do it by myself!” at our house these days.  In and of itself, independence is not a bad thing.  We have gifts and talents of which God expects us to be good stewards.  But going at life alone can have the opposite effect of what we think.  By glorifying independence we forget the inherent dependence we all have.  If nothing else, we are certainly dependent upon our Lord and Savior, without whom nothing would be possible.  But Jesus teaches us that community is equally important.  Jesus was never a lone ranger in his ministry. He understood the people of faith to be a community – to need each other for learning and understanding.  Unlike what the world might have us believe, life is not all about independence.  Quite the opposite, we need each other in this crazy journey of faith – to learn from each other, to challenge each other, to support each other, and cheer each other on when we get weary.

As our children and I were reading our Advent and Christmas devotional this week, we learned about Simeon and Anna, whose story comes in the verses just following the passage we read today.  If you remember Simeon and Anna are elder members of the faith, living and working in the temple when Jesus is to be presented.  The devotional asked us what elderly people we know and what they teach us.  I was surprised to hear my seven-year old jump in with all sorts of idea about what our elders teach us.  She said that our elders have lived a lot longer and so they have a lot to teach us about the world.  She said they can help teach the children how to live and what they can do in the world.  When I asked the question about what our elders teach us, I had expected the standard, “I don’t know.”  Instead, I got a response that showed a great deal of insight into how much we need each other – young and old, rich and poor, male and female, liberal and conservative – if we are going to survive in this journey of faith and life.

All the parts of our Christmas story are a bit like a puzzle.  Each piece is important in its own right, but once you put the pieces together, the puzzle reveals something much more valuable.  Though the parts we hear about during Christmastide are some of our favorite parts, they are just pieces in the puzzle.  The story of Jesus would not be complete without angelic appearances, shared stories between cousins, and tired, weary people sharing good news together.  Mary would have nothing to treasure and ponder without the ragtag community that has gathered around her.

The same is true for us.  Our Christmas story is a beautiful story.  But unless we share the story in community, unless we share our story in community, we only get a partial glimpse into the good work Christ is doing in our lives.  We need each other to encourage and support each other in the faith journey.  We need each other to interpret God’s movement in our lives, and to teach us wisdom.  We need each other in those moments of treasuring and pondering our own story.  Today we give thanks for the tremendous community of faith who help us in our journeys toward Christ.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

[i] Fred B. Craddock, Luke, Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990), 36-37.

[ii] Craddock, 36.

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.