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Sermon – 1 Samuel 17.1a, 4-11, 19-23, 32-49, P7, YB, June 24, 2018

27 Wednesday Jun 2018

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This summer, our Faith and Film series is all about superheroes.  I was never a huge fan of superheroes growing up.  I liked Superman and Batman nominally, sported a pair of Wonder Woman Underoos as a kid, but in general wasn’t really into superheroes and certainly not into comic books.  But a few years ago, I stumbled into the film, The Avengers, and found myself curious about the back stories of all these superheroes.  That began a deep dive into multiple films, many of which you can see this summer.  The first one, Captain America, is a classic story of the little guy overcoming.  Steve Rogers, a literal little guy with a bad case of asthma, wants to enlist in the US Army during World War II so badly, but his health and height disqualify him.  Impressed by his tenacity, Steve gets recruited into an experimental program to be medically turned into a Super Soldier.  There begins his journey of the little man taking on the big man of Nazi Germany.

Most of us enjoy a good story of the little man overcoming.  That’s why the story of David and Goliath is so epic in our memory.  This little kid, totally untrained, completely unarmed (with the exception of some rocks and a sling), and certainly the underdog to the 9 feet 6 inches[i] of Goliath, David is the prototypical little man.  And yet, with the entire Philistine army staring them down, with a giant taunting them for forty days, and with the ominous threat of defeat, no one else is willing to step forward.  The giant, covered in over 126 pounds of armor, and holding huge weapons like the spear whose iron head weighs fifteen pounds[ii], utilizes his own brand of psychological warfare.[iii]  In the end, that dry river bed between the two armies is not just a valley of separation, but a “chasm of fear.”[iv]  And yet, somehow, the teenage shepherd boy steps forward to fight – the little man, the underdog, makes his move.

But unlike a typical underdog, David does not need science, or a lucky break, or some trick.  What David needs has nothing to do with him.  Instead, what he needs is God.  No one in the Israeli camp has mentioned God at this point in the story.  Saul has tried to overcome the chasm of fear with the promise of riches and even his own daughter’s hand in marriage.  And yet, the entire army of Israel can only see how mismatched they would be against the ultimate warrior.  But David sees things differently.  Having fought lions and bears to save his sheep, David knows he can fight Goliath too.  But not because he is a mighty warrior – but because Yahweh delivered David then too.  Even Saul, God’s formerly appointed king, has forgotten God.  But not David.  David is first to speak Yahweh’s name in almost forty verses of text.[v]  When David faces Goliath, he invokes God’s name, recalling with the name the entire memory of Yahweh’s deliverances of Israel in the past.  David knows that he does not need the conventions of human warfare, but only the God of Israel.[vi]

This week, I have been thinking what a ridiculous sermon that is:  all we need is God.  If all we needed was God, we wouldn’t be in such a political mess, totally unable to compromise, hear each other, and work for the common good.  If all we needed was God, that cancer diagnosis, that lost job, that lost pregnancy, or that lost relationship would not have felt so devastating.  If all we needed was God, we would have figured out a way to both secure our borders and humanely treat those fleeing injustice and seeking asylum.  In saying all we need is God, we sound like a bunch of hippies singing the great Beatles song, “All You Need is Love.”  As modern pragmatists, we know better – we know letting go and letting God is what you say – but not what you do.

So how do we turn ourselves from being skeptics, cynics, and dispassionates to seeing all we need is God?  Well, first we have to define a few things.  What is happening in David’s story should not be a surprise.  If you remember a few weeks ago, when the people broke their longstanding covenant with God, asking for a king like the other nations, God gave them Saul.  And Saul was just that – like the other nations, fighting battles with weapons of other nations.  So when David offers to fight, Saul does what a conventional leader would do – arm David with the conventions of war.  He tries to weigh down David with his armor, hoping against hope that there might be a modicum of protection against the Philistine.  Saul is a ruler like the other nations have.  The contrast between Saul and David then becomes a contrast between trusting conventional means and the means of God.[vii]  Saul has become ruled by fear instead of faith.

The way we pull ourselves out of being skeptical, cynical, or dispassionate is not by rallying behind the idea that we are the little man – the underdog David or Captain America, just waiting to be empowered by God.  The way we put to bed our skepticism, cynical thoughts, or dispassionate feelings about all the things in life overwhelming us is to recall the faithfulness of God.  When David says, “All you need is love,” he does not mean all you need is people giving hugs to one another.  What he means is, all you need is to remember the faithfulness of God – especially when we are not faithful at all!  In his speeches to Saul and Goliath, David is recalling the salvation narrative – the stories of God’s faithfulness for generations.  His trust is actually pretty bold too, considering the current king Saul’s appointment represents the breaking of covenant between God and the people.  But David trusts even a broken covenant can be overcome.  David claims his identity as a child of God and knows his identity is all he needs to fight the worst this world has to offer.

This past week, as politics and religion got dragged together in front of camera crews, I slowly began to realize that we are in a David moment.  We can keep doing what we have been doing – keeping our faith out of politics, putting politics in a box that we especially do not open on Sundays, or we can start realizing that we can never put our faith in a box.  The bond that we have as Episcopalians and especially within the hugely politically diverse community that is Hickory Neck is extremely fragile.  Our fragility is why I rarely talk about politics among the community.  I value our ability to come to the Eucharistic Table in spite of our difference over just about anything else.  But that high value on the common table can come at a cost – the cost is never talking about what being a people of God means – what being a disciple of Christ and being an American means.  In order to protect that common table, I have put on 126 pounds of brass armor, and taken up a spear whose head weighs fifteen pounds.  Instead, today David invites us to shed the ill-fitting armor, and just walk in the clothes God gave us (and maybe a few stones).

I am not saying once we shed man-made armor we will suddenly know what immigration policies are the best.  But what I am saying is until we take on God’s armor, until we recall all those times when God has delivered us, when God has turned chasms of fear into paths of faithfulness, until we remember that we have a distinct identity as children of God and disciples of Christ, we will not be able to take on the Goliath issues of our day.  Stripping down to David-like clothing, we are able sit down comfortably, to see each other more honestly, to be in relationship more authentically, to gather at this table – not just trying to avoid banging our heavy armor into each other, barely able to make eye contact because of our heavy helmets, but actually brushing the skin of elbows with one another, looking deeply into the eyes of the chalice bearer serving you Christ’s blood, and offering the hand of Christian friendship as we rise from the altar rail together.  We can do all those things because God is faithful.  We can do all those things because God has delivered us before.  We can do all those things because we are Christ’s disciples – and that is what we do through God.  We may be underdogs, and we may be vulnerable in a world that is happy to deploy psychological warfare, but we are united and empowered by the love of God.  Our invitation is to step trustingly, boldly, confidently into that love.  Amen.

[i] William P. Brown, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays for Year B, Batch 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 4.

[ii] Richard F. Ward, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Supplemental Essays for Year B, Batch 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2012), 4.

[iii] Walter Brueggemann, Interpretation:  A Biblical Commentary for Teaching and Preach, First and Second Samuel (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1990), 131.

[iv] Ward, 2.

[v] Brueggemann, 130.

[vi] Brueggemann, 132.

[vii] Brueggemann, 131.

On Remembering You Are Dust…

14 Wednesday Feb 2018

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As a priest, I find Ash Wednesday to be the most difficult celebration of the Church.  One might think funerals are harder; but by the time we get to a funeral, the loss has already happened, and the people are gathered for a celebration of life and resurrection.  But Ash Wednesday is much more challenging.  The liturgy is the most honest, vulnerable, and sobering of our liturgies.  We gather in community, stripping away all appearances of success, faithfulness, and achievement, and we confess our deepest failures and separation from God – as if standing naked before our Lord.  And then, a priest rubs gritty ash upon our foreheads, and tells us, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

As someone who has experienced the worship from the pews, I know how powerful the liturgy is.  It’s as if the Church says to us, “I know everyone out there thinks you have it all together.  But we both know the truth – that you have a long way to go before you have it all together.  They see your strength and power; I see your weakness and vulnerability.”  The intimacy of the liturgy, experienced within a community of people going through the same exposure, can be both unnerving and deeply comforting.  Out in the world, we are alone, trying to prove ourselves.  Inside the church walls, we are together, admitting we cannot prove ourselves.

As a priest, I have the privilege of guiding people through that powerful experience.  It is so powerful, that I sometimes struggle to perform the actions the liturgy.  As I say those words, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” I know that I am saying those words to a preschooler, who does not fully understand death; to a woman who has battled breast cancer and is in remission; to an elderly man who may be closer to death than we want to admit; to a widow or widower who lost their spouse earlier in life than they should have.  The weight of that pronouncement is palpable every single time I say it – and it makes my own mortality that much more real.

If you have not yet received ashes today, I encourage you find a church or Ashes-to-Go station.  It is a tremendous gift to be seen as you truly are, and to kneel alongside others who are trying to be faithful to the charge God has given us.  And if you cannot make it today, know that the entire season of Lent is available to you to continue the journey of remembering you are dust, and finding purpose before you return to that dust.

Homily – John 13.1-17, 31b-35, MT, YA, April 13, 2017

27 Thursday Apr 2017

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In 1984, the gay community in London was seeing a lot of violence and oppression by not only the police, but also the community.  In the midst of their own activism, one gay activist caught wind of the Coal Miners who were striking in Wales.  Upon watching the violence of the police against the strikers, the activist realized their suffering was not unlike his own, and that of the gay community.  And so, in an act of solidarity and love, he organized his gay community to raise funds to support the families of the striking miners.

But not everyone was on board.  You see, the miners worked in small towns in which many members of the gay community had once lived.  In those small communities, they had been bullied, taunted, and beaten.  And now someone was asking them to come to their aid.  Many in the gay community could not turn the other cheek.  Why should they return hatred with love?  And as the gay activists soon learned, their help would not be readily received.  Why should the gay community risk further rejection, shame, and violence to support an oppressed people who could not see their commonality?

Jesus shares a meal with his disciples as he has done on so many occasions.  Only on this night, he is among friend and foe.  He knows Judas is about to betray him.  He knows that Judas is about to put into motion a series of actions that cannot be stopped, that will lead to pain and suffering, and ultimately death.  Looking into Judas’ eyes, Jesus must have felt a betrayal so deep that he had to resist hatred as a human response.  “How could you?” would be an easy question for Jesus to ask in this intimate moment.

But Jesus does not do that. He does not challenge Judas or reprimand or even expose Judas in front of the others directly.  No, he takes off his outer robe, takes a bowl and a pitcher of water, and he washes the feet of everyone in that room – not just the feet of those whom he loves – which would have been a poignantly intimate moment anyway.  But as he makes his way down the table, he shifts his bowl under the dusty feet of Judas; feet as dirty as the rest of them.  He takes the feet of this betrayer of his trust and confidence, and he manages to love Judas as deeply as everyone else.  Tenderly, lovingly, he washes the feet of the enemy of the worst kind – an enemy who was once a friend.  Love in the face of betrayal.

This year, Jesus’ tenderness with Judas has been haunting me.  I do not know about you, but the last thing I want to do is tenderly, lovingly care for my enemy.  Society teaches me to have a strong defense, to protect myself, to avoid conflict.  The norm is not to kneel down before a betrayer of trust, to make oneself subservient, and lovingly treat someone who acts so hatefully.  Only a fool makes himself vulnerable before the enemy.  And yet, that is what Jesus does.  That is how he shows the depths of his love.  He does not use his power to thwart the enemy.  He restrains his power to bring the enemy in – always with the offering of love that can transform any heart.

Tonight, we will engage in the tradition of washing others’ feet.  Many of us get caught up the squeamishness of feet and the vulnerability such intimacy involves.  But something much bigger happens in foot washing than letting go of self-consciousness.  In foot washing we enter into the love of Christ:  washing the feet of those we know well and love; washing the feet of those we know only superficially; washing the feet of those who seem to have their lives totally together and those who we know are suffering; washing the feet of someone who has indeed offended you, and washing the feet of someone with whom you wish to reconcile.

But what we do literally here, we take out figuratively into the world.  Washing the feet of someone you know, or even someone you do not know well in church is one thing.  Washing the feet of the people who are not here is another thing entirely.  Though Jesus’ washed his disciples’ feet, the inclusion of Judas suggests that loving one another cannot be limited to the community of believers.[i]  All we have to do is imagine an actual enemy, someone who has betrayed our trust or offended our values, someone who oppresses the oppressed, and then we know how hard what Jesus does is tonight.  Tonight, some powerful feelings are set loose:  sorrow, loss, regret, even fear; but also some powerful feelings are set loose by Jesus:  commitment, conviction, and determination.  God lays aside everything tonight.[ii]  Enter into Christ’s love tonight through the example he sets for us.  Know that God will use the power of this act to change your heart.

A year after that bold move by the gay community in London in the 1980s, much had happened.  Horrible things were said, mean things were done, violence erupted, commitments were betrayed, and help was rejected.  But a year later, even after ultimately losing their cause, the mineworkers did something out of character.  Chapter after chapter of mineworkers loaded onto buses, came to London, and marched for gay rights with their new brothers and sisters.  God’s love has tremendous power.  Even if that love cannot transform the heart of a Judas, the witness of that love slowly breaks through and transforms communities.  Join us tonight as we start locally.  Know that God will use your small action here to do bigger work out in the world!  Amen.

[i] Susan E. Hylen, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 275.

[ii] William F. Brosend, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 276.

Sermon John 4.5-42, L3, YA, March 19, 2017

22 Wednesday Mar 2017

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This past week I was invited to attend a conversation and action meeting with local clergy.  I was not looking forward to the meeting.  In fact, I almost did not go to the meeting.  We were going to be talking about a controversial topic, and based on the invitation, I knew I would be on the opposing side.  What I did not know was whether I would be the only voice of opposition, which made the meeting all the more scary.  The thing is, I have been in those types of conversations before – where two interpretations of Holy Scripture seem diametrically opposed, and one or both parties feel so passionate about their understanding that they say really nasty, awful things to one another.  The very validity of one’s faith can even be questioned.

So I began to do what we always do in those situations.  First, I thought I could just send an email.  Then I thought that maybe I could just not attend the meeting, and engage in oppositional advocacy instead.  I even thought not going might be a valid form of protest.  But the Holy Spirit, and a few good friends, had other things to say.  They were not going to let me skip this meeting.  And so I went, rehearsing in my head the biblical roots and theology behind my positions.  I put on my New York tough exterior, bracing myself for whatever was thrown at me.  And just in case, I made sure to wear my best outfit and a smile so as to throw people off their game.  But my stomach was still in knots as I opened the door – full of what-ifs, worrying about consequences, and feeling extremely vulnerable.

A little over two thousand years ago, a woman – an outcast among her own people, getting water alone at midday, encounters a man at Jacob’s well.  He, a Jew with sociopolitical power, asks her for water.  She has a choice.  She can walk away.  But she engages in a conversation between unequals.  At first, Jesus tells her some extraordinary things – about thirst and living water, about his own powers, about his identity.  But then the conversation shifts.  Jesus exposes her vulnerability to its core.  Not only is this a woman with power differential, this woman is an outcast in her culture.  She is a double outsider, having had five husbands and living with a man who is not her husband.  Now, Jesus does not point out this reality as a way of telling her she is sinful – in fact, Jesus says nothing about sin.[i]  Scholars seem to think her marital history would have nothing to do with her sinfulness either.  It could have been that she was a multiple-time widow, passed down through levirate marriage, or it could be that she was barren, and multiple husbands abandoned her.[ii]  We do not know.  But we do know how we feel when someone exposes our deepest places of insecurity and self-doubt.  And this is the woman’s second opportunity to walk away.

But she stays.  I imagine she squares her shoulders, swallows a hard gulp, takes in a deep breath, and keeps talking.  And so does Jesus.  Ever so gently, they engage in a pretty hefty conversation, about prophesy, proper worship, the Messiah, and identity.  Not bad for a Jewish male and a Samaritan woman in broad daylight, for everyone to see.

At my meeting this week, a curious thing happened.  We read scripture together.  We prayed together.  And we talked – sharing openly about our own theologies and biblical interpretations.  But also, we listened – listened for commonality, listened for God’s guidance, and listened in respectful disagreement.  The conversation did not go at all how I expected.  The responses were not what I expected.  My own spirit was not at all in the place I expected my spirit to be in the end.

There is a lot going on in the story between Jesus and the Samaritan woman – probably enough for multiple sermons.  But today, in light of my experience this week, and in light of our country’s currently political climate, I am mostly drawn to the power of conversation.  Biblical scholar Karoline Lewis argues, “…frequently overlooked is that this interaction is a conversation.  Jesus suggests that conversation matters for theology.  That conversation is essential for faith.”  She goes on to say, “The church can be the place that shows society what theological conversation can sound like. The church can be the place that demonstrates how dialogue about faith and the Bible might result in religious respect and tolerance.”[iii]

So how do we do that?  Lewis proposes a method based on the interaction between Jesus and the Samaritan woman.  She gleans five key elements of holy conversation.  First, holy conversations begin with mutual vulnerability.  Jesus is thirsty, and the Samaritan woman needs the living water he provides.  Truthful conversations begin with reciprocal vulnerability because that is at the heart of God.  Second, questions are critical to holy conversations.  Of course, these cannot be questions for which we already have answers – these are true, curious questions.  The woman’s questions lead Jesus to reveal his identity.  God wants us to ask questions because they strengthen relationship.  Third, holy conversations involving intentional, genuine interest in the other take time.  The sheer length of the gospel text today tells you that this was not a quick conversation on the way to coffee hour.  But over the course of the long conversation, misunderstandings are clarified, lives reformed, and God’s abundant love is revealed.  Fourth, when we are talking about conversations with Jesus, be prepared to be surprised.  The woman at the well receives the first I AM statement in John’s gospel – Jesus reveals himself not to an insider, but to an outsider!  Finally, expect to be changed in holy conversations.  As Lewis says, “The woman at the well goes from shamed to witness.  From dismissed to disciple.  From alone to being a sheep of Jesus’ own fold.”[iv]  So holy conversations involve mutual vulnerability, questions, time, surprise, and change.

This week, no one gathered changed their minds on the presenting issue.  I doubt we ever will.  But something else did happen.  Through our conversation, something holy emerged.  Two groups, opposed to each other, were able to stay in the room, were able to articulate their own theologies, and were able to see Christ in the other.  What I took from that meeting was that maybe, just maybe, there is hope for us after all.  Maybe the church can do what the church has needed to do for some time – model what holy, Christ-like conversations look like for the good of the community.  Now, that does not mean holy conversations are easy.  Though I stayed in my seat, there were certainly times I wanted to get up and leave.  Though they were subtle, there were several clear digs at my ability to interpret scripture and the will of God.  There were several arguments that I disagreed with and had to bite my tongue to maintain the openness of the conversation.  But as I left the meeting, I knew something holy had happened.  Glimpses of the kingdom of God were breaking into that room.

Our invitation this week is to look around our own lives and examine where we have been avoiding holy conversations:  those times when we have run when someone pointed out the brokenness of our lives; when we have made quick judgments and assumptions about others without ever taking the time to ask the curious questions; when we have cut off opportunities for connection without remembering the surprise and change at the end.  The promises are tremendous.  Look at the healing the woman at the well receives – not just the lifting of societal shaming, but a position of power as a witness and disciple of Christ.  Look at the affirmation the woman receives – not only does Jesus validate her through an engaging, respectful conversation, the whole town responds to her without question.  Look at how the commitment to stay in the conversation leads the woman to a place of deep transformation and change.  But also look at how Jesus is changed too – he finds a surprisingly worthy partner in ministry, to whom he can confess his deepest identity.  I am not saying holy conversations will ever be easy.  In fact, sometimes the rejection we experience from attempts at those conversations will linger for a long time.  But when we keep putting ourselves out there, keep listening for those opportunities for holy conversation, the rewards are tremendously life giving.  The well is waiting for you!  Amen.

[i] Karoline Lewis, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 95.

[ii] Osvaldo Vena, “Commentary on John 4:5-42” March 19, 2017, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=3189 on March 16, 2017.

[iii] Karoline Lewis, “Holy Conversations,” March 12, 2017, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4839#comments on March 15, 2017.

[iv]Lewis, “Holy Conversations.”

Homily – Luke 2.-8-20, Blue Christmas, December 21, 2016

04 Wednesday Jan 2017

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I can still picture the perfect Christmas in my head.  My cousins were all there, along with my aunts, uncles, and grandparents.  The kids’ table was the coveted spot for dinner – even some the adults offered to make the “sacrifice” of not sitting at the adult table in order to join the kids.  After a dinner with the lamb and asparagus casserole my grandfather always cooked, the cousins challenged the aunts and uncles to a football game in the yard.  I scored a touchdown, which if you know me, was a minor miracle.  It was a perfectly beautiful, chilly day, and I remember being happy.

Of course, I was too young to know what was actually happening.  Marriages were hanging on by a string, and only one would survive.  Anxiety was hidden beneath the surface at the kids’ table as one family member barked at us for various offenses.  At least one family member was struggling with her sexuality.  Cousins would later be caught in the middle of nasty divorces, meaning I would not see them for several years.  Jobs would be lost, and identity would be questioned in the midst of unemployment.  American politics would infect family politics.  Even my own immediate family was heading for all sorts of tumult.

For a long time, I mourned the loss of that perfect Christmas.  I saw other families seeming to hold their Christmases together without effort.  I watched commercials that reminded me more of how things used to be rather than how they were.  I would receive annual Christmas cards and letters from seemingly perfect friends that made me feel like I did not measure up.  Even the pictures of the Holy Family seemed to capture a peace and contentment that I would never have.

But slowly, over the years, the old Biblical narrative seemed to unravel.  Knowing how hard marriage is, I could finally imagine how tense things must have been between Joseph and Mary.  Knowing how hard pregnancy is, I could finally imagine how miserable Mary must have been by the time they arrived in Bethlehem.  Knowing how brutal the Roman rulers were, I could imagine how dehumanizing going back to your hometown to be enrolled in the census must have been.  Knowing that not one family member, friend, or business would take in the Holy Family, leaving them in the most humiliating of situations, I could imagine how panicked and lonely the first-time mom, Mary, must have felt, even in her exhaustion.  Knowing how filthy shepherds usually were, and how Mary and Joseph just wanted a little peace, I could imagine how overwhelmed the Holy Family felt.  Though we like nativity sets, cards, and pageants that depict the Holy Family’s experience as heavenly perfection, the scripture tells a different story.

One of my favorite paintings of Mary is a painting that depicts her, just after birth, splayed, half-dressed, on a rustic bed, with women hovering in the dark background, tending to baby Jesus.[i]  There’s something very real and raw about that painting – the animals and baby are all there, but none of it seems perfect.  That’s what I love about this service too.  We too are tired, overwhelmed, and feeling vulnerable.  We too are lost without our loved ones this year.  We too are terrified of the ambiguity of life, and the sense that we are not in control.  But unlike everywhere else we live and work, this gathering tonight says we do not have to hide; we do not have to stuff our vulnerabilities and weaknesses in a box; we do not need to try to find perfection.

Tonight we are simply invited to be real, vulnerable, and honest about the imperfection of our lives, of ourselves, and of this time of year.  And though some artists might want you to believe that the Holy Family puts forth some sort of perfection standard, if anything, the Holy Family is right there with us.  Sitting among smelly animals and shepherds, settling into itchy hay and drafty stables, and wrapping their child in scraps of simple cloths, the Holy Family invites us into an imperfect Christmas.  Only when we enter fully enter into the imperfection of our Christmases are we able to allow the perfection of Christ to light a small flame of hope in our hearts.  May that light be kindled or stoked tonight, and may that light of hope grow ever strong in the days, weeks, and years to come.

[i] Paul Gauguin, “Te Tamari No Atua (Nativity), 1896,” as found at http://www.jesus-story.net/painting_birth_christ.htm on December 20, 2016.

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

19 Thursday Nov 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[iii] Jacobs, 128.

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

The Vulnerable Village…

05 Friday Sep 2014

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Today is the big day.  Our oldest child’s first day of kindergarten.  As background, we are used to our child being in the care of others.  Since she was eighteen months, she has been doing four days a week of full-day care.  Though that was hard at first, we quickly saw how she thrives on the routine and the stimulation.  And we have also embraced the idea of our child being raised by a village.  In fact, our second child started a similar schedule at eleven weeks.  So we are no strangers to the hand-off experience.

But I must admit that today was quite different.  Our kindergarten program asked the parents not to deviate from how drop-off will normally occur.  So instead of passing her off at the school itself, our daughter boarded a bus that then drove away.  In fact, the whole transaction took all of a minute or so.  As the bus turned the corner, driving out of sight, I was left standing there with a pit in my stomach.  As I have thought about it since she went to school, I realized that what my daughter did today – stepping on to a bus with people she has never met, going to a school she has never attended, meeting a new teacher she has never met, and experiencing a totally new routine – takes a tremendous amount of courage.  And yet she boldly stepped onto that bus, with a big grin on her face.

Though I have often talked about the village that raises our children, and in some ways have had to embrace that model out of necessity, I rarely admit how wonderful and also scary that whole concept is.  The truth is that I have to trust many people with shaping and forming my child into an amazing person.  Though my husband and I do a lot of that formation, her formation comes from teachers, school staff, church parishioners, friends, and family.  I have seen in person how helpful that can be (like that time when we were arduously trying to teach her to use a spoon – a habit she picked up in minutes once she saw the other kids doing it at school).  But today, I was aware of how vulnerable relying on the village makes one feel.  There is really no getting around that sense of vulnerability – it is a necessary part of life.  But that vulnerability can certainly be unsettling.

This morning, as I have been sorting through that unsettled feeling, the only thing I have been able to “do” is to give that feeling back to God through prayer.  God knows how much I dislike that feeling of being out of control, and so I am sure my prayer is familiar to God.  But I have also found myself praying my daughter through her day – the other kids on the bus she met, the staff who walked her to her classroom, her teacher and new classmates, the staff who works in the cafeteria, her time learning and at play, and her time in after-care.  I pray that the village will be good to her, that she will feel God’s loving arms surrounding her, and that she too will be God’s light to others.  That is my small contribution to the village today – my prayers and my trust.  God bless our village and give us peace.

A little help…

18 Wednesday Jun 2014

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As a parent of two young children, I have had to readjust how I do about pretty much everything.  Grocery shopping is one of the trickiest.  My current method is to put my oldest in the shopping cart seat (luckily she is still small enough for that) and to put my youngest on my chest in a baby carrier.  This mostly allows my hands to be free for pushing the cart, getting items off the shelf and onto the belt, keeping up with my shopping list, and generally entertaining two kids while trying to accomplish the task at hand.  It works, but it also feels like trying to manage a tornado.  I am happy if I remember most everything on my list and get the groceries and family home safely.  But I can only imagine what this chaos looks like to outsiders; and truthfully, I have never taken a moment to observe how others see me.

So imagine my surprise this week as I was trying to keep my oldest in the cart and my youngest from crying on my chest while unloading our groceries into the car, when, out of the blue, a young woman appeared and asked me if I would like some help loading our car.  I really have no idea what direction she came from, how long she had watched me scrambling, or what made her approach me.  And I must admit, my first thought was to worry about a stranger seeing the other chaos that is my car trunk.  Dumbfounded by the offer, embarrassed by the knowledge that I must have really looked like I needed help, and humbled by the fact that I really could use some help, I hesitantly allowed her to help me.  Before I knew it, the car was loaded and she was gone.  As I got in the car, my brain was filled with questions.  Had I thanked her sufficiently?  Why didn’t I ask her name?  What was her story?  Why did she offer to help me?

But the question that lingered the most was, “Why was I so hesitant to receive her help?”  I have worked for several nonprofit agencies that help those in need.  I have often given lip service to how my children are not just raised by me, but raised by a village.  I often preach about the value of vulnerability within community.  And yet, my immediate reaction to a stranger offering to help me was to insist that I could do it on my own.

Of course, this is often my struggle with God too.  How often have I gone to God in prayer, and then immediately tried to take control again when I felt like I was sufficiently at peace?  How often have I complained to God about an issue and then refused help from someone who was likely sent by God in the first place?  How often have I been willing to wash others’ feet, but not allowed Jesus to wash mine?  My parking lot experience this week reminded me of how much my pride gets in the way of authentic, vulnerable, beautiful relationship with God and my neighbor.  It takes a tremendous amount of trust to allow that kind of intimacy.  But when I do, I continue to be amazed at the ways that both God and my neighbor really do rise to the occasion.