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Sermon – Luke 10.1-11, 16-20, 2 Kings 5.1-14, P9, YC, July 3, 2016

07 Thursday Jul 2016

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I remember when I was on maternity leave I ended up watching a fair amount of daytime television – mostly because that was the extent of intellectual stimulation that my sleep-deprived brain could handle.  Not being someone who watches a lot of television, I was fascinated by one phenomenon in general:  pharmaceutical commercials.  There are tons of them and they are all filled with very convincing actors and stories.  The story is always the same:  the patient was sad, scared, or in pain, struggling with no cure; they or their doctor find a little-known drug; and, bam, they are returned to health and wholeness.  Sometimes the actor or narrator will mention a few possible side effects.  But in tiny print below the glowingly happy patient is a longer list of side effects that, quite frankly, sound terrifying – maybe even more terrifying than the disease or symptom they are trying to heal.  If you are not careful, you can miss the messy stuff altogether because everyone looks so happy:  from hair loss, to abdominal pain, partial paralysis, or in rare cases, even death.

That same sort of list of side effects is what our gospel lesson today glosses over too.  The severity of the situation is clearly grim when Jesus commissions the seventy to go ahead of him, proclaiming the kingdom and healing people.  Jesus is unambiguous.  He tells the seventy that they will be like sheep among wolves.  He takes away any forms of security:  no purse, no bag, no sandals.  He warns them that some people will not receive them well, and they will have to dust off their bruised egos and keep going.  He advises them to be gracious guests, eating whatever is put before them (even if it is Brussel sprouts).  Truly, this has to be the worst ad for a mission ever.

But here is the funny part.  The text jumps over the mission of the seventy and simply says, “The seventy returned with joy.”  We do not get details of all the side effects they experience.  We do not get to hear how hard eating what is put before them is.  We do not get to hear how scary traveling with no money or shoes is.  We do not even get to hear how many times they have to dust of their feet in protest from ill treatment.  No, the commercial just glosses straight to the end, “The seventy returned with joy.”  The reading today feels like all the bad stuff is just shoved into fine print so that we do not get a sense of what going out into the mission field really feels like – because, based on what Jesus says, the mission field sounds terrifying.

Feeling frustrated by the lack of detail this week, I found myself wondering how we might get a glimpse into the real experience of following Jesus and sharing the good news.  Then I stumbled back into the Naaman story and realized perhaps he is the key.  Naaman seems like an unlikely candidate at first blush.  He is a foreign national in the time of Elisha.  Jesus does not come onto the scene until hundreds of years later.  But Naaman has much more in common with the followers of Jesus – in fact, more in common with us – than we might imagine.

You see, Naaman is a mighty army commander.  Because of the Lord’s favor, Naaman has led the king’s troops to victory.  Naaman is not one of the Israelites, but he is someone with great power – a prowess we are familiar with as modern Americans.  In that way, he, us, and the seventy commissioned by Jesus are similar – we are insiders with power.  But despite his power, Naaman suffers from leprosy.  He has longed for healing and would use his power, influence, and money if he could.  But so far that has not led to success.  Instead, Naaman has to go another way.  As it turns out, Naaman has to go on a journey that is very similar in conditions to what the seventy must do.

In order to find healing and wholeness, Naaman must give up his power, sense of control, and must rely on others – especially those most marginalized in society.[i]  Basically, like the seventy, Naaman must give up his purse, his bag, his sandals, and must rely on the hospitality of others.  His story starts with a tip from a slave girl from Israel.  She learns of the commander’s leprosy and suggests he seek out the Israeli prophet, Elisha for healing.  So, Naaman gets a blessing from his king and heads off to the king of Israel.  Only, the king of Israel misunderstands Naaman and thinks he is being setup for failure.  Elisha, who is clearly not in the king’s court, saves the day, and sends word that he will help.  So, Naaman takes his bountiful gifts to this non-ranking prophet seeking help again.  But instead of greeting Naaman, Elisha sends out one of his messengers to Naaman with instructions for healing.  Instead of dusting his feet off at the apparent insult, Naaman gets angry.  But some of Naaman’s unnamed servants gently appeal to him to try the remedy anyway.  Naaman eats humble pie again, and is healed.

Naaman gives us a glimpse into the fine print of Jesus’ commissioning of the seventy.  Going without a purse, sandals, and relying on the hospitality of others takes a lot of humility.  Facing rejection, which Jesus guarantees will come, will take a lot of anger management.  Going in Christ’s name will mean accepting help from anyone and everyone – not the easiest of tasks for us, who as Americans prefer to be self-sufficient, independent, strong survivors.  We prefer to be people who help instead of people who need help.

I have been on a variety of mission trips over the years:  medical missions, missions building homes, missions building schools or community centers, and missions meant to build relationships.  On almost every mission trip I have joined, the team members came back feeling like they gained more than they gave.  This conclusion invariably leads to a discussion about whether money is best spent in direct aid than expensive overseas trips that seem to benefit us more than the people we serve.  While that conversation always needs to happen, what that argument fails to see is the power of Christian witness – that even if we do not turn communities around socio-economically, part of what we leave behind is the love and fellowship of Christ – the message that you are not alone in your suffering.  In part, being able to host us and show us hospitality gives those we serve more of a sense of worth and honor than being recipients of aid.

But in order for any of that to happen, we have to make ourselves vulnerable.[ii]  We have to put ourselves in the position of Naaman to receive aid and healing from the least likely persons.  True mission is not about the powerful and wealthy bringing their resources to the poor and downtrodden.  True mission is about the powerful and wealthy realizing their own spiritual poverty and creating an environment where rich and poor, healthy and sick can share healing, wholeness, and health in a way that recognizes we all have needs before God – and that God uses us all of us when we work collaboratively for healing and building up the kingdom of God.[iii]

Jesus was right to warn us with the possible side effects of sharing the good news:  vulnerability, insecurity, bodily danger, hurt egos, and long days.  Though the seventy do not show us what that looks like, Naaman certainly does.  He reminds us of the fine print:  that the side effects may lead to anger, feelings of abandonment, a loss of self-worth and importance.  But the benefits are still the same:  healing and wholeness for the whole community, redefining who is in and who is out of the community, and new purpose in the larger world.  The good news is that part of our prescription involves partners for the journey:  Jesus sends the seventy out two-by-two.[iv]  Even Naaman does not go alone, but takes others with him – others who keep him in check and support him in his sense of loss.  And the result is the same:  healing, transformation, and joy.  Those kind of results make the side effects worth it!  Amen.

 

[i] Stephen Reid, “Commentary on 2 Kings 5:1-14,” July 3, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2904 on June 29, 2016.

[ii] David J. Lose, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 219.

[iii] Adriene Thorne, “Moral Leprocy,” July 3, 2016, as found at http://www.onscripture.com/moral-leprosy on June 29, 2016.

[iv] Karoline Lewis, “The Security of Seventy,” June 26, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4683 on June 29, 2016.

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

29 Tuesday Mar 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ii] Marty, 350.

Sermon – 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 – Acts 8.26-40, E5, YB, May 3, 2015

07 Thursday May 2015

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Have you ever heard a story so many times that you feel like you could recite it from memory?  There was a time in my life when I read the book Good Night Moon so many nights in a row that I could probably have told the story without even turning the pages.  But rereading books is not just a habit of young readers.  Adults do the same thing – we love a book so much that we may read the book again and again.  The familiarity of a story and knowing how the story will end can be quite comforting.  The same could be said of Bible stories too.  Though the Bible is a huge book with tons of stories, we tend to have our favorites that we read again and again.  We read and reread them because they give us a sense of comfort and they steady us in a world of chaos.

The challenge with a familiar story is that we sometimes get so used to hearing the story over and over that we stop really listening to the details.  That is especially true in our story from Acts today.  Philip, the educated evangelist graciously approaches the foreign, outcast eunuch and asks if he needs help interpreting scripture.  He then teaches the eunuch about Jesus, and graciously accepts him into the community of faith by baptizing in a nearby body of water.  In essence, this is a story about how the Jewish followers of Christ graciously open up the community to those who have traditionally been seen as outcasts.

At least that is how the story goes in my memory.  But as I reread the story this week, I began to realize that the comforting tale I had memorized is not quite as simple as I had remembered.  I had always thought of Philip as one of the educated disciples who graciously takes in the eunuch.  But Philip is actually an outsider in this story.  The Philip in our story is not the Philip from Bethsaida, one of the twelve disciples of Jesus.  This Philip is a Greek in Jerusalem, who is one of the seven appointed by the disciples to run the food pantry, the clinic, and the hospice program in Jerusalem so that the Twelve did not need to do that work.[i]  He is not necessarily well-educated, and in fact, is probably pretty disheveled and unseemly, given the relief work he has been doing with the outcasts of society.  The Ethiopian eunuch is an outsider too – in fact he is a double outsider of sorts because of his race and his sexuality.[ii]  Because of his dark skin and the fact that he is a eunuch means he would not have been allowed into the temple.  But this is no ordinary foreigner.  Yes, he is a double outsider, but he is also a highly educated, wealthy, powerful man.  He is in charge of the Queen mother’s treasury, he is prominent enough to ride in a chariot, and he is wealthy enough to own a scroll.[iii]  And although he is not allowed into the temple, he is returning from a time of worship in Jerusalem – so in some ways he is both a double outsider and a faithful follower.  When the eunuch invites Philip into his chariot, Philip is not the one being gracious – the eunuch is the one graciously allowing this disheveled man of faith into his pristine chariot.

Not only is there more complexity to the socio-economic status of these two men, there is also more to the interaction between the two men.  In my mind, Philip was the gracious imparter of wisdom in this story.  But in fact, the Ethiopian does not ask Philip to teach him – as if acknowledging that the two men are unequals.  The Ethiopian asks Philip to guide him – in other words, to journey with him into the Scriptures, and even eventually into baptism, as the two men go down into the water together.[iv]  These two strangers sit side-by-side and together read scripture and talk about what that scripture means.  Philip is on as much of a spiritual journey as the Ethiopian.  This is not a story about a well-educated follower of Christ taking in a marginalized outsider and converting him to Christ.  This is a story about two outsiders, unlikely to ever be sitting together, pondering the word of God together, and finding new life in Christ.

That’s the funny thing about stories – if we do not really pay attention and listen, we tend to fill in the blanks ourselves, often missing the big details.  As I have been watching the riots and racial unrest in Baltimore this week, I keep returning to that theme – that perhaps this is one of those instances where we have not done a very good job of listening.  I suppose I should not be surprised that we are not very good at listening.  We are a culture that talks over each other, that tries to force our version of truth upon one another.  I have listened to countless reporters this week argue with Baltimore residents and protests about their experiences.  I have read countless Facebook posts expressing anger and frustration about the civil unrest.  This whole week has felt like people are competing to have their own version of the truth being seen as the “Truth,” with a capital “T.”  In fact, just the mention of Baltimore probably has you thinking about your own feelings on the subject, mentally blocking any other narratives from your mind

When I lived in Delaware many years ago, I joined a group run through the YWCA that was meant to help foster healthy conversations about race.  One of the main rules of the group was that when an individual shared their story, we were not supposed to be in true conversation.  Each of us was to take turns telling our truths – without interruption or questions.  And the others in the group were to listen.  The method was so counterintuitive that the facilitator’s main job was to enforce the speaking and listening rules.  Although I struggled with the method, I must admit that I learned more in that group than I ever could have imagined.  When I listened – truly listened without assuming I knew how the story would end – I learned things about the experiences of black Americans that I had never known, and had certainly never experienced myself.  Truth unfolded for me like a blooming flower.

Those groups, and my experience this week of trying to prayerfully listen to the oppressed in Baltimore, reminded me of the interaction between Philip and the eunuch.  Back then, God’s chosen people and foreign, black, castrated men did not sit together and study scripture.  God’s chosen people were not accustomed to guiding people instead of teaching them.  God’s chosen people were not only not used to be called to accountability, they were also not likely to accept the criticism and change.  And yet, that is what these two men do.  And the only way any of this story happens is because both men listen – really listen to one another.

This winter I read a book called Toxic Charity.  The premise of the book is that much of the charity work that churches and communities do is flawed because that work is posed as work we do for others as opposed to with others.  The author criticizes communities that enter into impoverished areas, assuming they know what is best for the community.  Instead, the author suggests that those who want to help do so under the direction of those in need.  The main role of those who want to help is to assist the community in articulating their needs, and then empowering the community to make the systemic changes needed for long-term, sustainable change.  That kind of shift in charity work involves a lot more listening, humility, and a willingness to follow instead of lead.

In the case of Baltimore, in the case of Plainview, and really in the case of all Christianity, today’s story reminds us that there may not be simple answers to the world’s ills.  We cannot always fix what is wrong in our society – and in fact, perhaps we can never fix the wrongs without first being prayerful listeners.  As soon as we assume we know someone else’s story, or we know all there is to know about an issue, we have already shut down the movement of the Spirit.  And that is what this story is really all about.  This is not a story about how Philip converted a eunuch.  This is a story about how the Holy Spirit moved among strangers who had nothing in common and created commonality, love, and faith.[v]  The amazing work of Philip and the eunuch journeying to the baptismal waters together is only possible because both agree to vulnerably, honestly, prayerfully listen to one another, to learn together, and to be converted together.[vi]  Their story today invites us to go and do likewise.  Amen.

[i] William Brosend, “Unless Someone Guides Me,” Christian Century, vol. 117, no. 15, May 10, 2000, 535.

[ii] Barbara Brown Taylor, “Homilietical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 457.

[iii] Paul W. Walaskay, “Exegetical Perspective, Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 457.

[iv] Brosend, 535.

[v] Taylor, 459.

[vi] Nadia Bolz-Weber, “The Conversion of the Ethiopian Eunuch,” April 20, 2012 as found at http://thq.wearesparkhouse.org/yearb/easter5nt-2/ on April 29, 2015.

Sermon – Mark 16.1-8, EV, YB, April 4, 2015

15 Wednesday Apr 2015

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Tonight we celebrate one of the most ancient, and in many traditions, the most important liturgies of the Church.  This is the festival of the resurrection of our Lord – despite what you may have learned about Easter Sunday.  Tonight is the night that we liturgically mark that shift from Lent and the Passion to our Lord and Savior’s Resurrection.  The church gives us this incredible gift tonight, and our job is to hearken back to an innocent sense of awe as we realize what God does through Jesus Christ.

Luckily the Church helps us hearken back to that innocent sense of awe through the structure of the liturgy.  I like to think the Church’s work in the Easter Vigil as being like that Grandfather in the movie The Princess Bride, who visits his sick grandson to read him a fantastic story.  In that movie, the grandson is skeptical – that in fact his grandfather might be planning to read him a boring or sappy story.  But the grandfather insists that this story is one of the greatest stories ever told – a story that his father read him, that he read to his son, and now, he would read to him.

The Church is like that grandfather to us tonight, who gathers up the grandchildren around him, and says, “Let me tell you a story.  This story is greater than any other story you have ever heard.  This story is full of intrigue and surprise, full of the primal elements, full of drama and passion, and full of twists and turns you do not expect.  Do you want to hear the story?”  And before the grandfather can even begin, the grandchildren are waiting with baited breath.

“Once upon a time, before there was time, or people, or even land or sky, the earth as we know the earth was a formless void – filled with watery chaos.  God created the world as we know the world, and proclaimed that creation, ‘good.’  Sometime later, that world fell into sin and God used water to cleanse the whole earth through flood.  To the one person God saved, God promised to never do such destruction again and made a covenant of protection.  Much later, the people of God were fleeing a horrible fate – an awful leader who had enslaved the people.  This time, God once again manipulated the water – both to save God’s people and to destroy those who wished to destroy God’s people.  On the other side of the sea, on dry land, the people rejoiced.  Later, the people fell away from God and although God was grieved, God spoke to the prophet Ezekiel.  God told Ezekiel to reassemble the dry bones of God’s people, and to breathe new life into them.  And the people lived again.  Much later, when the people had become dispersed and disheartened, God proclaimed new hope.  God proclaimed that God would gather God’s people again and would eliminate their despair.

“But after all of that – after creation and floods, after the division of the sea and the giving of new life to old bones, even after promising to save the people – after all of that, yet still the people of God lived in sin and in separation from God.  And, knowing no other way, God did something so unexpected, so wonderful that we could never repay God.  God sent God’s Son to live and breathe among us, to show us the way of faithful living and the way to eternal life.  And as if that were not enough, that same Son was betrayed by his friends, mocked and reviled, and killed on a cross.  That was a dark, painful time – darker and more painful than anything the people had known before.  And so the people of God did the only thing they knew to do:  they mourned, they hid in fear, and a few brave women went to tend to this precious gift they had been given, making his death as sacred as they knew how.  But something amazing happened – something no one ever anticipated.  The Son of Man, the Prince of Peace, the Messiah, Jesus was not there.  And the disciples went from east to west, sharing the sacred and imperishable proclamation of eternal salvation.”

At the end of the film The Princess Bride, the grandfather finishes the book, and tells his grandson to go off to sleep.  The once skeptical grandson hesitantly addresses his grandfather, “Grandpa?  Maybe you could come over and read it again to me tomorrow.”  His grandfather smiles and responds, “As you wish.”  Those words are significant because in the story the grandfather tells, the main characters say, “As you wish,” as their code word for, “I love you.”  Tonight, we too hear the story of our salvation, the great sweeping of our history with our Lord, and the salvific work of our Savior Jesus Christ, and we too find ourselves strangely warmed, longing to perhaps hear the story again.  And to us, the Church says, “As you wish.”  Amen.

Homily – Deuteronomy 6.20-25, James Theodore Holly, March 13, 2013

19 Wednesday Mar 2014

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Today we honor James Theodore Holly.  Holly was born a free African-American in Washington, D.C., in 1829.  Though he was baptized and confirmed in the Roman Catholic Church, he later became an Episcopalian.  Holly was ordained a deacon in 1855 and a priest in 1856.  He served as a rector in Connecticut and founded the Protestant Episcopal Society for Promoting the Extension of the Church among Colored People.  He was a friend of Frederick Douglass and worked with him on many projects.  In 1861, he left his job in Connecticut to lead a group of African-Americans to settle in Haiti.  In the first year, his mother, wife and two children died, but Holly stayed on with his two small sons.  In 1874, Holly was ordained the first Bishop of Haiti – making him the first black man to be a bishop in the Episcopal Church.  Bishop Holly served the Diocese of Haiti until his death in 1911.  Bishop Holly had a passion for the gospel and wanted to ensure that the Gospel was accessible to all.

Our Old Testament lesson today reminds me of what Bishop Holly’s ministry might have been like.  Moses talks to the Israelites and tells them their children will be someday asking them, “What is the meaning of the decrees and the statutes and the ordinances that the LORD our God has commanded you?”  In other words, “Why do we have to follow all these rules?”  And Moses tells the Israelites not to explain the rules, but to explain their history.  Moses sounds like an old grandpa, “Now let me tell you a little story …”  The children of Israel probably rolled their eyes, but what Moses is trying to remind them of is who the God is who gave those laws.  When you know that God is a loving God, who freed them from bondage and delivered them to the Promised Land, the rules just became a natural response.  So, luckily, the law is not followed “because I said so,” but because we know no other way to respond to the LORD who loves and cares for us so much.

That is the message Holly took to Haiti.  He wanted them to know how much God loved them.  That is the same message we share with those we encounter, too.  When someone challenges us about the hypocrisy of the church, the ways we do business, or the challenges we face, all we have to do is say, “Now let me tell you a little story …”  Your story may be Moses’ story; your story may be about a man named Jesus; or your story may just be about your walk with your loving God.  The point is to tell the story so that others might come to know God’s love, too.  Amen.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YA, December 24, 2013

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

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How many of you know the story of your birth?  My mother tells me that I came three weeks late!  Doctors will not even let mothers go that late nowadays.  Even at three weeks late, my mom still had to be induced, have her water broken, and then eventually have a c-section.  My sister-in-law, on the other hand, came very early.  She was so early that she had to stay in the hospital for a very long time.  She had a long tough road, including having her brother give her chicken pox while she was in the NICU.  But eventually, she came home and grew into a healthy child.  There are countless other stories like this:  kids who came so fast that their mothers delivered in a car, kids delivered at home before even a midwife could arrive, or even kids being born on a plane.

We all have a birth story.  Some are more dramatic than others, but all are unique to us and usually our parents tell us the story year after year.  What is funny is that many would argue that our birth stories tell us a little about who we will become later in life.  My late birth and my refusal to come even when encouraged has led many people to insist that my stubbornness was obvious from a very early age.  My sister-in-law, who survived for months in the NICU proved to be a fighter for the rest of her life – determined to make her own way.  Some of the children born of exciting births tend to be adventurers or to be spontaneous and full of surprises.  I often wondered if the child born of a woman whose water broke during our prenatal yoga class ended up being very Zen-like in life.  Regardless of your story, my guess is that your family believes your birth story says something about who you are and how you behave.

Today we celebrate a particular person’s birth story.  Jesus’ birth story is another one of those exciting stories.  You can almost imagine how Jesus’ family recounted the details every year.  They knew Jesus was going to be trouble when Mary showed up pregnant while she and Joseph were betrothed.  They probably reminded him of how when the government crack-down happened, poor Mary had to travel with Joseph on that donkey while nine months pregnant all the way to Bethlehem to be registered.  Surely they told Jesus how when they finally survived that long journey, the town was so full that they had stay with the animals; Mary even gave birth to Jesus in a stable and he had to sleep in a manger!  To top that all off, these filthy shepherds came later than night ranting and raving about how angels had appeared to them and told them that Jesus was the Messiah.  I imagine the family laughed and laughed about that crazy night.  I also imagine his family kept a wary eye on him – such a dramatic start is usually a sign for more drama to come.

So if our birth stories say something about us, I wonder what Jesus’ family thought his birth story said about him.  First, they must have known that Jesus would be no stranger to scandal:  his conception was scandalous and he would continue to scandalize the faithful with his radical teachings and way of life.  Second, they could probably see that Jesus and the government would be in constant conflict.  That suspicion is immediately confirmed when his family has to flee to Egypt to avoid persecution.  We know that later Jesus would have many a run-in with leaders who do not like people calling Jesus a King.  Third, Jesus’ family probably imagined that Jesus would always be very grounded and a friend of the poor.  His birth was about as poor as you can get, including those first visitors, the poor, lowly shepherds.[i]  Finally, perhaps Jesus’ family believed that Jesus would inspire others.  The clues were many:  from his mother who ponders things in her heart, to shepherds who praise and glorify God for all they see and hear, to angels who come in multitudes with a glorious song.

Although we know how Jesus’ story ends, we do not really celebrate his entire life story today.  Instead, we celebrate his birth, and the hope that comes along with that celebration.  We celebrate the hope that, in fact, Jesus’ life will be so radically different, welcoming, and forgiving that we will be glad to call him our Messiah.  We celebrate the hope that Jesus really will be a different kind of King than our earthly kings.  We celebrate the hope that Jesus really will continue to be a friend to the poor – because that means that we all have the chance to be loved by Jesus, no matter what our lot in life.  And we celebrate the hope that Jesus will inspire us to greatness too.  Tonight we celebrate the hope and the promise of this Savior who begins life as we all do – a child born to a family who will retell his birth story over and over again.

But tonight we also celebrate our own birth stories and the promise that our own lives have.  No matter what your birth story is, those initial signs about identity can always be used for good.  That fighter for survival in childbirth might end up to be a fighter for others’ survival later in life.  That adventuresome baby’s birth might lead to a life of reaching out of one’s comfort zone to share the Good News with others.  Even that stubborn kid might find a way to push back when others tell her something is impossible.  Our birth stories might point to the types of people we will become, but we determine how those traits will be used.  God intends for all those traits – the Zen-like person and the person always in a rush – to be used for goodness.  Our invitation this Christmas is to consider how God is calling us to use our own birth story for goodness. The birth stories themselves can never change; but how they are interpreted, what we do with them, is always open for reinterpretation.  Amen.

[i] Charles M. Wood, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 118.

Homily – Psalm 78.3-7, John Henry Hobart, September 12, 2013

26 Thursday Sep 2013

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The portion of the psalm that we read today tells a familiar story from Scripture.  From the beginning of our being a people of God, we have been instructed to tell the story – to pass from one generation to the next the salvation story of our God.  In the early days, before there were written Scriptures, I think it was actually easier.  People communicated through oral histories – the stories were burned in their brains and were as natural and familiar as breathing.  Even once the histories were written down, only a few could read, so the oral histories were essential.

Today we have lost that sure familiarity with Scripture.  It is a rare Episcopalian who can quote Scripture to anyone.  Though we have multiple copies of the Bible lying around, very few of us have ever read the Scriptures cover to cover – and if we have, we are surprised when we hear certain stories.  So given our lack of familiarity with Holy Scripture, it is no wonder that our ability to share the Good News is difficult for us.  We struggle not only to pass along the story to our children, but especially to pass along the story to total strangers.

John Henry Hobart, whom we celebrate today, had no such reservations.  Born in Philadelphia in 1775, John became a priest in 1801.  After serving in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Long Island, he was eventually consecrated Bishop of New York in 1811.  In his first four years as Bishop, John doubled the number of clergy and quadrupled the number of missionaries in the diocese.  Before his death in 1830, he planted churches in almost every major town in New York State.  He helped found General Theological Seminary and helped name Hobart College. John revitalized the church, and his zeal was respected by all.

Though John lived more than 200 years ago, his story still speaks to us today.  Along with our scriptural ancestors, these figures invite us to remember with zeal the God who loves us, who gives us life, and who saves us.  John and our ancestors invite us to reignite our passion for Christ and to let that passion overflow without self-consciousness or fear.  Why wouldn’t we want to share the Good News of all that God has done for us?  Our invitation is to remember, reconnect, and revitalize our faith today.  Amen.

Homily – Acts 26.9-21, Conversion of St. Paul the Apostle, January 24, 2013

14 Thursday Feb 2013

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Today we celebrate the conversion of St. Paul the Apostle.  Paul’s story is fresh in many of our minds.  Having read through Acts this fall, we heard his conversion story hundreds of times.  Saul, a brutal persecutor of Christians, has a profound experience with Jesus, and he changes his entire life.  This man who watched Christians be martyred eventually himself becomes martyred for Christ.  His change is dramatic; he totally devotes his life to Christ, especially advocating for the conversion of Gentiles.  That conversion experience for Paul becomes a rock – a story not only that he shares over and over, but that he uses as fuel for his journey.

Now as modern Episcopalians, Paul’s conversion story is intriguing, but not exactly relatable.  Few of us have a story of being converted.  In fact, few of us even have a story of being “saved,” as our Baptist brothers and sisters might call it.  And if we are truly honest, few of us even like to tell our faith story at all, at least not to anyone outside these walls.  Yet this is what Jesus calls us to do in the Gospel lesson today.  Jesus says we will be sent out like sheep among wolves, flogged and dragged before governors because of Jesus.  When we are to speak we are not to worry, because the Holy Spirit will give us the words.  For a people who feel uncomfortable even talking about our faith to others, these are not exactly emboldening words.  And Paul’s talk is not much encouragement!

So where can we find encouragement?  I find encouragement with Paul.  If you remember, Paul had a lot of support.  His Jewish and Roman identity opened a lot of doors and saved him many times.  Also, God gave Paul a story; he did not have to make up a new story every time.  He just told his story – the story he knew best – over and over again.  What Paul did was indeed scary, and we know the many scary moments he faces, but he did those things with some real support from the Holy Spirit.

This is why we can trust Jesus when he says, “Do not worry.”  Our story today is a lot less scary; we may face discomfort talking to others, but not flogging and death.  And we know our story; we have lived a great journey with Jesus.  Maybe we are still figuring it all out, but sometimes honestly sharing that ambiguity will open more people to Christ than certainty will.  So Jesus and Paul encourage us today.  They encourage us to let go of fear and to just start telling our story.  “For it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.”  Amen.