Gaudete! You are blessed

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From this day all generations will call me blessed: the Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is his Name. Amen. 

Today is one of my favorite days of the year: Gaudete Sunday! Here at Good Shepherd, it also happens to be “Rise Against Hunger” Sunday. (After the service, we will pack 10,000 meals for communities with food insecurity.)

Gaudete, which means “Rejoice,” references an ancient chant used on the third Sunday of Advent. But more broadly, it ties together the theme of today’s readings: JOY! Because we worship a God who “looks with favor on his lowly servants.” 

Joy is abundant throughout Mary’s Magnificat, which we read in place of the Psalm this week. After Mary receives the news that she is pregnant with Jesus, she visits her cousin Elizabeth, who affirms that she has been blessed by God. Moved suddenly by the literal presence of God within her, Mary bursts out in poetic verse. She rejoices, because she recognizes that God is now fulfilling his promise to bring about a just and merciful society – the very one her people had longed for since the world began. 

For Mary, you might say that “the personal is political.” Her individual experience of being blessed by God has expanded her perception of God’s blessing in the world. 

As scholar Luke Timothy Johnson puts it: 

“In the Magnificat, Mary’s praise for what God had done to her personally widens out to include what God does for all who fear Him in every age, including what God is doing for Israel by the birth of its Messiah. As God “showed power in his right hand” by His mighty works in the past, so does he “now take Israel by the hand.’” (Commentary on Luke, Sacra Pagina)

God calls Mary – a poor and powerless woman – to birth the Salvation of the world. In doing so, God shakes up the world, tearing down our assumptions about what blessedness looks like. 

While some of Mary’s words don’t sound like good news to everyone—for example, “the rich he has sent away empty”—God’s activity is actually a great equalizer. No more will some people have too much and others have too little. Everyone has been brought to a level place. 

Mary declares that, in God’s kingdom, blessedness is measured not by power or wealth, but by proximity to the Creator. 

But Mary’s is not the only proclamation of God’s blessing in today’s scripture readings. Our other readings use a framework of physical healing to arrive at the same point. 

In Isaiah, the prophet continues his description of the Kingdom of God, describing both the environment and its people. The scorched desert will be transformed into a never-ending oasis. 

There will also be a physical transformation for humanity. He says: 

“Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.” 

In Matthew, Jesus uses similar language to reveal to John that he is the fulfillment of the prophecies in Isaiah. As evidence, he describes his healing miracles:

“the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear…” 

It’s important for us to understand that ancient people understood this kind of “healing” as a great equalizer, in the same vein as God’s equalizing action in the Magnificat. 

Then, as today, many people with disabilities lived on the margins of society. Often, they couldn’t work. And if they had a particular disease, they couldn’t even live in town. Over time, these disabilities came to be understood as a consequence of someone’s sin. 

But, when Jesus healed them, he declared before the entire community that disability was not a barrier to following him. He made clear, instead, that disabled people were blessed. 

Many Christians today still read these passages and think that a disabled person is somehow less righteous than them. But we know that’s wrong. 

Because we are a community made up of Deaf people, we know that Deafness is not a thing to repent from. It is not a sign of sin or brokenness. It is simply one way of being human; and it shapes people, culture, and language in ways that reveal God’s blessing. 

And this is where the Magnificat comes back in. In Mary’s telling, the Kingdom of God rejects the world’s narrow understanding of blessedness.  It’s not about accumulating wealth or status, acquiring peak physical fitness, avoiding difficulty, or pretending to be anything other than human. 

In fact, acknowledging that we are human is the most important part. The only thing asked of us in the Magnificat is that we “fear God,” and all that means is that we trust and accept the powerful, life-altering love of God in service of our own unfettered joy, and the joy of the whole world. 

By choosing a poor and powerless woman to fulfill his promises, God makes clear that being imperfect by human standards is not a barrier to entering the Kingdom of God. In fact, being an outsider – whether poor, disabled, or otherwise – is a sign of blessedness in the new world that Christ is ushering in. 

Today, we will work together, shoulder to shoulder, as a response to Mary’s joy, and our own. We will measure, sort, and pack meals in an effort “fill the hungry with good things.” 

We do this not out of obligation, but because our scriptures and experiences make clear that proximity to the poor is proximity to God’s blessing. In acts of care for one another, we are reminded that everyone is equal in God’s kingdom, and that the blessings we have received are God’s desire for the whole world. 

Gaudete! Rejoice! 

Nathan Chen is about to show up and do a back flip | Advent 1 Sermon

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Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal. Amen.

Today is the first day of Advent – the start of the Christian new year. Advent is often translated as “arrival,” but it can also carry a more active connotation: “coming.” The Season of Advent holds the fullness of these meanings. We acknowledge with renewed hope that Christ has already come to earth, and has already defeated death – he has arrived. And we anticipate Christ’s second coming – he is still on his way.

We are celebrating, but we are also waiting for the final celebration, when Christ will come in “glorious majesty” to restore all things.

The longer I have been in a congregation that follows the church seasons, the more I have come to appreciate them. While there is no way that Christians in the fourth century could have anticipated the cesspool of consumerism that this season has become, their work on the church calendar continues to be a blessing…

Because, following it – especially in this season – reorients our focus from the frenzy of secular Christmas, and calls us to a deeper, more focused anticipation. There’s no harm in enjoying the superficial fun of the season: Santa Claus and Jingle Bells and gift exchanges are perfectly acceptable ways to celebrate with family and friends (even if it is still Advent).

But, the church calendar reminds us that there is something eternal at work underneath all these distracting celebrations. There is something that calls for our singular attention, not as a test of our faithfulness, but because it is so wonderful. Someone has arrived to change everything, and he will carry us into a future of unfettered joy and ultimate freedom.

As a thought experiment, I tried to think of a time when I was called to pay singular attention, simply because it was so wonderful. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be…

When I was at Yale Divinity School, I got word that the Yale Figure Skating Club was putting on their winter show. Made up of amateurs, the show was typically just a way for hobby skaters to have some fun while their friends cheered them on. But that year, there were whispers that a special guest was coming…

Three-time world champion and two-time Olympic figure skater Nathan Chen was enrolled at Yale that fall. And word on the street was that he was going to come to the show.

With uncharacteristic clarity of purpose, I convinced a small group of seminarians to take the hike over to the main campus to see what we could see. I was the only figure skating mega-fan among them. So, while everyone else bought concessions and chatted about term papers, I was staring straight ahead, hand on my chin, laser-focused on the rink. I didn’t dare leave my seat. If Nathan Chen was going to be there, there was no way in heck I was going to miss it.

After more than a half-hour of very sweet performances by people who could barely skate, a young man swiftly and silently skated onto the ice. My friends – lulled into the stupor of greasy food and easy conversation – didn’t seem to notice…But I noticed.

I let out the loudest, highest, most piercing, blood-curdling scream. It was so unlike me, that I didn’t recognize it as my own voice until the person in front of me turned around in shock.

Nathan Chen was here, in the same room as me, and he just did a back flip!!! (They didn’t even let him do that at the Olympics because they thought it was too dangerous!!!!) And then, he did his signature quadruple jump, the move that would win him the gold medal in 2022.

The adrenaline was coursing through my body, probably as much as it was coursing through his. And I was just sitting there.

Amid the chatter and distraction around me, something demanded my singular attention. And I was determined not to miss out on the realization of the hope that I had carried with me to the rink that day. I didn’t know when he would arrive, but I trusted that he would.

And what I found was that the wait was worth it, not just for the satisfaction of seeing a dream realized. It was worth it to gather up my new friends, take a risk in inviting them, and spend an afternoon passing the time together in that chilly rink. The joy was abundant even before Nathan Chen got on the ice. The light was already breaking through…but nothing could beat that back flip!

In today’s reading from Matthew, Jesus tells his followers to pay attention: to “keep awake,” not as a test of their faithfulness, but because something wonderful is on the way. Jesus “will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.”

And, while no one knows the day or hour that Christ will return, they should “stay on the alert” with such single-mindedness that it is almost as if they’re waiting for a thief to break into their home. In modern terms, we might say it is almost as if record-breaking figure skater Nathan Chen is about to show up and do a back flip.

We don’t know when he’s coming, but the only way to live, in the meantime, is to stay alert to the promise that Christ will come.

Dr. Andrew McGowan notes the paradox in this idea of staying alert to a thing you can’t predict. He says:

“Jesus’ apocalyptic proclamation is framed by Matthew not as futurology, but as a call to live in a particular way now…So, while Jesus warns from trying to correlate world events and the end of time, the paradoxical message remains that the reader needs nevertheless to “watch,” even without knowing just what we are watching for.”

What Jesus is doing here is making it impossible for us to inoculate ourselves against the unimaginable glory of his coming kingdom. If we don’t know when he’ll arrive, we can’t settle the issue; we can’t put the Kingdom of God in a box.

What’s more, we can’t take a break or rest on our laurels. We’ll just have to be laser-focused on the loving, self-sacrificial, lively work of his kingdom. We’ll just have to let joy run in our veins like adrenaline, until it becomes infectious. We’ll have to take action based on the assumption that all our hopes will be realized.

Christ is coming – we don’t know when or how. But we know that when he comes, death itself will die, and we will live in the eternal light of God. In the meantime, we live with the knowledge that he has already arrived by looking for the cracks in the world where his light is already breaking through. And we make plans that align with God’s promises of joy and freedom, of wholeness and reconciliation, of unconditional love.

This is what Advent is all about.

At the beginning of a new year, we learn again how to “stay awake” to the presence of Christ who was and is and is to come. We learn again how to live in the paradox that some theologians describe as the “already and not yet” – anticipating the glory of Christ’s second coming without losing sight of the light that is already breaking through.

“Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!”

Amen.

Reconciled, Forgiven, Freed | Christ the King Sermon

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Today is “Christ the King” Sunday. And that means it is the last Sunday of the church year. Next week, we will start our three-year scripture cycle over again, with Year A, and we will enter into the season of Advent.

The tone will shift, and we will look forward, with renewed urgency, to the coming of Christ: both the Christ-child that we celebrate at Christmas, and the risen Christ, who promises to bring about the “restoration” of the world.

On this last Sunday of the Christian year, as we prepare for the chaos, longing, and joy that Christmas brings, it is good to remember that Christ is king, which means that “perfection” is his job – not ours. Jesus holds everything together, when our best laid plans seem to be falling apart. He calls us to let go of what burdens us, so we can join with him at the banquet he prepares for us.

Over the past 40 or so years, it has become increasingly unpopular to use kingly metaphors when referring to God or Jesus. Though our scriptures are full of references to the triune God as Counselor, King, and Almighty One – and though God’s relationship with his people hinges so often on his authority – some of our newest liturgies remove these references.

In some of the liturgies of our church, words like “Lord” have been changed to “Savior” or, simply, “God.” Kingdom has been changed to “reign.” Some of the most faithful people I know refer to the Kingdom of God as the “kin-dom of God,” deemphasizing the hierarchy between God and humankind and emphasizing humanity as equal members of the family of God.

None of this is necessarily a bad thing…

For one, these edits are pretty subtle – they don’t necessarily change very much in the context of a single prayer or turn of phrase. In some cases, they bring renewed meaning to well-worn statements of faith by signaling that God’s domain is more generous and expansive than those of worldly rulers. And, in a world run by tyrants and would-be tyrants, it is reasonable to be wary of using hierarchical language associated more with violence than benevolence.

In a recent article written for The Living Church, the Reverend Barbara White speaks to this point:

In a world of developed democracies, which is nevertheless beset by dictators, oligarchs, and those who want to be, it makes sense to wonder if kingship is the most relevant metaphor for Christ’s relationship to the world and to humanity. There is also the uncomfortable fact that the term “Christ Is King” has been recently highjacked by alt-right antisemites on social media—which should be…condemned by all who bear the name of Christ…

In this day and age, it is good to be careful with our language. And it is reasonable for us to worry about what it signals to declare Christ as King when there are people out there suggesting that Christ’s kingship is some kind of political maneuver that means that people that look and think “like them” should be in charge.

But, anyone who calls Christ King while encouraging more division, more judgment, and more self-righteousness is missing the point entirely. Because, by naming Christ as our King, we should be seeking, not to uphold, but to destroy the hierarchies and boundaries that divide people. We are all made equal under the banner of Christ our King.

In today’s Gospel reading, we encounter the final moments before Jesus’ death on the cross. Smug bystanders mock and ridicule Jesus for claiming that he is the Son of God and the Messiah, the “anointed” one. They have placed a sign over his head that reads: “King of the Jews.” It is intended as a clear denial of his kingship – after all, this so-called Savior is dying.

Meanwhile, from his lofty height on the cross, Jesus looks down and asks for their forgiveness: “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.”

In that moment, one of the criminals on the cross next to Jesus receives a spark of understanding: Jesus is not only innocent, he really is the Savior spoken of in the prophecies.

So, he asks for all he thinks he can ask for, as a guilty man: “remember me.” And Jesus gives him all that he can give: eternity: “Today you will be with me in paradise.”


Jesus is a king who turns everything on its head: his throne is a cross and his law is forgiveness.

Here on the cross, there is a profound reversal of expectations. The bottom falls out of earthly power structures held up by self-interest, self-righteousness, and control. And now, the full sweep of humanity falls into the arms of Christ: reconciled, forgiven, and freed.

This moment on the cross reveals the true character of Christ’s kingdom: No one is too far gone. No one is beyond forgiveness. And the scorned and abandoned are the first to enter paradise.

When the criminal recognizes Christ as king, he can finally let go of his own will to power. He releases his protective pride and accepts the compassion Jesus shows him. He dares to reveal his deepest hope – that he will not be forgotten. And when he asks, he receives more than he could imagine.

His story can be a lesson for all of us. When we accept Christ as king, we no longer have to hold onto our own wills to power – motivated by shame, longing, regret, and fear – because we know we are held by a savior who loves us more than his own life.

In a time when association with kings and kingdoms is perhaps more fraught than it has been since the American Revolution, we must reclaim the concept of Christ as King. We do this by placing it within the broad message of the Gospel, which reveals that Christ is fundamentally different from the rulers of this world.

He does not rule through control or fear, but by endlessly expanding freedom and joy, in a single-minded path to reconciliation. He is Love, embodied, calling us by name, finding us when we’re lost, and forgiving us even when we don’t ask for it. He makes it possible for us to be a “kin-dom,” a family made up of people who aren’t related and might have hardly anything in common, besides being so deeply loved by Jesus. By reconciling us to himself, we can find peace with one another.

Christ is King, which means we can lay down their weapons, our burdens, and our pride and let Christ do what he does best: make a way to paradise, for everyone. Amen.

That We May Embrace Hope

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Blessed Lord, who caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning: Grant us so to hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them, that we may embrace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which you have given us in our Savior Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Every year on this Sunday, we encounter again my very favorite collect, written by my very favorite Archbishop of Canterbury: Thomas Cranmer. In truth, I don’t pay very much attention to the Archbishops of the Church of England, even though I am excited that the new one is the first woman to hold the position.

But, Cranmer will always have a special place in my heart. Not only was he the first Archbishop of the Church of England, he also compiled, composed, and edited the very first Book of Common Prayer, the book that contains the foundational liturgies, prayers, and theology of the Anglican and Episcopal Church.

The heart of Episcopal Christian identity is informed by this book, and it connects us back, not only to the moment of rupture and renewal that took place during the Reformation in the 1500s, when much of Europe declared itself Protestant. It also connects us back to the church that existed before that moment, in the processions of the medieval cathedrals, the Eucharistic Prayers of the early church, and even the sacrifices of the Roman temples and Jewish synagogues.

In this way, the Book of Common Prayer, while specific to the Anglican and Episcopal Church, actually reminds of us that we are members of the universal church, founded by Christ, and revealed to us in the Scriptures.

In a way, Cranmer’s collect on the scriptures is a kind of thesis statement for the whole tradition. Because, it points us all the way back, past tradition, to the record of our faith, belief, and practice: the Bible. It reminds us that everything we do and believe as disciples of Christ, in this Episcopal Church, is rooted in the stories of God and God’s people as they are revealed in scripture.

And, it gives us some guidance for how to engage with Scripture: “hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them, that we may embrace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life…”

A lot of people have used this prayer for Bible Study. I have seen it used almost as a step-by-step guide to reading scripture. But, what sometimes gets lost is the reason why we would want to engage with scripture at all. After all, we’ve already got this big, expansive tradition with all of its liturgies and practices. What are we supposed to get out of reading the Bible, that we can’t get through praying and going to church?

The collect actually answers that question for us: “that we may embrace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which you have given us in our Savior Jesus Christ.” The point of Scripture is to give us a reason to embrace hope.

And we couldn’t have a better example of that, than in our passage from Isaiah 65…

For I am about to create new heavens
and a new earth;
the former things shall not be remembered
or come to mind.
But be glad and rejoice forever
in what I am creating;
for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight.

Someone asked me this week how we can read hopeful passages like this one when the state of the world feels so hopeless? Doesn’t it give us indigestion to read something so sweet when the world around us is so bitter? When we are surrounded by fear and suffering, and our existential questions aren’t getting answered.

Borne of years of my own encounters with suffering, and my own encounters with Scripture, my response was immediate and unwavering.

I said, “Because, when you read a passage like this one, where God himself is painting a picture of paradise – in which there is no suffering, but only joy – when you read something as grand as that, you are reminded that your vision of beauty is the exact same as God’s. That God wants the same things you do. That there is, in fact, no division between the desires of your heart and God’s own heart. And suffering isn’t part of God’s design.

In this passage, God reverses the curses of Genesis: unburdening labor, disappearing pain, and rewinding all the years of layered sorrows, in a vision so bright it almost feels reckless.

A scripture passage like this one shows us that it is ok to imagine the best possible future, even in the midst of the worst possible reality. It is ok, because the people of God have traveled difficult terrain before, and they were still able to hold onto hope. It is ok, because God’s desire is to make it reality. This is a passage that hypes us up – if we let it, it can give us a reason to embrace hope.

But, what do we do with more troubling passages, like the ones from Second Thessalonians and Luke?

“Anyone unwilling to work should not eat.”

“…they will arrest you and persecute you…”

Well, if Cranmer is right that engaging with Scripture helps us “embrace hope,” then we are obligated to look for the light, even in difficult texts. This isn’t the same as manipulating scripture to suit our needs. We’re not ignoring the confusing or concerning parts of the Bible by reading hope into them. We are simply aware that a “God-breathed” scripture must include some evidence of God, who is “love.”

And when we really spend time with scripture, we discover that God’s promises are seeping into our imperfect and troubling reality…

In Second Thessalonians, a complaint about idleness is directed at a specific community that has abandoned a shared vision of the Christian community. Convinced that their own salvation means that they’re free to just “chill out” ‘til Jesus comes, the writer reminds them that there is still much work to be done to build the Kingdom of God – and that it will take everyone’s efforts. This is ultimately a democratizing vision, against the priestly hierarchies they are accustomed to. Because here, everyone matters.

In Luke, Jesus names the scary reality on the ground, where followers of Christ are targets of both state and religious violence, and where increasing tensions threaten widespread warfare. Then, he tells his people that he will be with them, guide them, and protect them unconditionally – and for all eternity.

So, we see that even troubling scriptures will crack open with hope, if we dare to tap into them.

The Bible will never gloss over the human condition. It is gritty and troubling, and sometimes prompts more questions than answers. And isn’t that just like life? Gritty, troubling, and often more confusing than clarifying.

But, the scriptures are also a record of hope already realized. And because of that, we can have hope and faith that God is present with us now.

In the midst of this mucky and murky human condition is a God lighting up the shadows, calling us out of exile, drawing us out of our self-involvement, healing broken things, troubling the powerful, and creating new heavens and a new earth to spite disaster, sin, and grief.

God grant us so to hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest the Scriptures. God grant us so to hope, trusting that God is never idle, but always at work, reversing the curses of our fallen humanity.

Amen.

Yet all are one in Thee | All Saints’ Sermon

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O blest communion, fellowship divine!
We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
yet all are one in Thee, for all are Thine.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

Today we celebrate the Feast of All Saints, also called “All Hallow’s Day.” This is the holiday from which Halloween gets its name since Hallow’e’en, or Hallow’s-evening, is the night before All Hallow’s Day. Hallow just means “holy person,” or saint.

Historical records show that some form of All Saints’ Day has been celebrated among Christians since the fourth century. Originally, it was meant to commemorate the lives of the martyrs, those people who died in service of their faith.

As Christianity spread throughout Europe, All Saints’ celebrations eventually made their way to the British Isles. It was there that the feast was moved to November First. By the ninth century, the Pope declared it a universal holiday, intended to commemorate the growing list of official saints in the church calendar.

Even after the Protestant Reformation and America’s independence from England, the Episcopal Church managed to keep All Saints’ Day in our calendar. But its theology has changed a little bit since the early days. Though we acknowledge many of the saints of the Catholic Church, our tradition doesn’t have a canonization process. Instead, we can make recommendations to a committee that votes on who should be remembered in our calendar…it’s rather bureaucratic.

But part of the reason we do it this way is because we have a broader definition of the saints than the sanctoral calendar might suggest. To be understood as a saint in our tradition, you don’t have to have performed a miracle or died as a martyr, you just have to be a person who tried to follow Jesus the best you knew how. That persistent faithfulness serves as encouragement for others walking the same road, and it is why the church finds it meaningful to remember people in our calendar.

But, the beauty of the whole thing is that anyone can be a saint…to someone. Saints are all around us. Whether named or unnamed, known or unknown, they stretch out in all directions, holding us in our suffering, affirming us in our struggle, blessing us with words of hope, and helping us experience the love of God that knows no bounds.

Our faith teaches us that this “communion of saints” is not merely a nice thought, but a mystical reality. The Body of Christ acts like a tether – holding all the saints together across time and distance, and even death. We are never alone.

As a kid, I was friends with a Catholic girl from Louisiana who always did her Hail Mary prayers before bed, even when she was sleeping over at my house:

Hail, Mary, full of grace,
the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.

One time, when we were about 12 years old, I heard her whispering these prayers in the dark, and told her to stop. I earnestly believed, as my Protestant church had taught me, that you could only pray to Jesus. At best, praying to Mary was fruitless. At worst, it was idolatry.

Of course, I didn’t realize then that prayers like the Hail Mary are not prayed “to” the saints, but “with” them. They are prayers of intercession, not so different from the having an intercessor pray the Prayers of the People on our behalf. They are intended to invite the eternal and ever-present ancestors of our faith to advocate for us before Christ.

More than 20 years after that fateful sleepover, I found myself sitting alone in a hospital chapel in Slidell, Louisiana. I was out of tears, and out of words to pray.

I whispered, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us. Please…please.”

Only a few weeks earlier, I had accepted a two-year position at an Episcopal Church in Houston, Texas. I graduated from Yale Divinity School and went on a brief pilgrimage to Canterbury Cathedral. Then Daniel (my husband, not the Old Testament prophet!) and I – along with my mother-in-law – packed up our apartment and our two cats to make the 26-hour drive to Texas.

Daniel hadn’t been feeling well for several weeks, and on moving day, he could barely stand up. Two days into our three-day trip, we were staying the night in Slidell, Louisiana, when he woke up in the middle of the night doubled over in pain. My mother-in-law and I rushed him to the little regional hospital.

After hours of waiting, the weary nurse looked at Daniel and said, “You are very sick.”

The surgeon said he would have to have risky surgery with a long recovery time. We were terrified (much like the Old Testament prophet).

And there were other complications…Our Medicaid didn’t work in Louisiana. The hotel we were staying in was mildewed from Hurricane Ida. The cats were stir-crazy. And our past-due U-Haul was sitting in the parking lot.

Weary with many things, I started talking to Mary about three days into Daniel’s hospital stay: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us. Please, please.”

Meanwhile, friends from all over the country were praying, too. A former associate priest from my sending parish had already sent the local priest to Daniel’s bedside. People were sending cash to help us with expenses. A parishioner and his father-in-law drove ten hours roundtrip to pick up our U-Haul and take it Houston. The rector of my new church met the movers to unpack my stuff. The Diocese figured out insurance.

The saints of God, both living and dead, were praying with us and acting on those prayers. They were holding us steady in the love of God.

Daniel asked the surgeon if we could “wait and see” on surgery. And in that little regional hospital, with no one else to attend to, the surgeon shrugged, and said “sure.”

A few days later, Daniel was healing. And after a week in Slidell, Louisiana, we were back on the road on our way to Texas.

I wasn’t expecting a miracle. I couldn’t find the words to pray for one. I had nothing left to say to God.

But, thank God, the saints were praying: My friend Joe in Maryland; Reverend Elaine in New Jersey; my dad Gary in Florida; and my new parishioner Vyonne in Houston; Mary, the mother of God, of course. And even Misty, the Catholic girl from Louisiana, who taught me about the saints when I was busy telling her she was wrong.

All the saints were holding us in that patchwork without end or beginning, bound in the love of God.

I can’t imagine what life would be like without all those saints. In fact, I can only imagine hope at all, because I have seen it with my own eyes, living and breathing in all the saints, made real by each person who simply tries to follow Jesus the best they know how.

On All Saints, we remember that, in Christ, the veil is always thin between the living and the dead. Across time and distance – and even death – the saints are always praying, moving, acting, and loving hope into the world.

The air is thick with the saints. I pray that you will have the courage to count yourself among them.

Word of Truth | Sermon

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Through the written word,
and the spoken word,
May we know your living Word,
Jesus Christ our Savior.
Amen.

The prayer I just prayed was written specifically to introduce the sermon. It comes to us from the Church of England. I found it once through a Google search, but when I tried to find it again, it seemed to have disappeared. When I arrived at Good Shepherd, I was surprised to discover that Rev. Paige uses the same prayer. She can’t remember where she found it either.

In any case, I was attracted to this prayer because of the way it makes a theological connection through the concept of “word.” “Through the written word” refers to the Scriptures; “and the spoken word” refers to the sermon; “may we know your living Word” refers to the “word made flesh,” which is to say, Jesus.

That phrase, “word made flesh,” comes to us from the Gospel of John. You might be familiar with the ancient Christian hymn that introduces the Gospel of John. Here’s a translation of it by scholar Francis Moloney:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was turned toward God; and what God was, the Word also was. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him nothing was made. What took place in him was life, and the life was the light of humankind…and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, the fullness of a gift that is Truth.”

John provides some of the densest theology about the nature of Christ in the entire Bible, and this passage is no exception. John uses the word, “Word,” to characterize Christ through the ages. You might call it word-play.

I want to explore this a bit because it’s related to today’s readings…

So, what’s the deal with all this Word talk? The idea is that, in the beginning of time, God created the whole world with words: God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.

It wasn’t physical force or the wave of a magic wand, it was Word that created and originated all that is, and it was Word that named creation as good to God.

John argues that this Divine Word was not like human speech. Moloney says that the tense used in Greek suggests that this Word exists “outside the limits of time and place.” It is not bound in any way by the limits of human communication, and it doesn’t manipulate or lie.

This Divine Word is completely liberated. It can never be miscommunicated or misunderstood. This Word is eternal, and will always be the absolute Truth.

And this is where the wordplay comes in. The Greek word for “Word” is “logos.” The ancient philosophers used logos to refer to the kind of words that conveyed a fundamental truth.

When John says that “the Word is the fullness of the gift that is Truth,” he is overtly drawing the connection to the deeper meaning of logos. And then, he is telling us that this Word – this fundamental Truth – is not only found in Jesus, but is Jesus.

“In the beginning was the truth, and the truth was turned toward God, and what God was, the Truth also was.”

Jesus is the Word God breathed over the water at the beginning of time. He became the “word made flesh.” Truth was crucified on the cross, Truth was resurrected, and now Truth lives in and among us, through the Spirit.

In Christ, we are children of the Word that is True. This means that the world’s transformation is dependent on our tireless proclamation of the truth…

Today, in our reading from Second Timothy, we encounter a teaching that is best understood within the theological concept of Jesus as the Word that is Truth.

The scripture cautions:

“Remind them of this, and warn them before God that they are to avoid wrangling over words, which does no good but only ruins those who are listening.

Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved by him, a worker who has no need to be ashamed, rightly explaining the word of truth.”

In this passage, there are two instances of the Greek word, “logos”: there’s “wrangling over words” and “word of truth.” These are being set up as opposing kinds of communication: one of them is good and the other one is, as scholar Benjamin Fiore puts it, “good for nothing.”

In Timothy’s day, the church was trying to establish itself. And part of that was understanding what they believed: about God and about how they were supposed to act.

Arguments were widespread. And theological disagreements could become very ugly, even to the point of physical violence.

It is clear in this passage, and in other New Testament letters, that arguments over theology and practice were threatening to rip the early church apart.

They were arguing over: the exact amount of divinity and humanity that Jesus had, whether or not they could eat meat, whether you had to convert to Judaism first before becoming a Christian, about ritual cleanliness and sacrifice, if women could be church leaders, if they should keep their belongings or sell them all, if they should welcome people from other religions, whether they should get married, when Jesus was coming back…and the arguments went on and on.

People used a lot of words, but these words were not the liberated Word of Truth made manifest in Jesus. They were, too often, manipulative, confusing, and distanced from their original purpose. But the worst part about them was that they made it hard for anyone to find common ground, or act on the good news.

Whether they were “accurate” or not was almost beside the point. Because their communication had ceased to be a tool that pointed them to the Truth.

Just like those first Christians, we live in a time of “good for nothing” words. We turn on the news and the pundits are lying. We read social media comments and people are fighting. We are compelled to say the exact right thing or risk being “cancelled.” And all around us, relationships are ending over political disagreements. Because we are sharing and digesting words that don’t point back to the only thing that matters, which is the Truth.

Our scriptures compel us, in the name of Christ, to tell the endless chatter around us to “shut up already.” We’re wasting our time! We can’t keep turning the world’s empty and distracting words into false idols.

The Word that created the world and then saved the world is calling us to be co-creators of his good creation: to renounce evil, to trust God, to love, to serve, and to respect the dignity of every human being.

That’s the Truth, and that’s the only Word that matters.

You and I, and your family member and your neighbor, might have a difference of opinion. We might be very different people, shaped by different experiences. We might see the world through a drastically different lens, or argue for different kinds of solutions.

And that’s ok. As long as we understand that those little words of disagreement don’t have to be worked out before we live into the unifying Word that is Jesus himself.

When it comes to the world’s arguments, we don’t have to choose the lesser evil. We only have choose Jesus. Because we can be united under the banner of Jesus, no matter what other people say. We can live out his call to never give up on love, and to never give up on one another. Because we know the Truth, and we have already been saved by it.

“The word of God is not chained.” It is always creating, always transforming, always telling the truth. As proclaimers of the living Word, that is what we are called to do. Amen.

References:

  • Moloney, Francis J., Sacra Pagina: The Gospel of John.
  • Fiore, Benjamin, Sacra Pagina: The Pastoral Epistles.

“Convicted”: Lazarus and the Rich Man

a man lies on the street with a clothesline in the background

Readings here

I grew up in an Evangelical denomination. My husband, Daniel, grew up Lutheran. When Daniel and I first met, it’s like we spoke a different language of faith.

One day, while eating lunch together in the Student Union, I told Daniel that “I felt convicted” to make a certain change in my life. As I kept describing what I had been thinking about, I could tell he was no longer able to listen. To my surprise, he blurted out, “what do you mean, you were…convicted?”

“You know, convicted…God ‘laid it on my heart’ to understand something differently than before. For example, to forgive my roommate, to give money to an important cause, to trust in God more.”

Daniel was struggling, not with the concept, but with the word itself. Because, if you’re not coming from a faith context that uses that word, the only place you hear the word “convicted” is in a criminal context. And no one on a police procedural is being convicted to give money to the poor. They are being convicted of… murder.

Why was I taught to apply such serious language to relatively minor circumstances of my faith? Couldn’t I have used softer, more positive language? Couldn’t I have said that I felt the Holy Spirit guiding me to do something good, rather than “convicting” me about what I wasn’t doing?

One reason I joined the Episcopal Church was because of that shift in tone. Instead of feeling like a moral failure all the time, I could rest in the assurance that God didn’t see me that way. Instead of wasting away as a “convict,” I could be guided and led, like a little sheep, to better pastures, by the Good Shepherd who had sought me out. It’s amazing what one little shift in language can do…

Still, looking back on that conversation with Daniel, in light of today’s Gospel reading, I wonder if there’s something salvageable in the idea of “being convicted.”


Not always, but sometimes…

Today, Jesus continues his teachings on wealth and the Kingdom of God by sharing another parable, a fictional story meant to convey a moral reality. Like I mentioned last week, parables are often “multivalent.” This means they can have multiple interpretations, values, and meanings. While there might be a central theme, your life experience, and the way you place yourself in the story, impact what you get out of it.

That’s what I love about Jesus’ parables. They never get old. Every time we encounter them, there’s an opportunity to think differently.

In this parable, we learn that a poor man, Lazarus, has spent years outside the well-appointed gates of a rich man’s house. Covered in sores and on the edge of starvation, he sits among the dogs, He survives on the rich man’s trash. Meanwhile, the rich man wines and dines, thinking nothing of Lazarus or his circumstances.

Eventually, both of the men die. While Lazarus goes to paradise, the rich man goes to “Hades.” While Hades doesn’t perfectly map onto our modern sense of Hell, there is no question that Jesus is making a clear judgment call. The poor man Lazarus, who suffered all his life, now receives comfort among the angels and the patriarchs of the faith. The rich man, who had access to every creature comfort, now suffers in the afterlife.

Over the years, he distanced himself from the “riff-raff” on the streets; and in doing so, distanced himself from the central tenets of his faith. Now, there is no one who can come to his aid. There’s no other way to put it: the rich man was “convicted” of his past wrongdoings – in the literal sense.

Of course, we remember that a parable is a fictional story that speaks to a moral reality. And this story is a warning for the crowd – very much still living – that surrounds Jesus as he tells it. Jesus’ audience is “convicted,” in the spiritual sense now, toward right action, faithfulness to God, and love for their neighbors. They are reminded that the God of Abraham and Moses commanded these things, not to punish, but to protect, in order to lead them to a rewarding life in the here and now, that continues for eternity.

The moral of the story isn’t just about personal, financial giving – though that’s certainly a part of it – but about seeing our fellow humans through the eyes of God, and then acting on that vision. The rich man failed to see Lazarus as a person – he was just another dog on the street. And both of them suffered from that affront to human dignity. The life God calls his people to is one where physical, spiritual, and relational suffering is acknowledged so that it can be alleviated.


But I am also struck by another lesson:

And that is: “You already know how to live righteously.”

The rich man begs Abraham to send word to his brothers about their coming fate…

‘He said, Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house– for I have five brothers– that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.’ Abraham replied, They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.’ He said, No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.’ He said to him, If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.'”

The rich man argues that only a supernatural intervention could convince his brothers to live in the promise of God. But Abraham sees this for the misguided notion that it is. He says that the ancestors in the faith have already conveyed the truth. With the authority of God himself, they proclaimed God’s love and justice. They proclaimed, like the Psalmist, that God is the one who saves. They proclaimed, like Jeremiah, that those who suffer are held in high regard by their Creator, and restored to lands of abundance.

And beyond proclamation, the history of God’s people revealed the truth of God, over and over again. In slavery, exile, and persecution, God remained with his people, asking only that they remain with God, and see the face of God in all people.

If the rich man’s brothers can’t understand the proclamation of patriarchs, poets, and prophets – and the history of their own people – then a divine intervention won’t change their minds now.


In our own struggle to live faithful lives, how often do we find ourselves hoping for a divine intervention?

When I’m trying to make a decision or solve a complicated problem, I know I have asked for signs and miracles. I have complained to God that the path forward is unclear. I have insisted, with great drama, that I can’t move forward without the confirmation of a booming voice from Heaven.

But Jesus now proclaims:

“You already know how to live righteously…”

“He has told you, O mortal, what is good,
 and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice and to love kindness
 and to walk humbly with your God?” (Micah 6:8)

‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.” (Matthew 22:36-40)

If we are convicted, let us be convicted of this:

We don’t have to wait for God to tell us how to be, or how to live. Because God has been here all along, waiting for us. In scripture, history, and experience, we have all the proof we need of God’s faithfulness. We have all the knowledge we need to make faithful choices that lead to abundant life, in the here and now, and for eternity.

We don’t need to fear Hades. We don’t need to wait for God to tell us what to do. In every generation, our call is the same:

Run into the arms of the God of mercy, who is not far away. And remain in his grace, showing that same mercy to others.

Amen.

Heaven Smart: The Dishonest Manager

Readings here

Here at this parish, my fellow priests and I have the great fortune of doing a weekly Bible Study together. Every Wednesday after staff meeting, the five or six of us take turns reading the Sunday scriptures and chatting with each other about what they are saying, and what they might mean for this congregation in our time. As we read this week’s Gospel passage about the quote-unquote “dishonest manager” who is, nevertheless, said to “act shrewdly,” we were puzzled.

In this parable of Jesus, only found in Luke, the rich owner of a big farm operation threatens to fire his business manager for incompetence. So, the business manager goes to everyone who owes the company money and cuts them a deal. After all the deals are made, the manager reports back to the owner, and the owner is quite pleased with him.

The manager may not have made back all of the money that was owed, but at least he had done something, and it likely benefited everyone involved: the debtors got a discount, the manager got in their good graces, and the owner got some of what was due.

The story itself makes sense, I think. But what’s confusing is this word “dishonest.” The manager is called a “dishonest manager.” And when Jesus inserts his own commentary, he says:

“And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes.”

Uh…what? Where exactly does dishonesty come into play, and what does this have to do with Jesus?

Are we supposed to be “con artists…for Christ?”


As you can imagine, this set the clergy Bible Study on edge. We were abuzz with anxious energy…

“Maybe we’re not getting something about the ancient world?” one priest suggested.

“Maybe I’ll just stick to the Jeremiah reading this week,” another priest said.

“…Good luck with that, it’s pretty bleak,” I muttered under my breath.

Meanwhile, in my notebook I was making notes about junk fees and commissions and kickbacks, desperately trying to find a hook that could make meaning of this story, and Jesus’ seeming suggestion that we should do sketchy business dealings for the sake of the Gospel.


It turns out that even the most learnéd scholars are unsure of the complete meaning of this parable. One scholar, Rudolf Bultmann, even suggested that true meaning is, quote, “irrecoverable.” Unable to be recovered.

Fortunately, others, like Andrew McGowan, don’t think the situation is that dire. His commentary reminds the reader that, while every parable, or moral story, of Jesus contains metaphors meant to relate to some aspect of the Kingdom of God, not every parable is an allegory.

This means that, while the story references an aspect of Jesus’ ethical framework, it doesn’t mean that every single part of it maps perfectly onto reality. To understand the underlying ethic of this story, we can’t just pull out a couple verses from it, and call those things the plain truth.

We have to look at the story as a whole: who the people are, what they are doing, their underlying motives, and the impact of their actions. We have to enter their world.


So, let’s try…

The first thing to note is that the Greek word for “dishonest” translates to something closer to “unrighteous” or “unjust,” and the phrase, “dishonest manager” is more like “manager of injustice.”

Basically, the manager isn’t uniquely “dishonest” – he is as unjust as anyone else forced to do business in an inherently unjust context: where luck and ambition determine who gets to live well. That means that the gist of this story isn’t that the business manager is “dishonest,” it’s that he is living within a society run by money. And that means he has to make difficult and imperfect choices in order to get by.

As a middle manager, his job was to collect the rent from land that was cultivated by tenant farmers. This was not a profitable business for the renting farmers, but merely a way to survive. Hopefully, after rent was paid, they would have enough left over to take care of their families.

In order for the manager to make money, he would need to take the rent that was owed to the owner, his boss, and add an additional fee, which he would then keep as his own income.

Apparently, the manager had not been doing this successfully. The story implies that he had failed to collect the rent at all. Under pressure from the owner, he finally does go out and collect the rent, but he offers such a large discount, that it doesn’t seem like he’ll have any take-home pay.

He undercuts himself to the benefit of both the tenant farmers and the owner, in hopes that this will foster positive future relationships when the money runs out.

On paper, the manager is kind of bad at his job. And yet, the owner praises him for finding an imperfect solution in an unjust system.


When we take a look at the story as a whole, we see a bigger truth that resonates with our world today…

We are still caught up in a social and economic system that forces us into lifestyles of injustice. We are all victims of institutions and businesses that exploit our work while diminishing our humanity.

And we are all exploiters ourselves. We do what it takes to feed our families and have a roof over our heads, at a cost to someone else, whether it’s a factory worker in Bangladesh or a minimum wage worker in Austin.

Because we are caught up in the middle of things, we may not be able to fix the whole system, but that’s not the point…of this parable, at least.

The point is that we can make choices about how our money moves, even when we don’t have much power. We can make choices about how we see ourselves in the middle of everything – choosing to use our limited agency to solve a problem, even if imperfectly.

We can repent for the ways we have let money make decisions for us, instead of leading with our values. And we can determine to choose lasting relationships over monetary gains.

We can let money be a tool for a good life instead of a solution in itself.


And this leads us back to our Collect…

Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly; and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to hold fast to those that shall endure.

Heaven – shorthand for the Kingdom of God – is a very different kind of business venture. The point isn’t what you can show for yourself. It is how you show up: on the path of Christ, in the community of the faithful, and in the world Christ longs to draw to himself.

The Kingdom of God is about who you are and who you are with, a ragtag group of rich and poor, owner, manager, and tenant, all members of the household of God. As Christians, we cultivate friendships and communities that are heaven smart, not business smart. We find pathways and build bridges, not by force, but through humble, risky, self-sacrificial connection.

We live in an imperfect, unjust system of “dishonest wealth” that we cannot ultimately count on. The only thing we can count on is God, and one another. So, we open our hands and let go of what binds us. We grab our neighbors’ hands, and we pass the peace and pray. We commune together, and we take care of one another.

And we are drawn more deeply into the broken and healed Body of Christ, who binds up the broken things in us – the injustice, the indignity, past wrongs – so that we can find a home with one another.

Amen.

References:

Rules are What Make Things Fun?

Readings here

There was a time, back in the day, when living in Florida came with one very special advantage. At any theme park in the state, from Disney World to Adventure Island, you could get deeply discounted annual passes. When I was a pre-teen, my parents invested in four of these passes, getting unlimited entry for the whole family, to Busch Gardens in Tampa.

One Saturday morning, at the break of day, I woke up to my mom by my bedside, practically bursting at the seams with excitement. She and my dad had decided to surprise my sister and me, by planning a fun day at Busch Gardens.

I’m sure she expected me to cheer: to jump out of bed, give her a hug, and hurry off to get ready. But, as soon as the good news came out of her mouth, I was angry. “Absolutely not!” I responded. I simply couldn’t do it. I had already planned my day. I had written things down in a neat row in my planner. I had thought through my leisure activities: when I would read, scrapbook, and play with my cat. Guidelines for the day had been set, and now they had to be accomplished.

In the words of comedian Amy Poehler: “Rules are what make things fun.” And I lived by that statement.

I regret to tell you that we didn’t go to Busch Gardens that day. In fact, my parents never tried to surprise me again. On that Saturday 25 years ago, meeting expectations was more important to me than a happy surprise. Even good news was bad news, if it meant I had to think outside the box.

On a different Saturday, 2,000 years ago, we encounter another occurrence of expectations conflicting with a happy surprise: A woman is healed. And as soon as it happens, someone is angry about it. Of course, the events of today’s Gospel reading are far more serious than a day at the theme park. But what exactly is happening here? And what does it tell us about human nature, and about Jesus?

First, let’s talk about the setting of the story… Luke tells us: “Jesus was teaching in one of the synagogues on the sabbath.”

Sabbath is the Jewish day of rest. It starts at sundown on Friday evening and ends at sundown on Saturday. The word sabbath comes from the Hebrew word, shabbat, which literally means “rest” or “ceasing.” Sabbath is mandated in the Ten Commandments. And, according to the Bible, has been a central part of Jewish life, since the beginning of the world.

Work is not done on shabbat, especially work associated with using your hands. Things like shopping, cooking, cleaning, mending, and plowing are forbidden. And attention is turned to God: in a shared meal, worship, study, and thanksgiving.

Sabbath finds its earliest example in the rest of God after the creation of the world. And it is reemphasized in the context of the Israelites’ flight from Egypt. In Deuteronomy 5, God says: “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the sabbath day.”

So, sabbath is a day for Jewish people to become free from their hectic lives, and from the obligations that distract them, So that they may be brought nearer to the God who created them and freed them from slavery.

The “sabbath” talked about in the Bible is shabbat – it is not the same thing as Sunday worship in a Christian context. Since the first generation of Christians were converts from Judaism, they participated in both Saturday and Sunday religious gatherings, Sabbath on Saturday and “The Lord’s Day” on Sunday. The Lord’s Day was a complement to sabbath study, specifically centered on the resurrection of Jesus. Over time, as more people from other religions converted to Christianity, the Lord’s Day became an official day of rest for Christians, and gradually Christians stopped observing the Jewish sabbath.

But, in our Gospel story today, the important thing to know is that sabbath was a religiously and legally required practice for Jews; It was mandated by God himself. And, mostly, it was a blessing to the community that there were rules and regulations for the sabbath, because it ensured that people could justify walking away from their tasks and focus their attention on God, finding restoration along the way. This is the context in which Jesus gathers with the community and begins to teach.

Luke tells us that, right as Jesus begins speaking, he notices a woman who is suffering from a serious physical condition. Moved with an innate sense of compassion, he immediately shouts to her: “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.” Then he touches her, and she stands upright and begins praising God. This miracle, like all of Jesus’ miracles, is astounding. It defies medical expectation and crosses social barriers. Like so many of his healing miracles, it shocks the crowd. And the healed woman immediately recognizes that she is in the presence of God.

But the center of this story is not about a miracle…

We are not encouraged to linger on this happy surprise of hope and healing. Instead, a religious leader immediately interjects, and proclaims that Jesus has made so grave an error that it is an affront to God. The man suggests that when Jesus raised his hands to touch the woman, he was using those hands for labor. Jesus’ action, miracle or not, was just the kind of work that was forbidden on the sabbath day. Jesus has broken the rules. He has rejected the guidelines. He has acted against expectation!

But Jesus reminds the gathered crowd that sabbath finds its meaning, not in meeting expectations, but in the freedom of God. And no one can doubt that this woman is free, for the first time in 18 years. Jesus declares that his action wasn’t work – it was worship. He didn’t just follow the rules, he followed them perfectly, by fulfilling the ideal of sabbath. Jesus acted against expectation, and the result was more than a happy surprise: it was a miracle.

As Christians living in the twenty-first century, there are parts of today’s Gospel reading that we can’t fully inhabit. Our tradition doesn’t practice shabbat in the Jewish sense. And I’d bet many of us are not taking a sabbath day of any kind.

But, we can still understand how this story mattered for the first Christians. It revealed, not that “rules are meant to be broken,” but that rules aren’t ends in themselves: they are always intended to help us live up to our ideals.

And we can still see how that matters to us. Jesus shows us that worship is intended to re-form the gathered community around a vision of wholeness, freedom, and rest. He shows us that his mission, and thus the church’s mission, is about using our liturgies, creeds, and traditions for the sake of a wider and fuller embrace, not for policing one another’s holiness.

To follow Jesus is to get comfortable with the fact that he loves to defy expectations. He will wake us up and proclaim good news, even if it’s not the good news we wanted. And, at times, this will make things messy, disruptive, and challenging. Our choice is to embrace it as a happy surprise, or refuse it. We can always refuse it. We can always choose the comfort of narrowly defined rules and expectations over the freedom of the ideals they lead us to. But would that really be worth it, in the end?

If I could visit my preteen self, I would tell her this: Don’t let your expectations get in the way of rejoicing when there’s something to rejoice about. Lord knows life is hard enough – embrace the miracles in your midst. Amen.

Jesus Has Stepped Out of Line

Readings here

Restore us, O Lord God of hosts; show the light of your countenance, and we shall be saved. Amen.

On Friday, Daniel and I went to see the re-release of the Shin Godzilla movie. The film begins with a mysterious disruption in the water. A boat sinks and a circle of red fluid marks its downward path. Steam rises from the bay and cracks appear in the bridges and tunnels that cross it.

The setting shifts to the inside of a government building, where the audience is introduced to dozens of government officials. They are assistants, chiefs of staff, military personnel – even the prime minister – and one hundred nameless others. The whole group of officials, all wearing matching black suits, moves together into bigger and bigger boardrooms with more and more people. They seem to think that the sheer number of people present at the meeting will solve the emerging national disaster. In the biggest boardroom of them all, each official sits in their assigned seat and takes a turn reading their theories off of little notecards. “It’s an earthquake!” “It’s a submarine.” “It’s a creature!” someone finally suggests. No, that’s preposterous, the room responds! The meeting continues, with great order and great civility, as befits a democratic nation.

Meanwhile, out in the streets of Tokyo, a monster called Godzilla has emerged from the water and is making its way onto land. As it moves through the streets, it leaves a trail of utter devastation in its wake, then finally returns to the sea.

After it retreats, the government officials must decide how they will prepare the country for Godzilla’s inevitable return. But they are faced with a steady stream of bureaucratic concerns: How will they be perceived on the international stage? How will they stay in the good graces of military superpowers like the U.S.? How will they keep the economy afloat? What bills have to pass before they can invest in recovery efforts? Meanwhile, as they sit in conference rooms and wring their hands, worrying about the optics of any given choice, Godzilla is out there, recharging, and preparing himself for another attack.

In the face of a Godzilla-sized problem, the people in charge respond with matching suits, conference rooms, and little notecards. They respond with calls to “keep the peace” and present a united front. But false unity will not save the day. Instead, it is the ones who are willing to agitate that bring about true peace. Evil is only defeated when one person steps out of line and says, “Enough.” And eventually, others follow.

Today, in the Gospel of Luke, Jesus reveals himself as the agitator in the story of good and evil. He says: “I came to bring fire to the earth!… Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!”

Jesus is like fire that burns away the underbrush and fertilizes the soil, so new things can finally grow. He rejects false unity in favor of true and lasting peace. When Jesus shakes things up, there is discord – not because he’s being mean or trying to start a fight, but because people, by their nature, don’t like to be disturbed. As a group, we don’t like to do things differently. We don’t like to have to change our habits, opinions, or beliefs. But Jesus says that healing requires an intervention. So, he offers something beyond civility, something different than traditional family structures and political regimes. He proclaims freedom, love, and belonging for all people.

And this disturbs the way things are. But it is only by disturbing the shadows that light comes into the world.

In this time of urgent, monstrous problems, we often end up looking like all those officials in suits in the Godzilla movie. We strive to keep the peace, follow the chain of command, and maintain a sense of civility. But if we’re not willing to confront the urgent, monstrous things, we will be stuck inside debating our little problems while evil gains power in the world around us.

Jesus’ call to “love God and love our neighbor” is not a call to civility. It is not a call to sit calmly and behave, to “wait and see.” It is a call to step out of line and be bold; and to say: I know who I am and whose I am, and I know what Jesus requires of me: to go where his fire burns.

We are living in a world of urgent, monstrous problems. One of them, in particular, has had an impact on our church, in Austin and across the country. Our immigrant neighbors, families, and friends are being terrorized. Regardless of their legal status, they are being imprisoned without translators and housed without beds and adequate food. Just a few weeks ago, the daughter of an Episcopal priest in New York was arrested by ICE agents after going to a routine hearing, as part of her student visa process.

Over a dozen Episcopal parishioners in various parts of the country have been imprisoned, and some are still in ICE custody. In early July, Presiding Bishop Sean Rowe called the church to account: “When religious institutions like ours enjoy easy coexistence with earthly power, our traditions and inherited systems can become useless for interpreting what is happening around us… Churches like ours… may be some of the last institutions capable of resisting this administration’s overreach and recklessness. To do so faithfully, we must see beyond the limitations of our tradition and respond not in partisan terms, but as Christians who seek to practice our faith fully in a free and fair democracy.”

For too long, I have been afraid to talk about the monster of the immigration crisis from the pulpit. I have been trying to be civil, so I chose false unity over true and lasting peace.

But Jesus came to bring fire, and through the Holy Spirit, that fire is all of ours to own. So, I will own it. We must be willing to tell the truth “in the present time” or else, all is lost. We must be willing to step out of line, to be agitators for good, right, and holy causes: causes of love and compassion for our neighbors.

Immigrants are neighbors we know personally, and neighbors that are themselves part of the Body of Christ. Immigrants are us. If we can’t strive for their safety, we will have to admit that we’re the false prophets, hypocrites, and fools that Jesus reprimands.

The Gospel, which means “Good News,” must be good news for everyone. And the good news is that freedom, justice, mercy, and love are the guiding ethics of the Kingdom of God. It is not enough to say that, and then do nothing about it. We must be willing to be agitators for the most vulnerable among us, even if it causes division, and puts us at odds with people we love. Because, when something monstrous is outside, you can’t solve it with civility. Evil is only defeated when one person steps out of line and says, “Enough.”

Jesus has stepped out of line. The choice is ours: will we follow him or not? Amen.

Freedom, Flesh, Fear

Readings here

One of the most frustrating things about being a human, at least for me, is that you don’t just get to a point where you have everything figured out. You can check off a lot of your goals, but at the end of the day, you’re still just a little creature flailing around. Deep down, you’re still just that little kid asking big questions about the world and how you fit into it.

My husband, Daniel, and I have been talking about this recently. More specifically, we’ve been reflecting on the core values that guide the decisions we make. I like to think that, deep down, I am driven by virtues of kindness, peace, love, and joy. And those are real values I hold.

But Daniel very astutely pointed out that I am also driven by a less positive value: I am deeply afraid of getting in trouble. I am a card-carrying, life-long rule follower. Not because the rules always make sense. Not because I always agree with them. And certainly not because I think rules are somehow innately virtuous and always there to protect us.

(In fact, I do have a radical streak in me. In my 20s, I tried to bring about significant reforms at the retail stores and factories I worked at. It didn’t work.) But I have to admit that fear is always at play, making me doubt myself and making it harder to live into those virtuous core values. After months of reckoning with this fear, I encountered today’s epistle reading, and something shook loose.

Today, Paul sets two “F-words” in opposition to one another: Freedom and Flesh. Christians have often misunderstood the way Paul uses the word “flesh.” He doesn’t mean it simply as the physical body. Rather, “flesh” is a way of thinking about our natural inclinations in a broken world. The “works of the flesh,” which we might call “sin,” are attitudes and actions driven by ego and self-protection. They are things that keep people divided, that cause schisms and disappointments beyond repair. They are habits that keep people chained in cycles of addiction and isolation. They are distractions that keep us from loving our neighbor as ourselves.

These “works of the flesh” are ultimately “works of fear.” Because they are motivated, deep down, by fear: fear that we are not lovable, that we don’t have enough, that we will be misunderstood, that there’s an unseen enemy lurking around every corner.

But the F-word that Jesus invites us to is neither Flesh nor Fear. It is Freedom.

“For freedom Christ has set us free.” I tried to figure out why the sentence was phrased that way, but that’s really what it means: Christ has set us free so that we can be free. In the original context, this meant that the early Christians were free from a rigidly interpreted Jewish legal code. But that idea can be expanded. For us today, the scripture suggests that we are free from the ideologies, expectations, and fears that don’t allow us to imagine a world beyond “flesh.”

Christ’s freedom is not the limited freedom of our patriotic songs, which ask us to prove our allegiance to one place and one people. It is not the violent freedom that we take by trampling on others, dividing people into categories of powerful and weak, ally and enemy. It is not the regulated freedom brought about by man-made laws, which by their very nature can only restrict the worst in us, not encourage the best in us. Christ’s freedom is certainly not the small, false freedom I achieve when I avoid getting into trouble.

It’s bigger than all of that. “For freedom Christ has set us free.” The freedom of Christ is different from anything we have ever encountered in this world of flesh, because it exists beyond fear. It rejects “brokenness” as the natural order of things and reveals “love of neighbor” as the natural order of the Kingdom of God.

As Paul told us in last week’s reading, there is no dichotomy that Jesus hasn’t already destroyed: “…there is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”

The freedom of resurrection life is so big that it cannot be defined against what it is not. True freedom doesn’t require haves and have-nots to define its own quality of freedom. True freedom is found in the flattening of hierarchies and abandonment of control. It is evident in our mutual relationship to Christ and one another, as we become a part of his Body in the world.

Theologian Kathryn Tanner puts it this way: “All our action is to be like that of the ministers at the Lord’s banquet table, distributing outward to others the gifts of the Father that have become ours in and through the Son” (Jesus, Humanity, and the Trinity). We are free to give, free to receive, and free to luxuriate in God’s goodness in us, through us, and all around us.

“For freedom Christ has set us free.” What a profound and odd statement: to be free for the sake of freedom.

But if we could just lean into it, feel it, and let go of just a little bit of our fear, do you realize that the world would be an entirely different place? We would be governed not by things that divide, isolate, and shame us, but by the neighborly love of the Kingdom of God. Shaken loose, we would bubble over with love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. These attributes would become infectious, leading us deeper into resurrection life and bringing the world with us.

When we follow Jesus, we are called to be radical in the original sense of the word—to “affect the fundamental nature of something.”

We are called, first, to believe that Christ made us for freedom, not for fear. Then we are called to turn this world of the flesh into a world overgrown with fruits of the Spirit. We do that by rejecting fear as a core value, by committing to love beyond man-made boundaries, and by letting go of control. And by practicing actions and attitudes that lead us back to communion with Christ and one another.

The day we finally understand that we are free, there will be so much fruit, the whole world will feast.

Amen.

The Light is Yours | Sermon for Pentecost

Readings here

For the citizens of Charlottesville, Virginia, the hot months of 2017 are better known as the “Summer of Hate.”

The previous year’s election had emboldened white supremacist groups to step out of their anonymous chat rooms into the public square. And they had chosen Charlottesville for their debut. On the evening of August 11, I was locked inside my church with 500 other people, among them Katie Couric and Cornell West.

As the interfaith prayer service began to wind down, the worship leader suddenly walked to the back of the church. He spoke quietly with someone, then headed back up to the front. That’s when he told us: “The Nazis are outside.”

The next few moments are hazy in my memory. But, someone must have told us we were in lockdown. It wasn’t safe to leave. Then the worship leader spoke again: “So, we’re going to sing loud enough to drown out their hate.”

We started to sing: This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…

Time seemed to stand still. As we drummed on the backs of the hardwood pews and stomped our feet to the rhythm, the candle flames danced on the altar.

Meanwhile, back in the narthex, unarmed priests, pastors, rabbis, and imams were guarding the doors. The Nazis had called in dozens of false emergencies to deploy the Charlottesville Police away from their tiki torches and hateful chanting, as they marched through the University of Virginia’s campus across the street from the church.

The only things separating us from terror that night was our clergy, the big red doors of the church, and “This Little Light of Mine.” In spite of it all, it felt like the Kingdom of God.

Last Friday, I led chapel at the day school, as I do every month.

The theme this month was Pentecost. We talked about the connection between God’s love for each one of us, and the love we share with others, as a response to that love.

Pentecost makes rich use of metaphors of wind and fire, and here in the sanctuary, candles are one of the best tools we have to talk about those things. So, I asked the kids to watch carefully as I lit the candlelighter, and then walked to each candle and lit a new flame. We counted the flames together: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6!

I asked them to notice how each time a new flame was lit, it didn’t take away the light from the first one. Every time light was shared, all it did was make even more light. At the cusp of having abstract reasoning skills, maybe the kids didn’t totally understand the metaphor.

But they understood this: We are loved by the God of the universe, and we can share that love with others. And when we share it, it doesn’t take anything away from us. All it does is make even more love.

Then we got to the good part…

We sang This Little Light of Mine, and the kids waved their hands in the air and stomped their feet. A group of girls joined hands and twirled around in a circle like contra dancers. And at the end of the song, a raucous cheer rang up to the rafters.

I am not exaggerating when I say it felt like a revival. It felt like the Holy Spirit had blown through the place and filled us with so much light, we couldn’t hold it in any longer.

We were safe and loved here in the sanctuary. And it felt like the Kingdom of God.

There’s just something about that song…

I asked the Head of School why the kids like it so much, and she thinks it’s because it offers rare permission for little ones to claim their own humanity, in a world that doesn’t give them much power. They get to move and shout, and they are encouraged to claim that something is “mine, and I have the power to share it.”

In the candlelight of that locked-down prayer vigil and the morning light of chapel, we sang This Little Light of Mine, and we became the church: the people of God, together in God’s kingdom.

Because we understood that we had been found by God, and made into light by God, we just had to let it shine.

It should be said that This Little Light of Mine isn’t a children’s song. It is an African American spiritual.

It was composed in the context of brutality and indignity worse than most of us can imagine. It was first sung in a place where hope had no business showing up, where God could have easily been mistaken as dead.

But, as God often does, and as hope often does, it did show up… and it wasn’t just a pining or passive kind of hope.

It was defiant hope – a refusal to take the oppressor at their word. To claim that something is “mine” and I have the power to share it is to reclaim your own humanity, to claim your own belovedness in the eyes of God, and to claim, further, that only the God who created you has a right to make those judgments about your worth.

With a clarity that pierces the heart and stirs the soul, the song captures the truth of the Gospel, and reveals the ultimate power of Pentecost.

When the Holy Spirit rushed in like wind and fire on that first Pentecost, the faithful began to speak in the languages of the world. And when they poured into the streets, it was the same as Christ reaching out his hand to diverse humanity and saying, “you all are mine and I love you.” And when they prophesied and announced the good news, it was the same as God calling every race, nation, and tongue “good.”

The Spirit of Truth announced that day: “all are welcome, no exceptions.”

In the presence of the Spirit, the Divine Advocate, every dichotomy by which the powerful retain control was made meaningless. And everyone – every class, age, gender, culture, language, and identity – was boldly affirmed as beloved by God. And everyone, hearing the good news in their own language, was welcomed into the Kingdom of God.

Those who heard the good news couldn’t help but share it. They were empowered to become advocates themselves: they cared for people in such a way that they could reclaim their God-given dignity. They cared for people without suggesting that something about them was too far gone.

There was light enough for everyone. And nothing was lost in sharing it.

If, for any reason, you have never been sure that you were deserving of light; and if, for any reason, you were told you were wrong to want it…

The church, on Pentecost, says otherwise. The good news is good news for everyone. The Spirit of God advocates for you. The Kingdom of God is here, and you’re a part of it.

On this Pentecost, Christ reaches out and hands you a candle.

This light is yours. And you have the power to share it. You’re already shining. Amen.

All That We Can Understand or Desire

Readings here

“O God, you have prepared for those who love you such good things as surpass our understanding. Pour into our hearts such love towards you, that we, loving you in all things and above all things, may obtain your promises, which exceed all that we can desire…” 

A few weeks ago, I was asked to join two other Austin-area priests in a panel discussion for the Episcopal Parish Network. The topic was “atypical church models.”  One priest leads a church that doesn’t have its own building. The other leads a colorful, LGBTQ-inclusive church that meets in a storefront. And, as you know, I’m the priest at a two-campus parish, one of only a handful in the Episcopal Church. 

The EPN group recognized that these models of ministry might represent the “growing edges” of the Episcopal Church, as it becomes less of an establishment institution and more of a missional one. 

They were especially curious about the way small congregations build an identity and ethos as the community adapts and grows. We talked about how a congregation grounded in prayer and discernment takes on a kind of personality that isn’t just one person’s preference, but a combination of tastes, ideas, and passions adding up to more than the sum of its parts.  

I like to think of the resulting context as the Holy Spirit’s personality, tailored to this time and place for the people who are here today and the people who will be here tomorrow

This congregation knows what this process feels like. Since its founding, you have done deep and ongoing discernment to build this community and you are used to pivoting. It isn’t always easy, and sometimes, it has been discouraging,  

But, I believe that we are always getting more comfortable with letting the Holy Spirit guide us beyond our own imagination. As we continue in our strategic planning on this campus, this will be the key. Because, it’s just a fact that, when we ask God to help us be attentive to where he is leading us, we will always be surprised by the path we end up on, but we will be delighted, too. 

Because God’s promises surpass our understanding, and exceed all that we can desire. 

– 

But don’t take my word for it! There are stories of surprise and delight all around us… 

Here’s one: On Wednesday morning, acclaimed public interest lawyer Bryan Stevenson preached at Seminary of the Southwest’s graduation.  

As the founder of the Equal Justice Initiative, Stevenson has dedicated his life to improving the justice system. He and his team have “won reversals, relief, or release from prison for over 140 wrongly condemned prisoners on death row…” As one presenter noted, Bryan Stevenson has, quite literally, changed the world. But he didn’t plan it that way. 

Stevenson got his undergraduate degree in Philosophy, and then realized that no one would hire someone with an undergraduate degree in Philosophy. With no real plan in mind, he went to law school. 

Early on in his program, he took a class that required him to go to Georgia and meet with a person on death row.  In his early 20s, with no expertise and no credentials, the proposition filled him with fear. But he showed up and entered the room. 

He spent the first several minutes telling the man he was sorry, because he didn’t know anything and couldn’t help. But finally, he said what he had been coached to say: “You will not be executed in the next year.” The man thanked him profusely, because that meant he could invite his family to visit him without fearing the worst news

Stevenson and the imprisoned man spent the next two hours talking to one another. They found out they shared a birthday and were the exact same age. By the time he left, they had become friends. 

Stevenson told us that the encounter left him changed in a way that would shape the rest of his life. He had entered the prison in fear and trembling – everything in him had resisted it – and he had left with a new calling. God had led him to places that surpassed his understanding, and there was joy by the time he got there. 

Because, God’s promises exceeded all that he could desire. 

– 

Today’s scripture readings are marked by similar encounters… 

In Acts, Paul has a vision that leads him to Philippi, in Macedonia. He doesn’t know why he’s supposed to go there, but he senses that God wants him to go. Once there, he meets a woman named Lydia. She is a successful businesswoman who makes her money selling expensive purple cloth. She is also a woman of sincere faith.  

At Lydia’s prompting, Paul and Silas baptize her and her household, and she becomes one of the major benefactors of the church, even hosting church services in her home. It becomes one of the most significant congregations of the early church. 

The fact that Lydia is a woman is significant. According to the norms of the day, there is no reason for Paul and Silas to take a woman seriously, even if she is wealthy. There is no precedent for letting a woman set the terms for her family’s conversion. And it was scandalous that Lydia offered herself as the host for these men who did not belong to her household. 

Paul, who had devoted his life to upholding rigid cultural norms, had followed the Spirit on a mission beyond his understanding, and now he had a woman for a ministry partner! What Paul had once scorned, he now delighted in.  

God’s promises exceeded all that he could desire. 

– 

In Revelation, John of Patmos is carried away to behold the heavenly city of God. Held in neglect in a prison cell, he is somehow encountering the bounty of Christ. Held in darkness, he is nevertheless surrounded by the ambient light of Christ. Left to die, he is brought into an understanding of eternal life. 

Though a prisoner in the eyes of the world, John is a prophet in the eyes of God. Though scorned, God delighted in him. God gave him visions that surpassed his understanding. 

God’s promises exceeded all that he could to desire. 

– 

In the Gospel of John, a man stands up for the first time in 38 years. All he wanted was for someone to let him get into the therapeutic pool called Bethzetha: “House of Grace,” He was only looking for temporary relief. 

But Christ calls him to stand. Risking embarrassment and disappointment, the man does. He immediately goes to the temple to worship God. Christ could see beyond the man’s self-understanding. 

God’s promises exceeded all that he could to desire for himself. 

– 

The life of faith doesn’t come with a map. We know this.

But, sometimes, fearing embarrassment and disappointment, we think that we’re not doing it right unless we know exactly where we’re going from the start. 

Other times, we believe the lie that following Jesus is primarily a practice of “fear and trembling.” That’s it’s supposed to be hard all the time. 

Sometimes, we fear the work itself. We don’t want to have to change our minds: about who we are, about who God is, and about who is worth listening to. 

But our Collect gets it right: If we commit to staying close to God, in prayer and discernment, fostering a habit of love, God will lead us to places we never thought we’d go.  

These places will “surpass all that we can understand…or desire.” They will be places where cultural norms need not apply, because the church is for everyone. They will be places where darkness is turned to light, and the prisoners become the prophets. They will be places where the impossible is made possible, just as we had settled for “good enough.” 

We need not fear or fret about where the road is leading…It is always leading home, to the surprising and beautiful paradise of Christ. And his home is a “house of grace.” 

Amen. 

Human, after the Resurrection

In these last weeks of the Easter season, you can feel our readings strain toward the next part of the story.  We are now past the grief of Jesus’ execution, the surprise of the empty tomb, the hesitant hope of the disciples, and Christ’s multiple visitations after the resurrection. 

Now, with new urgency, we are looping back to what Jesus said before all of that. From here on out, our Gospel readings will carry us into the urgency of the early church. They will compel us to hold onto the teachings of this revolutionary man and his disruptive, remarkable life, so, that we can get a grip on what it looks like, feels like, and takes to follow him. 

We often call Lent the “season of preparation.” But it turns out, Easter is also a season of preparation. In this season, in the brightness of the resurrection and the refreshment of baptismal waters, we are being prepared to reaffirm our own resurrected life in Christ to be made new, and to strain toward becoming everything God made us to be. 

In other words, we are being challenged to “do something” about the resurrection. Today’s Gospel reading makes clear what the resurrection calls us to: following in the footsteps of the “Son of Man,” we are to “love one another.”  

“Love one another.” It’s basically the brand identity of the church. It is the mission statement and driving ethic of who we are as followers of Christ. The whole of Christian scripture hinges on these three words

It’s simple, it’s obvious, and it’s part of Jesus’ inherited religious tradition, stretching back to divine laws given to Moses. 

Specifically, Jesus is referencing God’s commands in Leviticus 19: “Love your neighbor as yourself; love the foreigner as a native-born, do not ridicule the Disabled, don’t privilege people based on their status, respect your elders, take responsibility for the safety of those around you, do not pursue vengeance or bear a grudge.” 

With this callback to Leviticus, we are to understand that the love that Jesus calls the disciples to is not selective, or limited to the 11 people in the room that day, Because, as our passage in Acts also shows, the movement Jesus is building is an unconditional and unbounded one. 

Followers of Christ are to be known, primarily, by their self-sacrificial love. This is not so much a brand-new commandment, but it does solidify a new kind of community. 

Unfortunately, as a whole, humans have never managed to live up to the mandate. If we’re lucky, we can say that we have loving friends, neighbors, and families, but rarely can we say we live in a loving society, even in a so-called “Christian nation.” 

It seems that part of the reason this theological mandate is so hard to follow is because we don’t really understand how to practice it.  If it’s just a rule to follow, we will always have to work up the energy to do it. Because practicing love will always feel like an uphill battle in a world run by Judases and Pontius Pilates and Herods. 

We will never be able to love like Jesus until we understand that he calls us – not to define, negotiate, and judge people against love –but to become love. We are to be transformed, so that our first impulse is care, invitation, and relationship, no exceptions. 

We have to figure out how love becomes innate in us, not just a thing that we put on. To do that, we have to understand who Jesus is, not just what he says. 

Fortunately, there’s a clue in the specific way Jesus identifies himself in this passage in John: Jesus is called the “Son of Man.”  

In Aramaic, the language Jesus spoke, the phrase would translate simply to “human one.” In Greek, the language of John, it would mean something like, “one who shares in humanity.” But the concept is originally a Hebrew one: “ben-adam,” Son of Adam: descendant of the one who is blueprint of humanity. 

In the context of the Old Testament, the phrase is used most often to talk about a person who is literally just a human. The Jewish Encyclopedia says that ben-adam “denotes mankind generally in contrast to deity or godhead, with special reference to their weakness and frailty.” 

So, when Jesus calls himself the “Son of Man,” the human one, he is highlighting, not his divinity, but his humanity. Which is to say, the quality of his being human: material, physical, emotional, relational. And, the quality of his being humane: caring about the wellbeing of others. 

Jesus, the son of God, of one being with Father, is identified by the fact of his being a human. He is not denigrated for it, but glorified within it. 

Therefore, Jesus reveals himself as the standard-bearer for what it means to be a human. He is the archetype and the blueprint of the human person

And what does it mean to be human? Jesus says: “Just as I have loved you, you should love one another.” In this passage, Jesus redefines the human person as “one who loves.” 

When Jesus calls us to love one another, he is not telling us to muster up the energy and repress the resentments, to put on a virtue that we can take off again when it suits us. In drawing attention his own, incarnate, humanity, he shows us what it means to be human, in light of the resurrection. He shows us who we are to become in the Kingdom of God he has already ushered in. 

If Jesus is the blueprint of the human person – and the human person is one who loves, then we are out of touch with our own God-given humanity when we are driven by fear and ego to act in ways that are not humane. The selfishness, isolationism, authoritarianism, racism, deceit, and hatred that plague our communities are ugly distortions of the humanity Christ exemplifies. And if we are not careful, we will let our lives be ruled by these distortions. 

If we fail to define the human person in view of Jesus, we will give away a little part of what makes us truly human, in exchange for false security and broken promises. We will let ourselves forget that Jesus calls us, here – enfleshed, mortal and imperfect – to resurrection life.  He calls us to come out of our tombs to become love in a world that has forgotten its humanity.

The disciples who were gathered in the room with Jesus that fateful night in Jerusalem did eventually get the courage to be human, in light of the resurrection. They figured out how to love, how to change their minds, and how to stop worrying about what everyone thought about them

And in response, the church grew like a weed. The outcasts were welcomed, the hungry were fed, the sick were healed, and young and old, rich and poor, worshipped together around full dinner tables.  

The empire was threatened by the humanity of it all. Ten of the disciples in the room with Jesus that night died as martyrs. They died, because they had decided to become who they really were in light of the resurrection – human and called to love. 

Our faith does not call us to comfort. It calls us to love. It is worth living this way, because only in risking love can we encounter our humanity as God intended it. And only in loving can we experience the joy and freedom of really being alive. 

Will we accept the risk of humanity, and follow Jesus in his way of love? Or will we stay in our distortions, never getting out of the grave? 

The resurrection dares us to do something. And now is the time to act. Amen. 


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