Category: sermon

The Scandal of Suffering

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A Sermon on the Beheading of John the Baptist

Readings available here.

The beheading of John the Baptist.  

The mere thought of beheading is so gruesome that I want to avert my eyes as I read the story. 

Reverend Brin assured me that they did not read this passage during kids’ church this morning. Now, I’m normally not an advocate for censorship, but the moral ickiness and graphic violence of this event made me wonder, at first read, why the writer of Mark wanted it to be shared at this point in the story, and in this way. 

The story is disruptive, in more ways than one. 

For the last five-and-a-half chapters, we have been moving at a steady clip with Jesus and his disciples, as they have sought out the marginalized, healed the sick, and restored people to community. 

The narrative has become almost predictable: Jesus goes somewhere, he tries to take a nap or eat lunch, and then a great need arises to which he must respond.  So, he performs a miracle.  

Person by person, bit by bit, the culture of death in the ancient near-East is being covered by new buds of hope.  The Kingdom of God is spreading. 

Now, word of his deeds has reached the regional Jewish ruler, “King Herod.” This Herod is the son of the other Herod, who tried to kill baby Jesus. A Jew himself, Herod works for the Roman authorities, and lives the lavish lifestyle afforded to him by his compliance. Many in his religious community consider him a sell-out. 

By this point in Jesus’ ministry, John the Baptist has already been dead several months.  Mark tells us that John was arrested way back in chapter one. But something curious happens when news of Jesus’ “mighty deeds” reaches Herod:  His guilty conscience can’t help but think that John the Baptist has been raised from the dead. 

Herod’s shock seems to bend space and time, and the narrative suddenly takes a turn. We find ourselves in a flashback, watching horror unfold in the decadent courts of Herod and his family. 

— 

Herod didn’t want to kill John.  

While John had disapproved of his marriage to his brother’s sister, the story doesn’t suggest there was any danger in John voicing that opinion. After all, Herod knew, as well as John, what religious law mandated.  And the story even tells us that Herod “liked to listen to John.”  

But John’s insistence that Herod’s marriage to “Herodias” was unlawful disrupted Herodias’ game plan. She couldn’t risk having her husband change his mind. In a time when the only way for a woman to gain power was through a favorable marriage, she was determined to hold onto what she had. 

So, when Herod throws himself a big birthday party and promises the world to Herodias’ daughter – in front of powerful guests – Herodias knows exactly what to do. When her preteen daughter comes to her for advice, she instructs her in the ways of power: Exploit the fragile ego of the man who controls your future.  Make him kill the man who would put that future at risk. 

“Deeply grieved,” Herod has John killed. His head is paraded on a meat platter at Herod’s birthday party. In his power-drunk bragging, Herod backed himself into a corner. He murdered a holy man. There is blood on his hands. 

— 

This flashback, though only 14 verses long, is like a punch in the gut.  

Corruption and exploitation are oozing from the seams. Herod and Herodias’ self-involvement refuses righteousness at every turn. And they use their own daughter as fodder, training her up in the ways of power, and making her complicit in the death of an innocent man. 

The brutal violence and stomach-turning exploitation in this story are disruptive. The flashback doesn’t fit in with the hope that’s spreading, as Jesus meets and heals people across Judea and Galilee. It’s a crack in the story of the growing Kingdom of God, a near-halting of the narrative.  

So why would Mark place it here? 

Perhaps Mark includes it at this moment to remind us that, though our lives are relentlessly disrupted by cruelty and violence, these are not meant to be things we accept as part of the story of God. The story of God, in Christ, is the story of life. 

Theologian Henri Nouwen spoke of this when he wrote: 

“A life with God opens us to all that is alive. It makes us celebrate life; it enables us to see the beauty of all that is created; it makes us desire to always be where life is… If anyone should protest against death it is the religious person, the person who has indeed come to know God as the God of the living” (from A Letter of Consolation).

For those of us who have experienced even a taste of Jesus’ life-giving love, cruelty, violence, and suffering should feel disruptive. We should never accept them as inevitable or unavoidable or good. 

When they show up in our own stories – or the stories of others – they should stop us in our tracks, just like John’s beheading does in the Gospel of Mark. 

It is good for us to feel “deeply grieved” in the face of the world’s death-dealing. It shows that we have internalized the hope of the resurrection. 

It shows us that God is still working in us. God is still on the move. 

But beyond disruption, this story serves as a cautionary tale. By observing Herod and his family, we see that making decisions to protect ourselves or retain worldly power won’t save us, in the end. Because these desires are based in the fear of death, they have no power to bring about flourishing. 

Herod and Herodias “looked out for number one,” but it didn’t protect them from suffering. Herod was wracked with guilt after murdering John. And, in the end, he was deposed by family members. He and Herodias died in exile. 

Their self-involvement couldn’t ultimately save them. What it did do was help them justify other people’s suffering. 

When we focus too much on ourselves, it is easy to become complicit in other people’s suffering. It’s easy to justify violence if that’s what it takes to retain control. We make it our business to police, imprison, and do away with those who threaten our access to resources or our social position. 

We quickly forget that Jesus proclaims abundant life for all of us, not only a select few who know how to play the game. 

Herod teaches us that self-involvement, taken to its natural conclusion, causes more suffering than it quells. It is an impulse in direct contrast with Jesus’ other-centered, open-hearted, life-giving love. 

— 

The disruptive story-within-a-story of the John’s beheading reminds us that death-dealing does not belong in the redemptive, joyful story of the growing Kingdom of God. 

Our first task is to believe that. Our next task is to act like it. 

In our own lives, my prayer is that we are so steeped in the hope of the resurrection that we experience suffering, violence, and exploitation as disruptive to the story of God, of which we are a part. 

My prayer is that we have the persistence to resist the cycle of violence, the courage to risk embarrassment, punishment, and social standing by speaking out, and the open-heartedness to stop politicking long enough to love our neighbor. 

In a world marked by so much exploitation and brutality, my prayer is that we lead lives of loving disruption, always pointing to the righteous and peaceful Kingdom of God. 

Amen. 

Little Lamb, Get Up!

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Sermon for the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

Reading available here (Track 2)

God did not make death, 
And he does not delight in the death of the living.

Last week, a group of us from the congregation went to the movie theater to see “Jesus: A Deaf Missions Film.” 

This movie is a big deal, because it’s the first film about the life of Jesus ever produced in American Sign Language.  And it was made by an all-Deaf production team with all-Deaf lead actors. (Fortunately for me, there were also English subtitles.)

I never saw the Passion of the Christ. And I still haven’t watched The Chosen series. So, for me, it was out of the ordinary to see the Gospel story acted out on the big screen.  I found it immediately captivating. 

The filmmakers made an interesting choice to begin the film with the Pentecost scene… 

The disciples had left the upper room, where they’d been hiding from political authorities.  They had been compelled by the Holy Spirit to pour into the streets.  

The film depicts these disciples signing in many different languages. People in the crowd who had never learned about Jesus were now receiving the good news in their own language – sign language – for the very first time. 

As a hearing person and a native English speaker, before watching that scene last Sunday,  I had never really thought about what a privilege it is to have such easy access to the words and stories of my faith tradition. 

It has always been easy to see myself in the story. I never felt like it wasn’t for me.  Because, for me, there was no barrier to entry. 

And, I think, because of that, I’d always thought of Pentecost as the moment when the select few people who comprise the church, of which I am a part, were empowered to share the good news of Jesus Christ to “everyone else.” 

But watching the movie in ASL, I realized that Pentecost was actually the moment when “everyone else” was empowered to be the church, because the Holy Spirit had translated the good news for them. 

Put another way, the disciples were instruments of the message, but they were not instigators of it. Their proximity to the incarnate Christ didn’t make them any better than those who heard the message for the first time that day. 

Now, everyone understood that Jesus, who lived and died as a human, identified with their fragile humanity,  regardless of their identity, language, or ability. 

At the same time, they understand that Christ, who came back to life, had invited them to something bigger than their fragile humanity.  All people were entrusted with the work of building God’s kingdom. They were invited to refuse the terms of their mortal existence, and to live into the abundant, eternal life of God. 

— 

After that opening scene, the movie goes back three years, to the day Jesus met Peter. From there, it closely follows the story of Jesus all the way to his Ascension. 

But, after my glorious Pentecost epiphany, watching Jesus and his disciples slowly walk across the grasslands and hills of Galilee and Judea, felt a bit like pulling teeth. Jesus’ earthly ministry was a lot of things, but in some ways, it wasn’t very impressive. 

What I mean is, it wasn’t flashy or boisterous. The crowds were small by today’s standards. And Jesus was kind of shy about his miracles, even telling some people not to tell anyone about them. Even his crucifixion was the shameful punishment of the poor. 

But something revolutionary was happening. Not necessarily because Jesus was charismatic or charming. Or because he righted the wrongs of the world with the *snap* of a finger. But because, every action he took proclaimed life in the midst of a culture of death. 

Every miracle, every interaction, every loving glance, and every decision he made not to give up on someone – these were seeds of hope, planted in depleted hearts. 

Everything Jesus touched, and everywhere he went, it was as if a garden had started growing. Jesus was infecting the world with a culture of resurrection. 

— 

In today’s Gospel reading, we encounter a pairing of two intense miracle stories, stuck together like nesting dolls. 

Here, illness is interrupted by illness, which is then interrupted by death. But just when you think there can’t be any more interruption, the spiral of death is interrupted by resurrection. 

First, the president of the synagogue falls at Jesus’ feet, begging him to come heal his daughter, who is at the point of death.  

Jesus agrees, but is confronted by a dense crowd as he begins to walk through town. 

Then, within the crowd, a woman who has struggled with incurable bleeding reaches out to Jesus. 

The contrast between these two people couldn’t be much vaster: Jairus is a well-regarded, male religious leader who leans on his social position to ask for healing. But the woman in the crowd doesn’t have that option… 

She has been rendered “impure” by twelve years of menstrual bleeding. (This means that she has not been able to participate in religious life for twelve whole years.) And she is most certainly not allowed to touch a man outside her own household. 

But Jesus is worth the risk of further social isolation. She boldly yanks the hem of Jesus’ clothing, a last-ditch effort at healing. 

Jesus doesn’t balk. He finds and affirms the woman who has been healed through his Divine power.  

“Daughter, your faith has made you well.” 

I can imagine the crowd murmuring: Can it be? Even the lost cause can be healed. Even years of grief can lead to hope. If Christ can restore this woman to community, maybe he can restore our broken society. 

— 

By now, Jairus’ daughter is dead.  

Twelve years old – alive as long as the woman bled – and nearly at the age of “womanhood” herself, Jesus was already taking a risk by touching her. But now, he will have to touch a corpse, in clear violation of purity laws. 

But Jesus still doesn’t balk.  He approaches her bedside, takes ahold of her hand, and raises her from the dead.  

“Talitha cum”: Which literally means, Little lamb, get up. 

I can imagine the crowd murmuring in amazement: Can it be? Even the dead can be restored to life. Even the deepest grief can lead to hope. If Christ can resurrect this child, maybe he can resurrect the dying world. 

In these nesting doll stories, Jesus reveals that his Kingdom is one where life prevails over a culture of death. 

Jesus does not delight in our grief, illness, hardship, or loss. Neither does he delight in the way we judge and ostracize one another. 

The “bleeding woman” and the “dead girl” are no longer defined by what others them and makes them “impure.” Thanks to Jesus, now there is no barrier to entry. Now, they are free to live, abundantly. 

— 

As we follow the story of Jesus’ earthly ministry, we journey with him on a path that leads to the cross.  It is tempting, living as we are in a world filled with death, to believe that the cross is the end of the story. 

But each part of the story of Jesus, from birth ‘til Pentecost, reveals a God who does not delight in death. A God who, in fact, refuses death altogether. Each relationship, parable, and miracle bend toward resurrection, not just for him, but for all of us. 

Our job as his disciples is not to decide who gets access to abundant life, because Christ has already made that clear: Everyone. Our job is to bend toward resurrection, by breaking down barriers that separate us from God and one another. 

We live into the broad and wide and growing Kingdom of God, when we refuse judgments that stigmatize, policies that polarize, and words that dehumanize.  

Our commission is to open the doors wide and join the crowd, where we might just witness a miracle: restored community, renewed hope, green things growing where death had entered in. 

Talitha cum. Little lamb(s), get up.

Jesus is calling us toward resurrection. 

Amen. 

The Work of Jesus is Undeniably Good

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Readings available here

Several years ago, Daniel and I were looking for treasures at an antique store when I noticed the distinctive red border of an old Time Magazine across the room.  

The issue was dated to sometime in the 1940s. I can’t remember who was on the cover, but I do remember the cover story. It was about the remarkable success of a relatively new procedure called the lobotomy. 

When I turned to the story, the accompanying image was of two very normal looking white women, dressed in house dresses, perfectly coifed and standing in the living room of a mid-century house. You would never suspect that these women had been deemed “insane” in the language of the time. 

What had driven such a diagnosis?  One was a chronic shoplifter and the other had been too depressed to finish her housework. 

In response to these apparently shocking behaviors, the authorities had deemed it appropriate to drill holes in their skulls, insert a sharp, pointed instrument, and sever the connection between the frontal lobe and the thalamus, which connects to the rest of the brain.  

To bystanders, lobotomized individuals became calmer and more compliant. They were easier to “deal with.” 

But eventually, critics of the procedure pointed out that these individuals had become shells of their former selves. They were apathetic, disengaged, and unable to socialize, leaving them permanently ostracized from society. And they had lost access to the skills and passions that had made their life worth living. 

How could lobotomies ever have been deemed ok? 

Easy. The general public was so obsessed with conformity that they attributed noncompliance to a moral or psychological disease. 

If you refused to color inside the lines, that was obviously your “personal demons” controlling you. That radical impulse needed to be literally cut out before you could reenter polite society.  

Throughout the 1930s, 40s, and 50s, thousands of patients received lobotomies. Overwhelmingly these patients were women.  Others included gay men, African Americans, the elderly, and others deemed mentally ill. 

Their issues may have been attributed to personal demons. But in hindsight, it seems clear that these demons were created, not conjured. 

Whatever issues these people may have had, they represented, not a moral failing on the part of the patient, but a moral failing on the part of a society who rejected them and failed to honor their dignity. 

All this leads us to our Gospel reading… 

Today we continue in Mark’s story of Jesus’ early ministry. Just as in last week’s reading, Jesus is meandering around the country, encountering increasing numbers of people in need of a cure from physical illness and demonic possession. 

In the section just before this one, which our lectionary skipped, we learn that Jesus is getting a bit overwhelmed by the sheer volume of that need. 

After a brief excursion up a mountain, where he names his 12 disciples, they return home for a little rest and relaxation. 

But Jesus can’t catch a break. This is where our reading begins today: 

“…the crowd came together again, so that Jesus and his disciples could not even eat.” 

Hungry, tired, sore from the journey, and desperate for a moment to hear himself think, he jumps up from the table and walks outside to confront the crowd. 

The author of Mark doesn’t tell us what Jesus does once he gets outside, but we get the sense that he’s acting a bit erratic. Because people have begun muttering among themselves, “He has gone out of his mind.” 

And even his family thinks so. They rush out the door and try to restrain him. 

It’s the perfect opportunity for an intervention. Lucky for him, a group of self-identified experts are waiting in the wings. These religious professionals, known as scribes, offer a diagnosis: 

That guy is the possessed by “Beelzebul,” Satan’s head honcho! He’s using forbidden magic to cast out demons! 

Like Time Magazine’s shoplifter and sad housewife, in this moment, Jesus is deemed insane.  But in the language of his time, they call it “demon possessed.” 

You see, in the Biblical world, just as today, demonic possession wasn’t so simple to diagnose. It tended to be a catch-all for a set of behaviors. 

Symptoms of mental illness, repeated moral transgressions, physical disabilities, and even nutritional deficiencies might lead one to be called “demon possessed.” Historically, people called “demon possessed” were more likely to be women, and more likely to be poor. 

The impacts of such a diagnosis could be significant. You were often forced to leave your family and community, to live in isolation without community care. 

So, when Jesus invites those called “demon possessed” to come to him for healing, he is not only demonstrating his divine power, he is boldly and publicly correcting a social evil.  He is calling out anyone who thinks some people don’t deserve to live with dignity.

No wonder the scribes are mad. 

In their eyes, Jesus has been crossing the line for weeks now, inviting the so-called “demon possessed” to the very center of the crowd, claiming that they deserve to be known, loved, and cared for. Now, they question Jesus’ legitimacy by suggesting he is just as crazy as the people he’s healing. 

Eventually, Jesus will pay the ultimate price for welcoming the outcasts. But not yet.  

Right now, Jesus has something to say.  He argues that he can’t possibly be possessed by Satanic forces, because Satan would never cast out Satan’s own minions.  

Evil forces would never use their power for good. And the work of Jesus is undeniably good.  

In inviting the oppressed, marginalized, and tormented to rejoin the community, Jesus reveals the generous and expansive Kingdom of God he is building.  This is the very same Kingdom of God we are called to build.

And now is a good time to continue the work…

We are in the midst of Pride Month, and in some circles, accusations of Pride as “demonic” are reaching a fever pitch.  Meanwhile, accusations of LGBTQ+ people as “mentally ill” or “insane” continue at a steady beat. 

While members of the LGBTQ+ community and their allies declare that everyone is worthy of belonging, self-named religious “experts” point their fingers and cry “Satan!” into the rainbow-colored crowd. 

But we know better, because we know Jesus. 

Using his own life as an example, at the risk of being ostracized himself, Jesus teaches us how to judge what is truly right, by showing us the difference between good and evil, between God and the Devil. 

He reminds us that he is present in movements and actions that bring about belonging, not marginalization. 

He compels us not to demonize the nonconformists, because the Holy Spirit is often most present at the margins and in the liminal spaces. 

He implores us to act on the will of God, which is that all people are fed, housed, and nourished – never, ever denied their humanity. 

From first century exorcisms to twentieth century lobotomies, in so many cases, it seems that society’s demons are created, not conjured. 

They represent, not a moral failing on the part of the individual, but a moral failing on the part of a society who rejects them, denies their dignity, and refuses their humanity. 

Jesus invites all of us to himself. And here, everyone belongs. Amen.

Not to Hurt Us, But to Heal Us

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Lectionary readings linked here

O God, your never-failing providence sets in order all things both in heaven and earth: Put away from us, we entreat you, all hurtful things, and give us those things which are profitable for us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. 

On Pentecost Sunday, in St. Cloud, Florida, a priest bit a woman during communion.  

Now, this wasn’t just another case of so-called “Florida Man” doing something erratic under the influence of a novel new street drug. In fact, if the priest could be said to be high on anything, he was high on his religious principles… 

Here’s a portion of the press release from the Catholic Diocese of Orlando, shared by ABC News: 

The incident between the priest and a female parishioner began at approximately 10 a.m. on Sunday during Mass at St. Thomas Aquinas Church in St. Cloud, Florida, when a woman “came through Father Fidel Rodriguez’s Holy Communion line and appeared unaware of the proper procedure,”… 

The same woman is said to have arrived at 12 p.m. for Mass on Sunday and stood in Father Rodriguez’s Communion line when he asked her if she had been to the Sacrament of the Penance (Confession) to which she replied that “it was not his business,”… “Father Rodriguez offered the woman Holy Communion on the tongue,” church officials said. “At that point, the woman forcefully placed her hand in the vessel and grabbed some sacred Communion hosts, crushing them.  

Having only one hand free, Father Rodriguez struggled to restrain the woman as she refused to let go of the hosts. When the woman pushed him, and reacting to a perceived act of aggression, Father Rodriguez bit her hand so she would let go of the hosts she grabbed.” 

Honestly, when I read that story, I am a little sympathetic to Father Rodriguez. Not because I think that what he did was right. But because, in some ways, I can imagine myself in his shoes.  

I can almost feel the horror he must have felt in that split second before he took action.  

I can imagine a scenario where the remaining consecrated wafers fly out of their container as the woman lunges for it. They fall onto the dirty floor,  where they’re scattered and crushed by the feet of people coming forward for communion.  The Body of Christ bruised and broken, now lies desecrated on the ground. 

And then, the priest looks up, only to meet the judging faces of those around him. His parishioners condemn him for failing in his most important task.  His clergy colleagues’ eyes drill into him. 

The stakes are high. If he doesn’t act quickly, people will act as if Father Rodriguez himself crucified Christ. 

Under immense pressure, he did what he thought he needed to do.  To protect the Body of Christ, he bit a woman.  

Ironically, in doing so, he hurt the Body of Christ, embodied in that woman. And, he scandalized the Body of Christ, gathered there in the church. 

It was Father Rodriguez’ very commitment to God, and his very love for God, that led him to do the unthinkable.  

It led him to forget that Christ gave his body for us as a living sacrifice, in order to heal us, not hurt us. It led him to prioritize the image of God in sterile and uniform communion wafers, instead of the image of God in an erratic and noncompliant human. 

The incident is a powerful object lesson for Christians.  

It forces us to grapple with how we respond when our ordered ceremonies and straightforward principles are disrupted by humans…being human. 

In a choice between principles and people, haven’t we sometimes landed on the side of Father Rodriguez? 

Haven’t we been tempted to refuse the messy, fragile, annoying, and weird people who stretch out their hands to us for care, choosing instead those who are safe, reasonable, and poised? Haven’t we scowled at the disruptive, avoided the eccentric, or turned away the person asking for help?  Haven’t we decided it might not be worth the trouble to do the humane thing, if that means being judged by people whose opinions carry consequences for us? 

And to the extent that we have done these things, I doubt we have done them out of malice. In many cases, we have done them out of a desire to love God in exactly the right way. But we lost our way somehow… 

And in that regard, we’re an awful lot like the Pharisees… 

In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus gets into it with some fellow Jewish theologians known as Pharisees. They are condemning him for not taking his religious principles seriously.  

It was the Sabbath day – a day set aside for rest from all labor – but the disciples were hungry. The story indicates that they were gleaning grain from a field. According to Jewish law, farmers were obligated to leave a certain amount of grain behind, so that those who needed it could sustain themselves. The disciples were basically using an ancient version of Social Services. 

Shortly after, Jesus performs a healing miracle in the synagogue. The man stretches out his hand, and Jesus gives of himself, healing the man in front of the gathered community. 

The Pharisees don’t even bat an eye at this miracle! In fact, they seem to expect it! In the presence of Jesus, miracles have apparently become commonplace. 

They don’t doubt Jesus – they doubt his interpretation of sabbath law. Somewhere along the way, they forgot that their religious principles were intended for the benefit of people. So, Jesus reminds them: “The sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the sabbath.” 

In interpreting this passage, it can be tempting for Christians to suggest that Jesus is “doing away with all that legalism” and “bending the rules” in response to human need. 

But, I want to be clear that Jesus is not rejecting Jewish religious principles. Jesus is reminding those first witnesses, and now us, that our religious principles are intended to make us more generous, not more hard-hearted. 

Put another way, our liturgies, theologies, and rituals are not the ends of our worship.  They are the means to true worship.  And true worship is our enthusiastic participation in God’s loving transformation of the world. 

The problem has never been our principles – it’s that our attempts at reverence can so quickly turn into idolatry.  It’s that our desire for God to be glorified becomes a source of personal pride rather than public solidarity. 

As a church, we’re not always good at remembering that, in the Eucharist, we don’t only receive the Body of Christ – we become a part of it.  

Communion points us to sacredness by revealing the living Christ here at the table, and then boldly insisting that we, made in the image of God, are part of that sacredness. 

And this gift, of the Body of Christ, is not only for those of us gathered here – it is for all people. Because, in Christ’s giving of himself, we have become consecrated to be the hands and feet of Jesus in the world. 

Our religious principles should always lead us closer to each other, and closer to all of humanity. They should persuade us to proclaim the good news of God’s unconditional love to weird, imperfect, beautiful people, even at the risk of judgment from those who prefer a sterile and uniform Christianity. 

Christ has come, not to hurt us, but to heal us. 

Amen. 

An Act of God: Pentecost Sermon

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Readings available here

Today is the day of Pentecost.  

The story we just read in Acts reveals a chaotic scene:  

Jesus has ascended into Heaven, and the disciples are hunkered in a house, not sure what to do next. Suddenly, violent wind and flames of fire invade every room. 

Down below, in the streets, Jews from all over the Greco-Roman world are gathered in the capital city for the Feast of Weeks,  This is a time to bless the wheat harvest, and remember God’s gift of the Ten Commandments given to Moses on Mount Sanai. 

The ruckus in the house seems to have compelled the disciples over the threshold and out into the street. There, the crowd meets them with alarm.  

Something strange is happening.  The disciples, who should be speaking their native Aramaic, are somehow understood by festival goers from all over the Greco-Roman world.  The chosen people of God – torn apart by centuries of displacement and war – are brought back together in this moment, united in common understanding. 

United, also, in confusion. Desperate to make meaning of the event, many in the crowd dismiss the disciples, as we might have done:  

“They are filled with new wine,” they said.  

In other words, they’re drunk. 

And then, perhaps the biggest surprise of all:  The timid, bumbling Peter, who denied Christ three times at the crucifixion, steps forward, without fear, and begins proclaiming the Gospel. 

Wind and fire, and wild chaos in the street. Pentecost had the trappings of a natural disaster.  But instead, it was an act of God.

orange flames of fire go out into dark night
Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com

The after-effects of this spiritual storm were like nothing the world had seen before. Within months, Christian communities started cropping up everywhere.  And they certainly weren’t drunk, but they were acting pretty strange.  

They were caring for rich and poor, tending to the sick, sharing in communion, giving their money away, and even dying for the Truth. And they were spreading infectious joy along the way. 

These first Christians were changing people’s lives, because their own lives had changed. They had become fearless. 

That day, the church was born. And the Holy Spirit has been keeping us on our toes ever since. 

— 

A funny thing about preaching is that you start to mentally file away stories in case you need to use them in a sermon someday. 

As I was going through my mental files this week for a story about Pentecost, various natural disasters kept coming to mind. 

Here’s one: In 1997, my little Indiana town was readying itself for a tornado. My parents tucked my sister and me into sleeping bags, and lowered us into the crawl space through an opening in the coat closet.  The tornado hit a street over, and we were spared. 

Here’s another one: In 2005, my coastal Florida town was supposed to get hit with five hurricanes, but all of them diverted at the last minute.  The high school senior t-shirt that year read: “I survived 2005.” 

Then, last week, my friend’s daughter was driving home when a tornado ripped through her apartment complex in Houston. She said that the wind came like a solid wall, going 80 miles per hour. My friend’s daughter and granddaughter escaped, unscathed. 

I’m thankful for my brain for trying to help. But none of these stories even come close to paralleling the after-effects of Pentecost. 

These aren’t the kinds of cataclysms that set new things into motion. They are simply natural disasters. A bad thing you try to avoid. 

It seems that, when I try to think of moments of profound disruption in my life, my head doesn’t jump to positive transformation.  Instead, it jumps to stories of survival.  These stories are about safety, near-misses,  and that final, heaving sigh of relief.  

The best thing I can say for them is that they hint at “the calm after the storm,” which is maybe something like “peace.”  But, given the liveliness of Pentecost, it doesn’t seem like the Holy Spirit came to bring us peace… 

In the musical, Rent, which takes place in the context of the AIDS epidemic, one line that has always stuck with me is:  “The opposite of war isn’t peace; it’s creation.” 

I think Pentecost reveals the Truth of that statement. While there is an alternative to the brokenness and discord we see all around us, it isn’t the temporary relief of “the calm after the storm” – it’s the new creation.  It’s new life, bubbling over, spreading out, and unstoppable. 

In the Pentecost story, we finally see how the saving love of Christ is not only available to all, but actively growing and putting its tendrils out into the world. 

  • The Spirit of God calls to each of us in our own language, and from our own experience. We are known. 
  • The Advocate calls us home to Jesus, and to one another. We are loved. 
  • The Divine Wind burns away the chaff in our hearts. We are becoming fearless. 

Like Peter, once afraid to speak, we are emboldened to rush out into the world and proclaim the Good News: Love is here, for everyone! Love, trivialized in pop songs and scorned by politicians, is not a trivial thing after all.  Like wildfire, if given a chance to spark, it will cover the world.  

It’s not a natural disaster, but a creative act of God. 

As theologian Will Willimon puts it, Pentecost reminds us that the Spirit is not “an exotic phenomenon of mainly interior and purely personal significance…the Spirit is the power which enables the church to ‘go public’ with its good news, to attract a crowd and…to have something to say worth hearing” (Interpretation Commentary on Acts, 33). 

In all this, Pentecost offers us revolutionary hope.  

But hope is hard to hold onto.  

  • It is more sensible to decide that survival is all we can hope for. 
  • It is more expedient to resign ourselves to “good enough.” 
  • In the face of the world’s grief, and our own, it is more comforting to stay hunkered down inside that house in Jerusalem. 

But, our Scriptures testify that we are Pentecost People. We are possessed with the Holy Spirit, who calls us to be sober, but strange: caring for rich and poor, tending to the sick, sharing in communion, giving our money away, dying, and living, in the Truth.  

The Spirit calls us to defy the status quo, by living as though hope is our birthright. 

And, we can live in hope, because we know that Pentecost is True. Because, 2,000 years later, 7,000 miles from Jerusalem, living on a continent the disciples didn’t even know existed,  we are worshipping God and sharing in Christ’s communion. 

The Holy Spirit set the world on fire. 

And we, Christ’s disciples, are the still here, carrying – within us and among us – the flame of love that lights up the world. 

(The Paschal Candle is blown out.) 

Amen. 

Courage to Believe: Sermon for Easter 3

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As a young kid, I attended a Christian school run by the Church of Christ denomination.  When I was in the second grade, my teacher, Miss Terrell, taught us about guardian angels. 

I’ll never forget what she said:  “Wherever you go and whatever you do, your guardian angel is always with you, watching you.” 

The reason I’ll never forget what she said is because it absolutely terrified me!  What she was describing was some kind of supernatural surveillance state! 

It was made worse by the fact that, when you’re 7 years old, you suddenly become very body aware. I spent countless hours worrying that my guardian angel was watching me use the bathroom! 

As the weeks passed, it got even worse. I started having nightmares about stoney-faced angels glaring at me, with swords in their hand.  I was convinced angels were hiding in my dark closet, ready to crawl out and get me as soon as I fell asleep. I can’t even count the number of times I ran to my parents’ room and crowded in between them on the bed.  

But even there, I couldn’t get relief. The angels were following me. Always scowling and always threatening to cause me harm.  

There was no escape. “Wherever you go and whatever you do, your guardian angel is always with you, watching you.” 

One evening, I finally fell asleep in my own bed. In the middle of the night, I woke up and noticed a warm light emanating from the end of my bed.  

There at my feet was what appeared to be a little girl, about my age. She was dressed in a white chiffon robe, and glowing like the sunlight at golden hour from head to toe. Though appearing like a child, she had an intense, warm presence. 

I sat up in bed and looked into her face. She didn’t say anything, but looked back at me knowingly. Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of peace washed over me. I laid back down and fell asleep.  

After that encounter, I was a different person. I was never afraid of angels again.  

The next morning, I told my parents what I had seen. Though skeptical at first, they kept an open mind. When they realized I was cured of my terror, they came to accept that something really had happened. 

At school that day, I drew a picture of myself sitting up in bed, with the angel standing at the foot of the bed.  When Miss Terrell asked me to describe my drawing, I told her about my night. 

And you know what’s funny?  She didn’t believe me. 

At the time, I was incredulous! How could the person who told me about angels not believe what I had seen and experienced? 

— 

Now, as an adult, I understand it better. I can muster more sympathy for Miss Terrell. 

The truth is, I think most of us have trouble believing that unlikely or miraculous events really happened, even when they happened to us. 

We don’t trust our instincts. We think we must have gotten something wrong: maybe we misunderstood or misremembered. Maybe we were too young or too tired or too gullible.  

And even if we do leave room for the possibility, what does that mean for all the times the thing we prayed for didn’t happen? 

In a culture dominated by rationalism, denial seems like our best option. Because, if we actually dare to believe in a miracle, people will think we’ve lost our minds! 

— 

Today we meet the disciples as they grapple with their own tangled up feelings of joy, fear, and doubt in the face of a very unlikely event. 

And we watch, as they try to muster the courage to believe, and then proclaim, that something miraculous has really happened. 

— 

To get a better understanding of what’s going on, let’s put this passage in context: 

At this point in Luke’s story, the women have talked to angels at an empty tomb, and two men have encountered a strange man on the road to Emmaus. 

After breaking bread with this apparent stranger, Luke tells us that “their eyes were opened, and they recognized” that it was Jesus. ‘They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road.’”  

Even before they consciously recognized that it was Jesus, they sensed his presence in their heart. But, in the space between their heart and their rational mind, doubt wedged its way in. And in the time it took to interpret their experience, the story was already starting to get fuzzy. 

So, when the two men tell their friends about their dinner with Jesus, it is easy for everyone in that room to be skeptical. 

Even after Jesus shows up, in the flesh, still bearing wounds, they’re not convinced. They’re still afraid to trust themselves. They’re still afraid of what everyone else will think. 

It’s easier, in some ways, to tell themselves they’re losing their minds, than it is to admit that their friend came back from the dead.  

Sometimes, it’s easier to believe in ghosts than in God. 

— 

Like those first Christians, we catch glimpses of the Divine, but we’re so quick to shut our eyes again. We hear stories of miracles, but we’re so eager to chalk them up to coincidence. 

We come to church each week for communion, praying for Christ to be “known to us in the breaking of the bread.”  But then we leave, not expecting this divine encounter to fundamentally change our lives. 

Whether you have personally had a mystical experience or remarkable vision, you have been invited to come to the table, where Jesus offers himself. 

Here at the communion table, Jesus says,  “Look! It’s me, bread made flesh, wine made blood. Look! It’s you, the Body of Christ, still transforming the world.” 

Like the disciples, we encounter the resurrected Christ whenever we reach out our hands and accept the bread of heaven.   

Our first task is simply to show up and experience this gift of Christ’s presence.  

Our next task, as the disciples will attest, is the harder one: to take the risk of believing that Jesus is present with us, and capable of changing our lives. 

— 

Our Scriptures speak to the timelessness of doubt – they remind us that skepticism is so very human. And Jesus, who lived and died as one of us, knows what it feels like to be human.   

He knows that believing in a miracle is just as anxiety-inducing as it is wondrous.  He knows that proclaiming resurrection puts us at terrible risk in a society more bent on death than on life. 

And the truth is, we can’t explain the mechanics of the Kingdom of God. Try as we might, we can’t rationalize divine encounter or divine transformation.  

The life of faith can’t be wrapped up in a tidy proof. That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. 

Here, at the table, Christ calls us to leave a little room for possibility. He challenges us to expect a divine encounter. And to trust that God is near when our hearts begin to burn within us. 

Each week as we gather, we are learning how to believe in the miracle of resurrection. 

With our minds broadened to the possibility of hope, we have the strength to venture back out into a world of so many unknowns, and trust that God is transforming it. 

— 

Eat this bread, drink this cup. Leave a little room for a divine encounter. As the disciples can tell you, it might just change the world. 

I Demand to See the Body: Sermon for Easter 2

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When I first looked at this week’s scripture readings, I struggled to understand exactly how they fit together.  

At first glance, our Acts reading and our John reading don’t draw out one particular theme.  

How does “Doubting Thomas” fit together with…starting a commune? Like most things, it turns out that these scriptures don’t benefit from oversimplification!

So I kept thinking… 

It’s the Easter season, so it’s customary to continue in our story with the now resurrected Jesus visiting his disciples and friends. 

And on this day, we hear the story of Thomas, who, apparently, lost his invitation to the dinner party.  And thought he had missed his chance to see Jesus, in all his resurrected glory.  

Ok, so, that story’s squared away for now. 

But the tricky part of the way we read scriptures in the Episcopal Church is that, even though Thomas is always right here, waiting for us, on the Second Sunday in Easter, the other passages move around in a three-year cycle.  

That means that this is the only time in three years that today’s Acts passage is paired with the story of Thomas. Though a bit complicated, the lectionary cycle gives us several ways to encounter the unfolding story of Christ and his church. And to make connections we may not have noticed before. 

All that to say: when I dug deeper into today’s readings, the thing that stuck out to me was the fixation on bodies. 

Not dead bodies, but living ones. And, not just any body, but the Body of Christ. 

— 

With that in mind, let’s get back to Thomas… 

Thomas is an important part of the resurrection narrative, because he’s just like us. 

He says what everyone is thinking, even if they won’t admit it:  “I’m not gonna believe that Jesus rose from the dead, until I see it for myself! Show me the evidence!” 

And Jesus readily complies. A week later, Jesus returns and immediately tells Thomas: “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” 

Thomas doesn’t need to touch Jesus after all.  

In the presence of Jesus’ living, breathing, resurrected body, this body that still holds the battle wounds of death, in that moment, Thomas believes. 

And Jesus is more than willing to help him believe. 

Jesus goes on to say: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” 

Because of that statement, Thomas has been forced to bear the nickname, Doubting Thomas, for the last 2,000 years.  

But it seems clear that Jesus isn’t condemning him for wanting to see the body. 

Rather, Jesus is graciously acknowledging that it is hard to believe in him without any evidence. 

Jesus gets it.  

If the Gospel of John were turned into a play, this would be the moment where Jesus breaks the fourth wall.  It’s almost as if he’s looking out into the future and speaking directly to us. 

We are the ones who “have not seen and yet have come to believe.”  

But can’t there more than that? Like Thomas, I want evidence: 

  • I want proof that Jesus is who he says he is.  
  • I want examples of how God is acting in the world, now.  
  • I want Jesus to show up and start pointing to all the things he’s up to,  
  • So that I can believe that he really is paying attention. 

And I wouldn’t say I want any of these things because I don’t have faith. 

It’s just that the world is a tragic place.  

It is full of horrific violence that never seems to end.  Of illness, grief, fear, and so much anxiety.  There are too many people struggling to survive.  And too many people making their survival impossible. 

Sometimes it seems like nothing will get better. 

But, Thomas demanded to see the body of Christ and Jesus consented. In doing so, they both taught us that it is ok to make that demand. 

Well then, I demand to see the body.  

— 

Where is Christ’s body for us, today?  

Our Collect, which paraphrases the Scriptures, says that we have “been reborn into the fellowship of Christ’s Body.”  

If we are part of Christ’s body, that means that we encounter Jesus, quite literally, in one another. 

In other words, WE are the living, breathing, resurrected body of Christ, for one another.  We bear the battle wounds of our own difficult lives,  and we allow one another to witness those vulnerabilities.  

— 

At first glance, this strange proposition doesn’t feel the same as Jesus showing up for Thomas. 

But, when I think about it, I can honestly say that the reason I’m still a Christian is because people in the church kept showing up and loving me. 

When I felt abandoned, they stepped forward and said, “here I am.” 

And every time I have demanded to see evidence of God working in the world,  I have only needed to turn to my right or to my left,  and observe my siblings in Christ doing that work. 

The church at its best makes believing in Jesus not only easier, but compelling.  Because we actually do catch glimpses of Christ when we reach out our hands in care for one another. 

— 

And that’s why the Acts passage has something to say about our Gospel. 

In Acts, we see how the early church showed up as Christ’s body for one another. They participated in a radical experiment to give up their personal property and share “everything in common.” In doing so, they ensured that no one in their community struggled to survive.  

As theologian Will Willimon puts it, this community showed the surrounding culture that: “The church takes care of its own, thus creating in its life together a kind of vignette, a paradigm of the sort of world God intends for all” (Interpretation Commentary on Acts, 53). 

While the church has never managed to broadly sustain this kind of communal living situation, this passage reminds us that being Christ’s body in the world is a serious undertaking. Just as we have received love from others, we must make it our job to share that love with others. 

It’s not always easy.  

In fact, this job of caring for one another as Christ’s Body is both the heart of our faith, and the hardest thing to do. It requires us to see ourselves as one part of the bigger whole.  It forces us to always imagine what is possible, instead of giving up when things feel too hard. It puts us in situations of risk and discomfort, because to be like Jesus in this world means showing up, even if the doors are locked. 

Caring for one another as Christ cares for us means we can’t give up on each other. And we can’t give up on building a better world. 

— 

The good news is, we’re not giving up. 

Just this week, I have spent hours learning about the history and hopes of this place. And I have been energized by your faithful labor and persistent care for one another.  

Limb by limb, the Body of Christ is being made visible. And the Holy Spirit is urging us to continue the work. 

Of course, the church has never been perfect. The Body of Christ has, perhaps, never been as visible to us as it was to Thomas. Because of this, there will be struggles and disagreements and roadblocks. We will have our doubts.  

But we can demand to see the Body. We can ask for Jesus to reveal himself, and expect to see him, quite literally, in one another. 

So, look for Jesus and expect him to show up. He’s already here. 

Amen. 

At the Fault Line of the Resurrection

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A Sermon for Easter

I shall not die, but live,
and declare the works of the Lord…

shot of hill country in texas with bird flying over
Photo by J. Amill Santiago on Unsplash

This morning, we join Mary and the disciples at the threshold of the tomb.

As we poke our heads into that dark cave in the hill country outside Jerusalem, we brace ourselves for the stench of death, and find it empty.

In the long hours after Jesus died, we were trying to be strong. But the absence of a body finally breaks us. Our worst fear already came true, when the man who promised he would save us, died on the cross. But now, Jesus is really gone, and it feels like a second death.

Now, hope is dead. And there is no possibility of closure, only the bodily ache of despair.

But, just as we are hit with a fresh wave of grief, we turn our faces toward the blinding light of the morning as a mysterious messenger beckons us:

“Do not be alarmed! Do not weep! The longing you have held in your body, the fear and the hope, the promises you were foolish enough to believe – all of it has been redeemed! All of it has been transformed!”

Against all odds, Jesus Christ was dead, and now he is alive.

Here we are again, this Easter morning, standing at the threshold of the tomb, gazing into an empty burial chamber in amazement. Daring to believe in resurrection.

We stand at the doorway between darkness and light, fear and hope, death and life. Here, at the threshold, our perspective is broadened. We finally have the vantage point to understand the truth of all things: Here, in this space between all we thought we knew, and all that Christ is making new, the way we order the world breaks down. The dichotomies no longer make sense. In view of the risen Christ, “even the darkness is as light.”

At the empty tomb, we see everything with new eyes. NOW, we live in the ambient light of the Savior, the living Word, who created all things and redeems all things.

There is no need to fear the future. Because Jesus Christ is risen, and all things grow toward his light. In fact, there is no need, even, to hope. Because what our ancestors have hoped for since Eden has already come true.

We’re not yearning for the old days, or waiting for better ones. Heaven has come to earth, and paradise is here!

New life bursts forth at the threshold of a tomb in Judean hill country.

Here in Austin, we are intimately familiar with thresholds, in the geological sense. That’s because we quite literally live on a fault line. The city is built on a geological landmark called the Balcones Escarpment.

map of fault lines and zones in Texas
Balcones, and the Mexia-Talco-Luling Fault Trends, where black lines are faults, the blue shaded area is the Claiborne Group, yellow is the Jackson Group, and tan is the Wilcox Group (Image: Public Domain)

As Austin resident Stephen Harrigan put it in a 1987 article for Texas Monthly,

“The Balcones Escarpment…is geology’s most fateful mark upon the surface of Texas, a bulwark of cracked and weathered rock that extends in a pronounced arc from Waco to Del Rio. It is the Balcones that creates the Hill Country, that sets the stage for the Edwards Plateau and the High Plains beyond. The cotton economy, for our schematic purposes, ends at the base of the escarpment, where the rich blackland prairie…runs literally into a wall. Above that mass of limestone there is only a veneer of soil, and the country is hard, craggy, and scenic—cowboy country. The distinction is that sharp: farmers to the east, ranchers to the west.”

On the east side of town where we are right now, you can still see traces of fertile farmland. Each day when I come home, I have to be extra careful not to track fine, black dirt into my living room.

But just a few miles west, the landscape suddenly transforms into hill country. The ground rises up in stops and starts to reveal red clay and rocky passes.

The first time you drive west toward Lake Travis, you might find, like I did, that “amazement seizes you” at the sudden shift in perspective.

Like the Psalmist, maybe you’ll exclaim:

“This is the Lord’s doing,
and it is marvelous in our eyes.”

The landscape here, not unlike the culture, is a juxtaposition of abundance and want, softness and hard living, simultaneously quaint and exhilarating.

But you should know that the Balcones Escarpment isn’t the only interesting thing about the fault line. The result of a violent collision of earth that occurred 20 million years ago, the Balcones Fault Zone also produced the Edwards Aquifer.

Basically, when the ground was pushed up into hill country, it was also pushed down into deep ravines and caves. Rainwater flooded these hidden caverns, forming underground springs that provide water to local waterholes, the Colorado River, and the households of most of Central Texas.

These aquifers are literally what make life possible here.

So, if you’re having trouble finding the fault line, just look to where green things grow and people gather. Amid the tumult, and against the odds, life is nurtured and sustained, right here, at the threshold.

Like so many who settled here before us, the perspective of this place might grip you.

Living here, at the site of a geological wonder, you are living proof of a bigger truth: that the ways we sort the world, into good and bad, salvageable and broken, safe and dangerous, habitat and wasteland, no longer make sense in view of the fault line.

From this vantage point, we see things differently: All of it is redeemable. All of it holds hidden possibility. All of it can be made new.

At the fault line, you realize you no longer need to let yourself down easy. You no longer need the old stories or the doubted promises. Things can be bigger, and better, and more beautiful than you imagined.

Here at the threshold, life is bursting forth.

Today we worship in a church, formed at a geological threshold. And we stand with the disciples, at the fault line of the resurrection.

We have held the black earth of the east while gazing up at the red hills to the west. We have drunk the pure water from aquifers borne of violent shifts below the surface.

We dare to proclaim that the old things can be made new. We insist that life is persistent, growing in crevices and dusty hills, against all odds.

We have seen with our own eyes how the death of an old world can create the conditions for abundant life.

And if all this is true, just about the ground we stand on, how much more is in store for us, who proclaim the resurrection of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the redeemer of the whole world!?

On Easter, we declare that, even in darkness, life is bursting forth!

And so, we proclaim: Alleluia!

“O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory?”

Christ swallowed up death and shifted the tectonic plates. Resurrection is here.

Two thousand years after the disciples peered into the empty tomb, we still bear witness to the Risen Savior.

We still dare to be faithful, in a fickle and distracted world. We still dare to believe in the reconciliation of all things, and all people. We still dare to see the bigger picture.

A dead man crossed the threshold of a tomb. Now, we know that life is always possible. Even death carries the seed of resurrection.

I shall not die, but live,
and declare the works of the Lord.

Amen.

A Honeybee Knows How to Take Up Her Cross: A Sermon

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Readings here

This is the last sermon I’ll give here at this church, my first home for ordained ministry. So, I felt a lot pressure about what I would say. When you’re standing up here week after week, all eyes on you, it’s easy to forget that the sermon is not about the preacher, as much as feels that way sometimes.

The sermon is intended to be, always and without exception, about the eternal relationship between God and God’s people. In other words, it’s about the Gospel, the good news: That we are not alone, and that we are always cared for by the Creator of the universe. 

The sermon moment, within the context of a service, functions as both a conversation and a pause. 

  • It is meant to illuminate the readings that we just heard proclaimed by fellow members of the Church. 
  • But, it is also meant to give the right amount of time and weight to those readings, so that we’re not just reading them as rote parts of the service, but understanding that they are still speaking to us.

Strictly speaking, it doesn’t matter if the sermon is entertaining or well-spoken. What really matters is that both the preacher and the people are open to the Holy Spirit speaking, in both the words and silences of this moment. I’m saying this now, because I think it’s easy to forget the point of all of this talking. 

What we’re trying to do in worship is remember that we are still being called to join up with God and carry our cross, just as Jesus says in today’s reading from Mark. 

—

So, let’s talk about what it means to carry our cross…

I grew up in a tradition that was hyper-fixated on the cross. 

We sang songs about Jesus’s death on Christmas morning. The preacher preached on Jesus’s death on Easter, the day of Jesus’ resurrection. In fact, it would have been very abnormal if we got through a whole service, at any time of year, without being reminded that Jesus “died on the cross for our sins.” 

That’s not to say that this isn’t an important part of our story as Christians: 

We worship a God who suffered unjustly, and who was willing to bear our burdens, knowing that we could not bear those burdens or be reconciled to God by ourselves.

But, the issue is that, when you’re hyper-fixated on the gruesome death of Jesus, you will really have no choice but to read today’s Gospel reading as a command for Christians to suffer and die.

But that just can’t be the whole story! Because, if the cross is only about death, then we’re completely missing the Gospel. Where’s the good news? With help from theologians James Cone and Kathryn Tanner, I have come to believe that the good news is not that Jesus died. 

The good news is that, against all odds, Jesus lives. 

That means that, when he tells us we should take up our crosses and follow him, he’s not telling us it’s time to walk toward death. 

He’s actually telling us: “it’s time to walk toward life”: Abundant life that defies the scarcity of the world. Eternal life that rejects the short-term thinking of our economic and social system. Life beyond quick fixes, substances, and consumer goods.Big thinking, not small thinking. A total transformation of the world that leads, ultimately, to a natural paradise called the new creation. 

—

When Jesus shocks his disciples in this moment by telling them to take up their crosses, they’re in the same boat as us in some ways. Surely, all they could think about was crucifixion. But, we know that crucifixion was never the whole story. 

So, as we’re being called to take up our own crosses, we better get clear on what that means. Because we serve a risen Savior, to take up our cross is to bear burdens for the sake of beauty, abundance, community, love, belonging…and hope. 

We’re not people with a death wish. We’re people with a life wish. 

Without a desire for life, there is no benefit in suffering. There would be no benefit in strife. There would be no benefit in living counter-cultural lives of sacrificial love in society that couldn’t care less about others. There’s no benefit unless the work that we do here, for and with each other, leads toward the whole world living abundantly.

—

And that’s why I want to talk about honeybees. 

I can’t leave this place without talking about my very favorite critter. 

And I really do believe that honeybees have something to teach us about crosses, sacrificial love, and abundant life…

Unlike their indigenous cousins, honeybees live in highly structured communities called hives. The hive is made up almost entirely of female bees. These bees are called worker bees, and they do exactly what their name implies. 

They work. On every possible task at every level of their community. 

  • They take care of the larvae and clean the nursery. 
  • They feed and care for the Queen. 
  • They kick out the pesky male drones when the drones are no longer useful.
  • They clean up all of the trash, and maintain the various chambers. 
  • They keep guard at the hive door and fight off wasps and other predators. 
  • They make a place for the retired, elderly bees.
  • And of course, they gather nectar from flowering plants to turn into nutrient-dense honey. 

Along the way, they pollinate the world’s fields, forests, and agricultural land.

The majority of a worker bee’s life is spent in the darkness of the hive, hidden from the public eye. They work their way through the system from juvenile to adult bee, and carry out their tasks with precision.  They communicate and collaborate extremely effectively.  And the result is a well-oiled machine.

—

After a few weeks attending to internal tasks, the worker bee is finally ready to leave the hive. 

She will spend the next weeks flying up to 60 miles per day on her tiny wings, to find just the right pollen and nectar to bring back to her community. These will be turned into the bee equivalent of bread and drink, called “bee bread” and honey.

Some nights she will sleep inside a flower, too far away to reach the hive. But when she returns, she will communicate using a complex body language called the waggle dance. Now an expert harvester, with a daily view of blue sky and flowering field, she shares what she has learned with her community.

In two weeks, she will likely be dead.  Her wings, beating 230 times per second, will break down from the rigor of flying. Or, she may be killed by pesticides, bad weather, or other creatures.  If she survives, she will be welcomed back into the hive as a retiree.

Even though her body is broken, her labor was not in vain. 

Her hive is buzzing and buoyant because of her labor, and the labor of her community.

—

Each worker bee carries her cross, keeping order and caring for young and old in the hive, before flinging her body out into a worldthat is beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.

She knows her job is important, even if her contribution is small.  She will produce one and a half teaspoons of honey in six weeks of hard labor — her entire lifespan. But a commercial hive of 50,000 bees will produce up to 100 pounds of honey each year, with 60 of that produced in excess of what the hive needs.

—

A honeybee knows how to take up her cross. 

She knows how to take care of her community. How to share the burden and carry the load. 

A honeybee knows how to look to the wisdom of her tradition, and learn new tasks with humility. She knows that it’s worth it to take the risk, and even to take a fall. Because the outcome is abundantly sweet.

And, meanwhile, in all of her doing for her own community, she has also pollinated the world. 

She launched herself out in service to her hive, and that small act of courage made it possible for all of God’s creatures to eat, to be well, to do more than survive. Her whole life given for a spoonful of honey that makes each life just a little bit sweeter.

A honeybee knows what it means to live abundantly.

—

It’s serendipitous that our Old Testament reading today is about the covenant God makes with Abraham.

God promises Abraham that his descendants will be numerous, and blessed with abundance. Over 200 years later, God will lead Abraham’s great-great-great-grandson, Moses, and his people out of the land of Egypt.

God reiterates his promise then, saying that God’s people will inherit a land flowing with milk and honey. A land overwhelmed with so much life that it produces decadent foods in excess. 

And that’s what we come here to remember: That the journey may be difficult. The crosses may be heavy. And there will be heartache on the way. 

But there is so much life at the end. And there’s so much life, here, right now. 

No matter what task you are called to in this hive: 

  • Whether it is to tend or clean. 
  • organize or build. 
  • lead or support.
  • Rest or fly. 

The cross you bear will bear fruit. The cross you bear will produce in excess. 

Don’t be afraid to bear it!

You are following in the footsteps of the One who created the honeybee, and You. 

This is why we carry our cross. This is why we do what we do: Because there is exponential sweetness in God’s promises.  And, because in the midst of death, there is life…abundant life.

Amen.

The Pinnacle Epiphany: A Sermon on Transfiguration

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Readings here

Early last week, I wrote an entire 1,200 word sermon.  

But this weekend was Diocesan Council. And it wasn’t just any Council Meeting. This year, the Episcopal Diocese of Texas is celebrating 175 years. 

Over 600 of us – lay and clergy – listened to story after story of lives being changed, and people doing incredible things in the name of the Gospel, over the Diocese’s 175-year history.  

  • Three religious leaders who blocked the bridge to Galveston to keep the KKK from rallying there.  
  • A white Episcopal priest who risked being lynched to stop the lynching of a Black man.  
  • The first woman priest ordained in Texas, at nearby Epiphany, in spite of a protest in the middle of the service.  
  • And then, the recent news, of millions of dollars being distributed to support scholarships, health access, and community programs.  

These were stories of people putting their bodies on the line, and their money where their mouth is. 

— 

I don’t know how y’all have been feeling lately, but I really needed to hear stories of hope. 

I had a breakdown on Thursday night, thinking about the death toll in Gaza, and the drowned mom and kids at the border, and all the other scary, terrible, evil things humans do to one another.  

I kept asking:  

  • What should I do?  
  • How should I act?  
  • How will I know when God is calling me to risk everything for the sake of what’s right?  

I was thinking of all those heroes and martyrs who came before me.  

The Christians who hid Jewish families during the Holocaust, the Civil Rights leaders who persisted through death threats.  My neighbors in Charlottesville who held the line in the face of white supremacists.  And even the Hebrew prophets, who yelled and yelled the words of God, even when everyone called them crazy.  

Sometimes I worry that my practice of religion is too sanitized.  

That I’m too comfortable.  

I can talk the talk, but what good is that, if I’m not living like a person who believes in resurrection?  What good is sound theology if I’m more worried about my reputation than the new creation?  

I don’t think I have a martyr complex, but I do revere the martyrs.  I do think there are things worth risking everything for.  

But what does that matter if I’m not the one willing to put my own body on the line? 

I say all this to give you some taste of the real agony I was feeling.  The guilt, the inadequacy, that sense that I want to do the right thing. But I’m not sure how to even know what the right thing is.  

When are we called to be prophets? When are we called to be pastors? When are we called to be…people? 

— 

With all this in my head, I listened to these diocesan stories, of lives being changed and people doing incredible things in the name of the Gospel. 

And during Hour 5 of yesterday’s 6-hour meeting, I realized I would need to re-write my sermon.  You could say I had an Epiphany about an Epiphany. 

— 

The Transfiguration reading we just heard is the bookend to the Season of Epiphany, that begins with the Wise Men finding the human God in the form of a toddler in a working class family. 

This first Epiphany is that God came down from glory and became human. Not a king, but a carpenter. 

Then, in the Transfiguration, we follow this human God up a mountain for another surprise.  This time, the man Jesus is revealed as the glorified Christ. The eternal Son of God, shining with an other-worldly glow. 

The Transfiguration is generally thought of as a pre-cursor to Christ’s final appearance after the resurrection. Here, in the middle of his earthly ministry, Jesus has invited three of his most trusted disciples to witness the full truth of his nature. 

Some scholars suggest that the optics of the Transfiguration are so similar to Jesus’ appearance after the resurrection, that this event was actually written back into the story after the fact.  

— 

But there’s a more interesting story to tell about the similarity between the Transfiguration and the Resurrection. 

While the Gospels don’t name the mountain Jesus and his friends climb, we often assume it’s Mount Horeb, which is the same as Mount Sinai.  

Christians associate the Transfiguration story with Mount Horeb, because of the text’s mention of Moses and Elijah:  

  • Moses encountered God and received the Ten Commandments on Mount Horeb. 
  • And Elijah flees to Mount Horeb to escape his call, when God shows up and speaks to him in a whisper. 

My friend Ora explained to me that, in Jewish theology, these encounters with God on the mountain are thought to exist outside of time, in God’s eternal timelessness. 

This means that you could think of every divine encounter on Mount Horeb as simultaneous events. God is always present there and always speaking – and the message is always the same. 

So, in this passage, when we are invited to encounter Jesus on the mountaintop, what we are witnessing is neither a story about a past event nor a pre-cursor to a future one.  

In a reality beyond our understanding, the Transfiguration is, and has always been, happening, now. 

When we bear witness to the Transfiguration, we are having an epiphany in the truest meaning of the word. 

  • We are “perceiving the essential nature of a thing.”  
  • The thing, in this case, being God.  

We are seeing the full glory of the eternal and always resurrected Christ, who was and is and is to come.  

Our eyes are fixed on hope incarnate, in the flesh. On the living sacrifice.  On the Word who spoke Creation into being, and still whispers new creation all around us. 

“Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus.” 

This is the Epiphany to end all Epiphanies. The pinnacle epiphany.  

Not only that God was a baby in a manger, or a man on the move.  But that God, in Christ, is bigger than the whole human story. And yet, he is an eternal and ever-present part of the human story. 

— 

The Epiphany I had during Diocesan Council was that you and I ask a lot of very good questions about the world’s suffering, and our responsibility to alleviate it. 

But the answer doesn’t arrive in words. It arrives in an Epiphany.  

It arrives in God made flesh, and flesh transfigured as God. It arrives as the person of Jesus Christ. 

— 

If we want to do brave and risky things for God, we already have the action plan we need.  

“Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus.” 

If we don’t know what to say or how to act or when to do risky things for the Gospel, we look to Jesus.  We might be asked to follow stars or hike up mountains – to take beatings, leave our nice things behind, and journey to places far beyond our comfort zone.  

But we’ll know when it’s right, because we’re looking to Jesus.  We have witnessed him there, in the timeless place of God, in his full resurrected glory.  We are assured that he is with us, has always been with us, is present in primordial winds that still blow through the streets. 

Evil creeps in, but it can’t win. Because we have seen Christ’s glory face to face.  

We know what hope looks like and no one can convince us otherwise. 

When we get back down the mountain, we’ll know what to do.  Because the Transfiguration is the pinnacle epiphany, eternally revealing the truth of things.  

And maybe the world will kill us for it. It killed Jesus, after all. 

But God whispers an epiphany on that mountaintop that echoes through eternity: 

Have you not seen? Have you not heard?  

We’re a resurrection people. 

Amen. 

Divine Reassurances and Difficult Questions: A Sermon on Mary

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Advent 4, Year B – Readings here

For the past couple of months, I’ve have been slowly making my way through a book series about Jesuit priests who travel through space to meet singing aliens.

While these books, The Sparrow and Children of God, sound pretty lighthearted in their premise, they are actually extremely intense. They follow a Jesuit and linguist named Emilio Sandoz through the thrill of discovering alien life, the tedium of the long journey to another planet, the awe of taking that first step into completely foreign territory, and the surprising joy of engaging meaningfully with another sentient species.

Throughout the books, Sandoz is depicted as a person of wavering faith. Though he has devoted his life to God, he still grapples with life’s most difficult existential questions.

Questions like: Am I really doing what God wants me to do? Where is God in all this suffering? How can beauty and pain exist simultaneously?

But here’s the question the story seems to ask more than any other: If I had known what I know now, would I have followed God’s call on my life?

Early on in the first book, Sandoz has an experience of God so profound that those witnessing it say his face was shining like a saint. But that moment of spiritual certainty is overshadowed by years of tragedy, loss, and physical disability. Sandoz spends the rest of his life wondering what it could mean to have received divine reassurance that God has a plan for him, but to still be grappling with the confusion, doubt, and discomfort of not really knowing what will happen next.

Because I have been living in this alien world with Emilio Sandoz for so long, I can’t help but imagine Mary grappling with the same divine reassurances, and the same difficult questions.

But before I get into that, let me give you a bit of background on what we might call the “Mary Discourse.”

For the past few years, it has been trendy for preachers to riff on the popular Christmas song: “Mary, did you know?”

The song, which we’ll actually hear during the Offertory, goes like this:

Mary did you know
That your baby boy
Would one day walk on water?
Mary did you know
That your baby boy
Would save our sons and daughters?

Did you know
That your baby boy
Has come to make you new?
This child that you’ve delivered
Will soon deliver you.

Though the song was released in 1991, a parody called “Yes, I freaking knew” was shared online in 2019. That song uses all the same words from the original, except each repetition of “Mary did you know?” turns into an exasperated declaration: “Yes, I freaking knew.”

The parody song set off an ongoing conversation about what, exactly, Mary knew when she consented to God’s call on her life. We know that almost immediately after Gabriel’s visit, Mary sings a song about empires falling, and God keeping God’s promises. We call it the Magnificat.

But even though her words are forceful and prophetic, we often talk about Mary as meek, mild, and mostly silent. In other words, there is a disparity between her own words and the church’s historical characterization of Mary.

I mean, look at the hymn we just sang (“The angel Gabriel from heaven came”):

Out of 4 verses, Mary only gets one verse with a speaking part. This, despite being the one who bore Jesus Christ, the Savior of the World, in her own body! The fourth verse has the nerve to give us a speaking part, which doesn’t really seem fair to Mary, since we weren’t there for any of it.

I think the “Yes, I freaking knew” parody is right to point out that Mary wasn’t just a passive part of the story. At some level, of course she knew that saying yes was a big responsibility, with world-changing repercussions.

For us today, Mary is not a “most highly favored lady” because God sent the angel Gabriel to have a little chat with her. We remember her today because she boldy said YES to God’s call on her life.

Today’s passage is all about what it looks, sounds, and feels like for God to call us to something, and for us to respond.

The narrative follows the structure of a classic call narrative. Like the Old Testament prophets and patriarchs, Mary is brought into the terrifying presence of God’s messenger, who shares a bewildering and improbable message:

You will bear the son of God. You, little old Mary, from a region about the size of Houston, Texas, are being asked to consent to something that will risk your future, for the sake of the whole world.

This experience must have been unlike anything Mary could have imagined for herself, a young, poor woman from a marginalized religious group. Like Emilio Sandoz encountering an alien world for the first time, I imagine that Mary felt equal parts joy and wonder as Gabriel told her that the story of salvation was, at last, coming to pass.

She knew, in that moment, that God was at work in the world. And everything would be different.

In the near presence of God, of course she said yes: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

So, it seems clear that Mary freaking knew, at the moment of her call, that she would play a part in God’s plan. Jesus was coming and nothing would ever be the same.

But could Mary have possibly known…everything?

Could she have known the jumbled beauty and pain of childbirth? Could she have known that Jesus, once he was grown, would put her own people at odds with one another, almost immediately? Could she have known the intricacies of his ministry, and the difficulty of navigating the needy crowds? Could she have known the intense horror and grief she would feel when her son was murdered by the empire?

As Mary sat at the foot of the cross, her son gasping his presumed last breath, do you think she really knew what saying yes to God would mean? Do you think she wondered if she had lost the plot somewhere along the way?

Indeed, even after Jesus’ resurrection, the fledgling church looked nothing like the empire-destroying world Mary sang about in her Magnificat.

Are you there, God? It’s me, Mary.

At the end of Christ’s earthly ministry, I wonder if Mary secretly pondered a question she dared not say out loud: If I had known what I know now, would I have followed God’s call on my life?

I don’t mean to be bleak, but in this last reflective moment of Advent, I do mean to be honest.

When we, like Mary, say yes to where God is leading us, we can never really know what that means for our future. In following Jesus, we are not promised a roadmap. We are not guaranteed glory or safety or a simple life. We are not even promised rational answers to our existential questions.

But, what we are promised is that everything will change, for the better.

As we look forward to celebrating God coming near to us, in the form of a human named Jesus, what we can know is this: It wasn’t enough for God to be at work in the world, in a vague and distant way. It wasn’t enough for God to be just out of arm’s length.

No! For our sake, God wanted to be a baby we could hold, a person we could embrace, a fellow citizen in an unjust empire, a cousin who cries with you at your kitchen table, a friend who tells jokes and calls you on your crap, a son who loves his mom.

We worship an incarnate, em-bodied Savior who calls us, like Mary, to use our own body, mind, and spirit for the sake of the transformation of the world.

He reminds us that, even in our human frailty, we are stronger than we know. Empires will be toppled, and the lowly will be lifted up. And God is, truly, with us.

When we answer the call of the Gospel, we can never really know where Christ will lead us.

But I hope, when Jesus’ tiny hands reach out to you from the manger this Christmas, you can hold him close to your heart, and say: YES.

Amen.

The Kingdom of God, the Kingdoms of this World

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A sermon given on the second Sunday of Advent – Readings here

The story of Isaiah takes place over 2,500 years ago. But, because Isaiah’s ministry takes place within a complicated and violent political drama, it still resonates with us today.

Rabbi Abraham Heschel says that:

“the years in which Isaiah began his prophetic activity were the beginning of a most critical period for both Israel and Judah.”i

The threat of military invasions from multiple nations loomed at every border. Vigilante groups took up arms, overstepping the political hierarchy, and stirring up resentment and rage in the population. The Northern Kingdom of Israel had already been suppressed. And now, parts of Judah had been taken over by Edomites and Philistines, who had taken advantage of the chaos to bolster their own political influence.

And then things got even worse. Jerusalem was under siege.

As King Ahaz tried to figure out a way to save his people, and his land, from increasing devastation, Isaiah asked for a meeting.

In chapter 7, Isaiah gives the king a prophetic message:

“Take heed, be quiet, do not fear, and do not let your heart be faint, because of these two smoldering stumps of firebrands…It will not come to pass…If you do not stand firm in your faith, you will not stand at all.”ii

Isaiah tells King Ahaz that the invading armies will leave, and the influence of these antagonistic nations will decrease in time, but Ahaz has to be patient, and wait. He has to believe that God won’t abandon his people.

It’s simply not enough for Ahaz.

He allies with the powerful Assyrians, asking them to send troops and supplies to Judah to help them win the war. He chooses military might over God.

Heschel responds:

“No other ruler would have acted differently. The state was in peril, so he appealed to a great power for military aid. Isaiah offered words; Assyria had an army…

The future of the country was in peril. The king would have had to justify to his people a refusal to ask for help.

So Ahaz decided that it was more expedient to be “son and servant” to the king of Assyria than son and servant to the invisible God. He took refuge in a lie.”iii

The lie was that military power, and not God, could save his people.

The consequences were devastating.

While Ahaz did achieve temporary peace in Judah, it was at a cost to his own personal faith and, eventually, to the survival of his kingdom. Caught up in the thrill of his political alliance with Assyria, he continuously failed to listen to Isaiah’s warnings of destruction.

By the time Ahaz’ son, Hezekiah, took the throne, Assyria was demanding more and more tribute in exchange for their protection. And in the following years, Hezekiah broke ties with Assyria. He allied with Egypt and Babylon, in an attempt to reduce Assyria’s influence.

This was the fatal flaw.

In the coming years, the Kingdom of Judah lost every last bit of its freedom. God’s people were in exile.

This history matters, because it is the context from which today’s Isaiah reading comes to us.

In fact, most of Christianity’s messianic prophecies take place, not in a context of peace, but of utter destruction.

Burned out buildings, streets filled with rubble, air filled with the cries of dying children, and weeping parents. Hostages taken; futures taken. Rage and despair everywhere you turn.

This image of war hits close to home. We can see with the eyes of Isaiah, because we have been inundated with these scenes for two months in Israel and Palestine, nine months in Sudan, and two years in Ukraine.

In fact, the violence is happening all over, every day, and has always been happening, since the beginning of human history.

We continue to live in a world where rulers, civilians, and people of faith are being asked to make impossible decisions, sometimes for our own survival.

But, even while recognizing that there is a real threat, Isaiah asks us: will we choose God or political power?

When we justify the death of civilians, we are not choosing God. When we choose to ignore the suffering of God’s beloved children, we are not choosing God. When we convince ourselves that might makes right, we are not choosing God.

In times of war, we are justified in being afraid.

But Isaiah insists that being afraid can’t justify “taking matters into our own hands.” Because that kind of fear denies the power of God.

Our streets are full of the blood, and the cries of people who bear the image of God. And we are, all of us, complicit. Because we have forsaken our own prophesies. We have forgotten that only God can bring lasting peace, in a kingdom where Christ’s eternal light erases every shadow.

Advent is a time of reckoning with the reality that we are caught between the Kingdoms of this world and the Kingdom of God.

The prophets call us back to this reckoning, even as they sing songs of future peace.

In the beautiful passage we read today, Isaiah reminds us that God yearns to make all things beautiful. He tells us there’s a voice that calls us to clean up the rubble, and make the path straight, so that we can walk, as refugees, to the paradise God has for us.

This voice is personified, in the Gospels, by John the Baptist. He declares that God is speaking “peace to his people,” but we can’t hear it over the bombs. He dares to call people to get ready, repent, and turn away from the kingdoms of this world, so we will notice when Jesus shows up.

Jesus is on his way, and when he gets here, the distance between Heaven and earth comes crashing down into a single plane. When God shows up, everything is different. Everything is made new. Thank God, the prophets are getting us ready!

And thank God for Advent, the season that’s meant to shake us up.

This season reminds us: there is no peace if we keep choosing violence. There is no garden if we keep choosing grenades.

It’s time to say no to the kingdoms of this world, and choose the Kingdom of God instead.

Our prophetic texts tell us that God is ready for us to return.

Jesus Christ, the incarnate God, will scoop us up in his arms and give us a hug. He will stroke our hair and tell us he understands – deep in his bones – what it feels like to fear, what it feels like to be displaced, what it feels like to yearn for peace.

But our prophetic texts also ask us a very important question. And now is the time to answer it:

Are we ready to repent?

Amen.

Hear, Read, Mark, Learn, Inwardly Digest

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A sermon given on the 25th Sunday after Pentecost – Readings here

Blessed Lord, who hast caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning; grant us that we may in such wise hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them; that by patience and comfort of thy holy Word, we may embrace, and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which thou hast given us in our savior Jesus Christ.

What I just read is the original version of today’s Collect. The “Collect,” which is really the same word as “collect,” is the gathering prayer that the Celebrant reads at the beginning of each service.

This particular Collect was written by Thomas Cranmer, the first Archbishop of the Church in England, after it split from the Catholic Church.

Cranmer lived and died during a significant moment in the church’s history. Not only did he write and compile the first liturgies written in English, he was also among the first generation to have access to printed copies of the Bible.

Before the invention of the printing press, laypeople sometimes had access to Psalms and selected Gospel readings in their own language, and they had probably memorized some scripture. But services were in Latin, and most people were totally dependent on their parish priest to provide religious instruction.

So, when Cranmer sat down and wrote today’s Collect, he wasn’t just saying something everyone already knew about the importance of reading the Bible.He was making an argument that very few people could have made before the sixteenth century.

It wasn’t so much that people of his time didn’t understand that “all scriptures were written for our learning.”

After all, the Scriptures themselves say that in Second Timothy:

“All scripture is inspired by God and is useful for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, so that the person of God may be proficient, equipped for every good work.”

So, people understood that Scripture was an important tool for accessing the story of God. But, for the first time, they actually had access to ALL scriptures, in the context of the whole Bible, translated in a language they could understand.

And, as literacy increased throughout the sixteenth century, they could even READ them.

Knowing this gives us a better appreciation for the significance of Cranmer’s words. It’s not simply a reminder that Scriptures are a nice thing that we have. It’s a revolutionary argument that we have a responsibility to engage with them.

To hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest.

And through this practice, we expect God to speak.

Now, expecting God to speak is an easy thing to do when the Scriptures are pleasant. When it’s the angel saying, “Do not fear” and Jesus saying, “You are blessed. In other words, it’s easy to hear the voice of God when the Scriptures sound like a lullaby.

But what do we do with scriptures like today’s Gospel reading?

As Deacon Dawn pointed out last week, this reading – as well as the one before and after it – are disturbing. In fact, the genre is literally apocalyptic. With all this talk of outer darkness, and weeping and gnashing of teeth, they sound very inconsistent with a God whose primary trait is love.

Today’s reading, the Parable of the Talents, is pretty well-known, because preachers like to use it as a reminder to give money to the church. But, I had a hard time getting over its ickiness…

First, there’s the disturbing language of a “Master” and his “slaves.” Then, there’s the impatience and cruelty of the Master. And maybe I should also point out, that the most obvious moral is that we are all supposed to invest in the stock market? If you’re not sure what the heck is going on here, you’re not alone.

In reading my trusty commentaries this week, I actually laughed out loud a couple times, as the scholars went in circles trying to make perfect sense of the story.

They could say a few things with authority: Context clues suggest that we’re supposed to think of the Master as Jesus and the slaves as the Christian community. The scholars also point out that the amount of money – or “Talents” – given to each slave was enormous, up to 15 years’ worth of wages.

But in the end, they don’t exactly know what to do with all the ins and outs.

For example:

Why was the slave who buried his talent, entrusted with less in the first place?

Why didn’t the Master tell anyone what his expectations were?

Why was he so mad with that poor guy who didn’t actually lose any of the money?!

And maybe, most significantly, why does the text completely contradict Jesus’ words, “the last will be first, and the first will be last”?

Instead, it says:

“For to all those who have, more will be given, but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away.”

It is at the end of all these questions that Cranmer’s words should come back to us. If it’s true that all scriptures are written for our learning, that means that we don’t have to clean up the messy parts of our Scriptures to benefit from them.

They don’t have to be perfectly clear to teach us something.

Cranmer suggests that when we’re confused or disturbed by certain Scripture passages, which he calls “dark mysteries,” the thing to do is: hear them, read them, take notes, learn from others, and inwardly digest.

In other words, we should spend more time with them. We should stay with them. We can treat the Bible like an old friend. We can talk it out, fight it out, ask lots of questions, settle into the silences, and find our way out to the other side.

We can trust that there’s something good and life-giving in the relationship we have with the Bible.

This week, I decided to put Cranmer’s advice to the test…

I spent quite a bit of time reading, marking, and learning, and I’m happy to tell you that I have digested something. That’s not to say that I won’t hear something completely different the next time I encounter the passage. And it’s also not to say that I have discovered the true meaning of these apocalyptic words.

But, for today, this is what stands out:

“I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground.”

What resonates, for me, in this story is the fear. Just like the man who buried his talent, I live with so much of it. The fear that I’m not enough, and don’t have enough. The fear that I’ll be misunderstood, and that all my Jesus talk is making it hard to make friends. The fear that living into the subversive values of a God who walked toward death in order to gain life, is too great a sacrifice for me to bear. The fear that maybe I’m wrong, about a lot of things.

I am afraid to take what Jesus has given me, and do something with it.

Does that mean that Jesus is going to, just, discard me like the man in the story?

Well, here’s where the digestion comes.

I remember that this passage is a parable. Nothing happened to the guy who buried his talent. Because he never existed.

This is a moral story, a warning, but it’s not a historical fact.

And that leads me to the next realization: None of us are the guy who gets chewed out by the Master. Because, unlike the Master, Jesus has provided us with instruction for how to live.

We’re not being left in the dark – we know that Christ has called us to love God, and love our neighbors as ourselves.

We know that we have been called to share that love, until the whole world is made new.

We know that we’re not supposed to suffocate love by burying it, silencing it, and never mentioning it again.

By the very nature of him telling the story in our Scriptures, Jesus is not the unjust Master. Like a good coach, Jesus is telling us that it’s imperative that we rise to the challenge of the Gospel. And the time is now.

With that in mind, the overwhelming cry of this story isn’t that we’re all gonna be tossed into outer darkness, because we’re not great with money. The overwhelming cry of this story is actually a lullaby, disguised as a command:

“Do not fear!”

The story is telling us in the strongest terms that when everything gets apocalyptic, we can no longer afford to fear.

Love doesn’t grow if we bury it. Love only grows when we spread it around.

In the face of the world’s brutality, we are understandably impatient. Sometimes it’s hard to find comfort.

But Cranmer reminds us that the Scriptures are always there, just like an old friend. If we give them a chance, they will find a way to comfort us. They will speak the honest truth when no one else will. They will challenge us on our crap, stop us in our tracks, and command us to pull our heads out of the sand.

Hear them, read, mark, and learn.

At first, you might experience a little indigestion. But trust the process. With God’s help, you will digest.

Amen.

The Parable of the Pumpkin Patch

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A Sermon given on the 20th Sunday after Pentecost

My brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and crown… 

For the past few weeks, we’ve been slowly reading our way through Paul’s Letter to the Philippians.  And, while I have often noticed how beautiful the theology is, I also kinda felt like…there’s the Apostle Paul being Paul again:  being a little dramatic, using way too many words,  and going on and on about himself, blah blah blah. 

— 

But this week’s passage felt different. 

The first thing I noticed about it, is that Paul mentions two women by name: Euodia and Syntyche. Paul refers to these women, along with a man named Clement, as co-workers in the “work of the Gospel.” 

But it’s not all compliments.  It seems that Euodia and Syntyche have had some kind of practical or theological disagreement that was impacting their community.  And Paul is gently reminding them to find common ground and to remember that they are united in the Body of Christ. 

Still, the overall tone is warm and intimate.  These people are his friends.  It is clear here, and throughout the whole letter, that Paul really loves this community. 

The second thing I noticed is the lightness and joy that comes across:  “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice!” 

One commentary suggests that “joy is the principal theme of the letter,”  with some variation on the word joy appearing 16 times in only 4 chapters. 

It’s interesting to note that Paul is in prison while he writes this.  Imagine having all that joy in a prison cell! 

And yet, Paul is joyful,  because, when he looks at the church in Philippi, he sees Christ fully alive and at work in the world. He sees the Kingdom of God being made a reality through the hard and humble work of its people. 

— 

Inspired by the Letter to the Philippians,  I thought about spending my sermon prep time this week writing my own letter.  I was going to call it “A Letter to the Gracians.” 

But I think a parable will serve all of us better. So, without further ado, here’s:  The Parable of the Pumpkin Patch. 

The Kingdom of Heaven is like a pumpkin patch.

On Tuesday evening, a significant number of parishioners, neighbors, and friends showed up in Grace’s front yard to unload pumpkins for our first annual pumpkin patch. 

It is safe to say that we did not know what we were in for. 

When Gail and I schemed up a plan to launch a pumpkin patch fundraiser, we truly did not understand that we were signing up to receive, like, 2,000 pumpkins! We were mostly thinking about how CUTE the front yard would look, scattered with gourds.  I was thinking about the chance to meet and mingle with our neighbors.  And Gail, good treasurer that she is, was thinking about the bottom line. 

But there we were, faced with a literal truckload of pumpkins, with no choice but to get them off the truck. 

The first hour was rough.  

We didn’t have much of a system, and we didn’t know how to organize ourselves.  The people handing down pumpkins from the truck were doing literally back-breaking work.  And there was no end in sight. 

At one point, some of us panicked and tried to come up with a magic alternative. 

What if we waited and did it in the morning?  Mmm, how would that actually solve the problem? 

What if we hired people?  Uh, sort of counterproductive to the point of a fundraiser! 

What if we…had more friends? I quickly texted my local clergy friends with an SOS!  A few others did the same.  

Then we put our phones away and got back to work. 

Faced with collective anxiety about the horrible situation we had landed ourselves in,  we were forced to make a game plan. 

First, we needed to face our individual limitations.  No one should end up in the hospital over a pumpkin patch. 

Next, we needed to work together.  We couldn’t afford to operate as individuals anymore.  We had to be a united, and disciplined, super organism – acting as one Body. 

We started an assembly line – a human chain that extended to the middle of the front yard.  First, a person on the truck would hand a pumpkin to someone on the ground.  That person would hand it over to the person to their left.  Then it would be handed off to the next person, and the next person, until it got to the end of the line,  where it would be gently placed in the grass. 

This process repeated like that until all 1,151 bulk pumpkins were out of the truck. 

As we worked together:  

  • People on the sidelines offered encouragement and good humor. 
  • The mechanic across the street sprinted over, and helped us move pallets. 
  • My friend and her son showed up, and joined the assembly line.  
  • Former school parents and neighbors quietly appeared, and took their place in the process. 
  • One person, noticing how late it was getting, came back with pizza and drinks for everyone. 
  • And, at one point, a complete stranger walked off the sidewalk and offered to help. 

The people on the truck continued in their back-breaking work, and we kept passing pumpkins.  But now there were more of us. 

As the hours wore on, our muscles ached. Our feet hurt from standing.  Our backs would never be the same.  

But for some reason, as time went on,  the laughter increased. The frustration subsided. The assembly line joyfully counted off, as the pumpkins were passed down.  And kids skipped around the growing patch. 

— 

We were burdened by this task of unloading an ungodly number of pumpkins.  And yet, “joy had become the principal theme” of the evening. 

Like Euodia and Syntyche and Clement, and so many others at the church in Philippi, we, at the church of Grace, had become co-workers, struggling beside one another in the work of the church. 

In taking on that work, we were noticing the miracle of helping hands,  showing up just when we needed them. 

We were feasting on slices of pizza, that had appeared like manna in the wilderness. 

We were aching and bruised and tired, and maybe a little annoyed.  But together, we had made something happen that we never could have accomplished by ourselves. 

And we rejoiced, because, we had seen what was possible when we lived into our baptismal response: “We will, with God’s help.” 

We had done it, together, with God’s help. 

— 

Beloved, the world is overcome with hatred, disaster, violence, and death.  

But we can rejoice.  

Because we know what’s possible when the Body of Christ acts like a Body.  When we work together as a super organism, we can accomplish insurmountable tasks.  

We’ve seen it with our own eyes! And if a few dozen people can transform a front yard into a pumpkin patch, just imagine what the whole church can do to transform the world’s ugliness into beauty, and its barrenness into bounty.  

Amen.