Category: sermon

Walk the Little Way

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A Sermon for the Feast Day of St. Therese of Lisieux

Gracious Father, who called your servant Therese to a life of fervent prayer, give to us the spirit of prayer and zeal for the ministry of the Gospel, that the love of Christ may be known throughout all the world; through the same Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen. 

Today is the feast day of St. Therese of Lisieux. 

Therese isn’t very popular in Episcopal circles, but the Catholic women I know tell me that she was an important part of their faith formation. I first learned about her in 2021, from a lay preacher at my summer internship. 

But, good news for all of us!  Therese was officially added to the Episcopal festival calendar in 2022.  

I like to think of her as my unofficial patron saint, because her feast day was the day before my ordination to the priesthood last year. But that was just the icing on the cake. Therese keeps showing up in my life. So much so, that I was surprised that I hadn’t already talked about her in a sermon! 

In my experience, sometimes the saints seem to follow us around, and it’s a good idea to try to figure out what they’re trying tell us. So, think of this sermon as a bit of sleuthing on my behalf. 

What is Therese trying to tell us? 

— 

Before I get there, I just want to say that the lives of saints are interesting to me,  because even though they get lumped together as VIPs in God’s kingdom, their stories are really more about how GOD works in our messy humanity. 

And no one story follows the same path. Some saints are from wealthy families,  others come from poverty. Some are known for their mystical visions, and others for their peculiar ways of life. Some are famous during their lifetimes, and others become popular after their deaths. 

But all of them have one thing in common: at some point, they get infected by the Jesus bug, and it leads them to places they never could have imagined.  

Through danger, illness, abandonment, and every kind of complication, the saints become saints, because no one can deny that God is working in their life. 

In that sense, sainthood directs us to notice God at work in every kind of person and in all kinds of ways. 

The lives of the saints show us that faithfulness, and not status, is what matters to God. 

St. Therese of Lisieux

— 

So, what’s Therese’s story? 

Therese became a discalced Carmelite nun in 1888. She was 15 years old.  

(The word “discalced” literally translates to “without shoes.” The discalced Carmelite order practices extreme simplicity of living. They devote their lives to prayer and contemplation.)

Therese was born into a wealthy merchant family, but things were far from good. When she was 4 years old, her mother died of breast cancer. As a young child, she was frequently bullied by a girl at her school. When her older sister entered the convent, Therese began to suffer from tremors and other anxiety symptoms. If she were alive today, we would probably say she lived with depression and anxiety. 

Before becoming a nun, Therese suffered from years of spiritual doubt, as she continued to grieve the death of her mother. She describes the hopelessness she felt in her autobiography. One Christmas Eve, she sat down to open presents, and was overcome with what she describes as the “joy in self-forgetfuless.” She was finally able to move forward. 

Therese entered the convent shortly after. 

In the convent, she struggled to make friends. She described these experiences as deeply painful. But she was determined to pray for those who persecuted her, and even spent extra time with people she didn’t like. 

Her humility and endurance in the face of difficult relationships puzzled people. But it ended up shaping her life toward sainthood. 

— 

Therese is best known for developing a spiritual practice called “the little way.” When you walk the little way, you think of each little act as an offering to God. You don’t worry about trying to impress others, or apologize for not being perfect. 

Therese described it this way: 

“The only way I can prove my love is by scattering flowers and these flowers are every little sacrifice, every glance and word, and the doing of the least actions for love.” 

Because of the little way, Therese had no patience for ego-driven choices. She rejected opportunities to rise through the ranks at the convent, and focused on reading the Gospels, instead of the popular theology of the day. 

Over time, she came to understand that her shortcomings “did not offend God.” She said: “My way is all confidence and love.” 

Therese died from tuberculosis at the age of 24. But thanks to her spiritual autobiography, many people were compelled to practice the little way. 

— 

Now that I’ve said all that, I have to admit that I have been avoiding Therese. 

That’s because, in Catholic imagery, Therese is often represented as a dainty young woman surrounded by pink roses. For more than a century, the strength of her life has often been misrepresented by the church. 

Instead, she has served as a symbol of female meekness and juvenile ignorance. She has been depicted as the opposite of empowered. 

On the surface, she is everything I reject in my life, as a Christian and a priest, who happens to be a woman. 

If the churches I grew up in respected the saints, I’m sure I would have been force-fed Therese as a way to keep me in line. As a way to remind me that a woman’s place is among chubby-cheeked babies, humming a sweet hymn, and wearing a pink ribbon in my long hair. 

But I think this is part of the reason Therese has been following me around.  

Not because I need to learn a lesson about femininity from Therese. But, so I will be forced to soften that judgmental impulse to condemn her for boxing me in. 

Therese’s personality and teachings may have aligned with the gender politics of the church, but she wasn’t boxing anyone in! Therese was the way she was, because God had transformed her grief and rejection into a path to spiritual liberation. 

She lived and ministered exactly as she was, because she was confident that Christ loved her and fully welcomed her. She was actually fully empowered, because she wasn’t trying to impress anyone. 

Her gift to the church is not that she was quiet and sweet, though there’s nothing wrong with those traits.  

It is that she spent her ministry being honest. 

— 

In the Gospel today, Jesus reminds the chief priests and elders that their intellect and fancy titles don’t give them special access to the Kingdom of God. 

No, the inheritors of the Kingdom are simply the faithful ones. They are the prostitutes and tax collectors, who don’t deny their need for grace. Like Therese, they understand that their “shortcomings do not offend God.” 

Those who have lived with grief, illness, abandonment, and bullying don’t really have the luxury of putting on airs. When you’ve been through Hell and back, you no longer have the patience to pretend like everything’s ok. 

This radical honesty leads to incredible clarity. Those who have lived in the valleys of life are often the first to notice that Jesus is the Savior. They are the first to believe that the Kingdom of God is near. 

While the privileged and unburdened ones are talking the talk, the survivors are actually walking the walk, even if they come limping. 

There are so many who have walked the walk, along the little way. Some of them are in this room today. 

And, through your little acts of kindness, patience, and endurance, you have been invited into the Kingdom of God. You are taking part in the healing of the world. 

— 

So, what is Therese trying to tell us? What is Jesus trying to tell us? 

Maybe…Keep the faith. Live your life with the confidence that Christ loves you, that he welcomes you for who you are, and has a way of transforming your suffering into love. 

Believe that every small step toward Christ builds the kingdom. Your faithfulness makes a difference, even if nobody else notices. You may not have much to give, but YOU are enough.  

You are not being asked to contort who you are to fit the expectations of the world. You are being invited into the fullness of all Christ made you to be. 

Walk the little way.

Jonah, Road Rage, Uncomfortable Reckonings

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A Sermon for the 17th Sunday after Pentecost

Lectionary Readings here

I recently saw a post on social media that said, “If your preacher always makes himself the hero of the story, stop going to that church.” 

In that case, after I tell you this story, I hope you’ll realize that you can definitely stay at this church…

Last week, I was leaving Meyerland Plaza and heading back over to Grace with the altar flowers. As I’m sure some of you know,  they have been doing construction on West Loop South for what feels like forever. 

To get back through town, I needed to continue straight through the intersection,  so I dutifully took my place in the middle lane: (pregnant pause) the CORRECT lane.  

But I noticed that whenever the light turned green, the lane was inching forward at a glacial pace. After sitting through two stop lights and getting nowhere, I started to become agitated. That’s when I realized that people were getting into the left turn only lane and the right turn only lane, then cutting people off IN THE INTERSECTION, in order to proceed straight through the intersection. 

Let me say that again: THESE TERRIBLE, HATEFUL PEOPLE WERE CUTTING OFF GOOD PEOPLE LIKE ME, FOR THEIR OWN SELFISH CONVENIENCE!! 

When I finally got to the intersection, I adopted a defensive posture.  No one was going to cut me off!! 

Unfortunately, I am not actually an aggressive driver. So, the car in the left lane, and the car in the right lane BOTH managed to cut me off,  then proceeded to cut each other off while I watched. 

At that moment, I did the only thing I could do: I LAID ON MY HORN.  

I yelled at them and called them names. I insulted their intelligence and wished for their suffering! 

And then, I congratulated myself for being the only righteous person on the road in Houston. 

— 

Why are these kinds of situations so infuriating? 

It’s because the whole thing is deeply unfair! Why should I be penalized for doing the right thing? Why should they be able to do something illegal, and even dangerous, and just…get away with it? 

Actions are supposed to have consequences, but no one seems to care about that anymore. 

— 

aerial view of person swimming in the sea
Photo by Dmitry Osipenko on Unsplash

See, this is why I love Jonah. Jonah gets it. 

At the beginning of his story, God tells Jonah to go to Nineveh and warn them that the city is going to be destroyed because of its wickedness.  

Jonah feels good about this message.  

He is being asked to tell this to the capital city of Assyria, the most powerful and cruel empire in the region. 

And this isn’t just ancient gossip. 

By the time the Book of Jonah is written, Assyria has destroyed the Northern Kingdom of Israel and exiled thousands of Israelites, who will never get home again.  

For Jonah and his readers, it is obvious that Nineveh deserves to be destroyed. And Jonah, a man with a strong sense of fairness, is the perfect man for the job. 

The only problem is, Jonah knows God too well.  

He knows God is “a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.” So, he knows that once he gets to Nineveh, God will let them get away with it, at the teenist, tiniest sign of self-awareness. 

So, Jonah runs away.  

But, by God’s grace,  a big fish swallows him to save his life, and spits him out on dry land. 

Jonah gets to Nineveh, he says his piece, and God spares the whole city. 

— 

In light of Israel’s suffering, God’s pardon of the Ninevites is so unfair it makes my stomach turn.  

I’d like to get back in my car, lay on the horn, and never let up. 

Jonah himself is so upset that he throws up his hands and asks God to kill him.  

Jonah is having a real existential crisis. One commentary says that “the prophet prefers death to living in a world with no recognizable order of justice.”1

— 

(Sigh.) That’s it. 

It is difficult to live in a world with no recognizable order of justice. Where bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people. Where the ones who are RIGHT don’t get any recognition, and the ones who are WRONG seem to flourish.  

Where innocent people are let down, pushed down, and shot down. Where we are collectively burdened by pain, addiction, and trauma.  

And still, God seems to keep pardoning the perpetrators! 

“Yes, God, sometimes we are angry enough to die.” 

— 

But, God is begging us to stay! God keeps calling us back to Nineveh. God keeps calling us back to the vineyard. We have a vital role to play! 

— 

At the end of Jonah, God asks the question:  

“And should I not be concerned about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also many animals?”  

Near the end of the Gospel reading, Jesus poses some questions, too:  

“Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?’” 

It’s true. Life isn’t fair, and that fact is infuriating at times. 

But, across the scriptures, God reminds us, gently but firmly, that we are not the arbiters of justice in this world that God has made. 

— 

But let me make something clear. God isn’t saying it’s wrong to recognize injustice. 

We all know that this world is full of profound suffering. We have witnessed the oppression of our fellow human beings, and the degradation of the whole creation. We have felt the effects of carelessness and malice in our own lives. 

God agrees with Jonah that Ninevah’s behavior deserves punishment.  

Just as Jesus, in telling his parable, knows it’s not fair that all the laborers were paid the same wage. 

As disciples of Christ, we have a responsibility to carefully attune ourselves to injustice. We do the work of God when we protest, advocate, and respond.  

— 

But, the Book of Jonah makes it clear that we are called to name what is unfair, not so that God can destroy the bad people, but so God can redeem the whole creation! 

After all, we know that God is a creative and creating God. God is in the business of making all things new. 

A divine response to unfairness does not look like scorched earth. It looks like a vineyard in harvest. It looks like grace. And we have ALL been given undeserved and excessive grace. 

When we recognize grace in our own lives, we are humbled to understand that all of us have been unkind, unfair, and even unjust. 

Maybe we’re not always Jonah. Maybe, sometimes, we’re Nineveh. 

Maybe it’s time to repent. 

— 

In our quest for fairness, it is time for us to ask ourselves, honestly, if we want our enemies to be destroyed, or if we want the world to be transformed. 

Because we don’t get to have both. 

If our guiding ethic is for bad people to suffer, we will always be fleeing Nineveh. We will always be living in the dark and claustrophobic belly of the big fish. 

From that vantage point, we will never get to see the world transformed. We will never get to be a part of the beauty of the new creation. We will have settle for the lonely company of our own self-righteousness. 

The only way out of our darkness is to accept that life in God is deeply unfair… We may not understand it, but we know that God has called us to the work of transformation.

So, there’s only one question left to ask: Where is God calling you that you don’t want to go?  

Amen. 

Where Keys Are About Opening Doors

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A Sermon for the 13th Sunday after Pentecost 

This week’s lectionary is a treasure trove of stories and lessons.  

We have baby Moses being sent down the Nile in a basket after two midwives named Shiphrah and Puah lie to Pharaoh in protest of an unjust law.  

We have the Romans passage about being members of the Body of Christ, which has, probably, been the number one image that has informed my understanding of the church. 

And then we look again, and we get to the Gospel passage, which is basically the moment that Jesus founds the church, with Peter as its first minister! 

So much glorious theological content!  

— 

Paolo Emilio Besenzi: Saint Peter, Creative Commons License

And yet, this whole week, I have been fixated on the fact that Peter is a nickname. 

Maybe this has been obvious to you when you read your Bible. But for me, I think I have always kind of glossed over the fact that when “Simon, who is called Peter,” is labeled that way, this isn’t some ancient naming system that I simply don’t understand. 

This is just your normal nickname…Which is to say, it’s basically an insult cloaked in intimacy. Like my nickname growing up – Leah Whiner – it’s a name that describes your worst quality. 

And this is the reality: Peter is not a complimentary nickname. (My apologies to any Peters in the room.) 

In fact, it’s not really a name, strictly speaking. Peter comes from the Greek word for rock or stone: petros. And in other places, we’ll sometimes see it translated as Cephas, which is simply the Aramaic word for stone or rock.  

While today’s Gospel passage seems to suggest that being called “the rock” is a good thing – after all, Jesus says, “upon this rock I will build my church” – there seems to be near universal-consensus among biblical scholars that being called rock is more like being called rocky. Rough around the edges, unpolished, and difficult. 

I picture what a person must look and act like to be given this name by the Son of God, and I don’t see a man with nicely coiffed hair and smooth skin, wearing a tie and a Sport coat. 

To be honest, what I picture is my old friend in Charlottesville, who lived outside, and who hadn’t held down a job in at least a decade.  

This is a person who is disruptive to polite society. Someone who has sunbaked skin and dirty clothes, and doesn’t think too much before he acts. A person who always seems to be saying and doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. 

Someone nicknamed Peter would disturb those of us who want to live “respectable” lives.  

I have a hunch that he wouldn’t pass a background check. So why in the heck is Jesus giving him keys? 

In naming Peter as the first apostle and the foundation of the church, Jesus is making a rather bold statement, and I would argue that it hearkens back to the Beatitudes. 

“Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah!” 

When Jesus calls this leather-skinned fisherman, uneducated, rough-and-tumble, Peter, “blessed,” and when he hands over the keys to the kingdom, he is proving that he was serious when he called the poor, the persecuted, and the grieving “blessed.” 

In naming Peter as the rock and the cornerstone of the church, we are to understand that the church that Christ is building is not a polite, genteel place where nice, middle-class people bless the huddled masses outside their door.  

No! The church IS the huddled masses! With rocky Peter holding the key. 

This means that the church is only the church because sloppy, unsophisticated, outsiders are named as the blessed ones of Christ! 

— 

Those first Christians were called to be proud of the fact that their lives and their bodies did not reflect the values of polite society. 

They were called to build a world where keys are about opening doors, not closing them. 

I think we get so hung up on slick branding and marketable programs that we forget that the church was never meant to be a sparkling diamond in Jesus’ heavenly crown. It is meant to be rocky and rough around the edges. 

And “Christian living” was never meant to make us more palatable or polite. It is meant to make us ungovernable. 

— 

In a society obsessed with decorum, with not rocking the boat, the church has too often become a willing partner.  

  • We have cut off the hair of indigenous children and forced them to learn English.  We have moved our soup kitchens into church basements, hidden from the sight of stained glass and polished stone altars.  
  • We have segregated our worship. 
  • We have cooperated with the authorities.  
  • We have allowed our siblings to suffer,  
  • while we thank God we’re not like them. 

I mean, think about it:  

If a weirdo like Peter walked into churches across America today, how many Christians would call the police on him? 

It’s a sobering thought. 

— 

And yet, where the Holy Spirit moves, the church has also been sanctuary…. 

Here are the stories that give me hope: 

In Nashville in 1985, Catholic priest Charles Strobel noticed people sleeping in their cars in the church parking lot.  

He invited them into the church every night that winter. With other local churches, he founded a winter shelter called Room in the Inn. Today, there are dozens of similar programs across the country. 

In Martha’s Vineyard in 2022, an Episcopal church provided emergency shelter to migrants caught up in a cruel political stunt. The church had access to cots, because they participated in a program modeled after Room in the Inn. 

Across the country, churches are defying city ordinances and feeding their hungry neighbors, while absorbing thousands of dollars in fines. 

And in my former home of Charlottesville, VA, Maria Chavalan-Sut, an undocumented asylum-seeker fleeing violence in Guatemala, sought sanctuary in a Methodist church.  

Federal officials threatened her with over 200 thousand dollars in fines. But she, and the church, persisted. Maria lived inside the church for three years before Customs Enforcement granted her a temporary stay. 

After years of advocacy, in 2022, her children traveled like Moses on the Nile, as unaccompanied minors.  They were reunited with her there in the church. Maria and her kids now have their own home, and she sells tamales at the City Market. 

Here is the church, acknowledging blessedness. 

— 

How often have we considered the fact that we’re here, in church, today, because 2,000 years ago rocky Peter opened the door to let us in? 

By the same token, how often do we remember that you and I are not named as the keyholders of the Kingdom of God? That it is, in fact, not up to us to offer sanctuary?  

The doors have already been unlocked, and the people have already been called blessed. Christ has already invited everyone in.  

The question is: are we going to figure out how to see it through, or are we going to try to stop it? 

— 

Thanks to our friend, Peter, we know that the church is a place for outcasts, not insiders. It will always be messy in exactly the way humanity is messy. 

And this Body, with its many members, will always be caught up in the struggle of admitting that our good, respectable, “Christian names” don’t mean anything to a Savior who prefers nicknames. 

When we, really understand that, it becomes common sense to make room for anyone else who walks through these open doors. 

Through our baptismal vows, we have followed Peter through the unlocked doors of the Kingdom.  

We now claim to live according to the values of the Kingdom of God: to proclaim the Gospel, love our neighbors, and respect the dignity of every human being.  

To do life together. Even though it can get pretty rocky. Amen. 

Transfiguration Sermon: Carried up the Mountaintop

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Readings here

The Transfiguration is an experience of Christ’s glory, and the disciples’ vulnerability. 

While Jesus is “wonderfully transfigured, in raiment white and glistening,” the disciples are exhausted from the long hike. While God’s voice booms from a cloud, “This is my Son,” the disciples are “terrified.” 

In the presence of Christ’s divinity, the disciples are more aware than ever of their fragility.  

And this is a very good thing. 

mountains and tree range during golden hour
Photo by Artem Sapegin on Unsplash

And it isn’t the only time something like this happens. God seems to have a thing for the mountains. Several times in our Scriptures, vulnerable humans are compelled to follow God onto steep and difficult trails.  

They are called to experience God on the mountaintop. 

God appears to Moses to give the Ten Commandments, and Moses’ face literally shines like the sun for days afterward. Elijah runs away from a blood-thirsty king, and God whispers peace to him in a gentle breeze. The disciples, of course, see the glory of God in Jesus Christ. 

These mountaintop stories help define what it means when people talk about having a “mountaintop experience.” 

When we talk about “the mountaintop,” we tend to mean: a moment of clarity, abiding peace, and often, a direct experience of God. When we’re on the “mountaintop,” we may feel that we have a birds’ eye view all of a sudden. We have a sense of who we are and what we are meant to do. We may also feel a sense of relief or wonder.

Importantly, though, the mountaintop moment is never an occasion for OUR glory. We don’t get to an experience of God by our own efforts. And it’s not about the adrenaline rush of a job well done. 

In fact, the mountaintop moment almost always comes in the midst of hardship, when things aren’t going well at all. After all, Moses had been wandering around the desert with a whole bunch of complainers for years, Elijah was fleeing certain death, and the disciples had inadvertently taken up with a rabble-rouser. 

And down the mountain, there’s no guarantee that we won’t find ourselves in hardship again. 

Still, the mountaintop experience stays with us, because it is a place of God’s glory and our vulnerability. Up there in the clouds, we find our greatest peace, because we surrender to the fact that we are not in control. And when we look back on the experience, we are comforted to remember that God sometimes feels very close. 

Though we are terrified, we can say, like Peter, “It is good for us to be here.” 

— 

In the interest of vulnerability, I think it’s time to tell you about my own mountaintop experience. Now, anyone who witnessed it would say I was in the valley of the shadow of death. Or – at least – Daniel was. 

But I know that Christ was revealing himself to me. 

Early last year, my family and I took a leap of faith, when I signed the contract to become Grace’s curate.  

I had never been to Houston, I have no immediate family in Texas, and we had always thought we would move back to Virginia, after I finished seminary. 

But the Lord works in mysterious ways… 

— 

April turned to May, and I graduated. 

A month later, we loaded up the U-Haul and started the 2,000 mile journey from Connecticut to Texas.  

Daniel hadn’t been feeling well for weeks, but we didn’t think it was anything serious. But, two days into the three-day journey, he woke up in the middle of the night, doubled over in pain. He could barely tell me what was wrong.  

I rushed him over to the hospital in Slidell, Louisiana and, after hours of waiting and dozens of tests, the nurse looked at Daniel with concern and said: “You are very sick.” 

Daniel had a perforated colon. We didn’t have health insurance. The U-Haul was due back tomorrow. The cats were tearing up the curtains in our hotel room. Daniel might have to have surgery. There might be complications. I was supposed to meet the movers at our house. Daniel was very sick. How would we pay for all this?!! Why would God make me move to Texas, if this was going to happen?! 

At this moment, we were not on a mountaintop. 

We were six feet above sea level in Slidell, Louisiana…

—

But then, like Ezekiel’s dry bones, God started re-membering the Body of Christ. And the body started moving.  

Like diligent worker bees, people started descending on us from near and far.  

Without even asking, the local Episcopal priest showed up at Daniel’s bedside. It turned out that a friend in New Jersey sent him our way.  

Within hours, hundreds of people were praying. Within days, dozens had given us money to tide us over. 

The people of this congregation – total strangers at the time – had already raised enough money to pay our up-front medical bills. Two bishops from the Diocese of Texas called to check in. 

A parishioner and his family spent Father’s Day driving from Houston to Slidell to pick up the U-Haul. The rector coordinated with the movers, and pretty much everything else. 

The diocese figured out how to backdate my insurance, so that it would cover our hospital bills. 

While all of this was happening, the surgeon was insistent that Daniel would need surgery, which in hid case, could lead to sepsis, and even kidney failure. 

But, the air around his hospital bed was buzzing with the voices of prayer warriors, near and far. The surgeon let him wait one more day. And one day later, the infection was clearing, and the perforation was closing. A day after that, he was discharged.  

On the sixth day after his hospitalization, we were at home in Houston. 

On the seventh day, we rested.  

It was good for us to be here. 

— 

While we were in the valley, without us even noticing, the Body of Christ had carried us, up and up, until we were on the mountaintop. 

A place of God’s extravagant glory and our profound vulnerability. A place of healing, and fear, and peace, all mixed in together. A place of bounty, a place of grace. 

Everything in our life was suddenly transformed and transfigured, not because we had done anything to “get right with God,” but because the Body of Christ – in the people of God – had done everything to lay us at the feet of Jesus, where healing could be found. 

— 

Through months of transition for my family, not to mention for this parish, the mountaintop has sometimes been hard to hold onto. 

But then I remember the way we were carried. 

And I thank God for teaching me, at the beginning of ordained ministry, that my vulnerability is for God’s glory. That I don’t need to be perfect or put together to do the work of God. And neither do you. 

And this is the lesson of the mountaintop, I think: 

That Christ calls us into his body to use our own bodies to care for one another,  to advocate for the oppressed, the grieving, and the overburdened. to keep tender hearts in the midst of the world’s hardness. 

That Christ calls us to share the good news that a transformed and transfigured world is coming, and is already here, present in the prayer warriors and prophets and sages. In other words, all of us – regular, vulnerable people called to come down the mountain and shine with the light of God’s glory. 

And, the lesson of the mountaintop is that Christ calls us to go to the valleys. He calls us to carry the valley-dwellers through the desert and over the rivers, away from death-dealers and liars and abusers and cartels, into the warmth of one another’s arms, as we seek higher ground together. 

Together, we climb the mountain.

And when we get to the mountaintop, we lay ourselves at the feet of the Jesus, where healing is happening every day.

Steadfast Faith

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Keep, O Lord, your household the Church in your steadfast faith and love, that through your grace we may proclaim your truth with boldness, and minister your justice with compassion; for the sake of our Savior Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

Across the nation, churchgoers are faithfully showing up for worship, and clergy are faithfully attending to their flocks.

After years of pandemic disruptions, many of us are finally starting to feel like we’re “back to normal.” And if you walk into most any church on Sunday morning, it certainly looks that way.

But, under the loud proclamations of Amen and Alleluia, you can hear the whispers. People are talking…about church decline.

Since 2010, the Episcopal Church has lost about 350,000 members. Historic parishes face closures, while others find new ways to worship in the midst of an ongoing clergy shortage.

Many of our congregations have yet to bounce back from pandemic declines. And we continually wonder how to bring people back to the church, as 3 in 10 adults now identify as nones – or those with no faith practice at all.

Church statistician Ryan Burge goes so far as to declare that “the death of the Episcopal Church is near.”

But others argue that our new reality presents possibility. In his book, People of the Way, Episcopal priest Dwight Zscheille argues that our context today looks much more like the world Jesus walked in, than the established “Christian nation” of the last two-hundred years.

Our neighbors are struggling, and many are deeply skeptical that the church could offer anything at all.

Maybe resurrection is just around the corner?

No matter where you land, there is no doubt about it: These are uncertain times for the church.

And I think we need to let ourselves feel the anxiety that comes with admitting this to ourselves. It’s ok to admit that we’re scared.

But it’s also good to remember that God isn’t in the business of abandoning people. And I can say this with confidence, because it’s written throughout our Scriptures.

When we immerse ourselves in the story of our ancestors of our faith, we realize that we’re not alone. When we encounter the Bible and enter the story, we end up finding a whole cast of characters who understand what it feels like to be scared.

And, we come to learn that there was never a time in the history of God and God’s people, that faithful people didn’t whisper and worry about their future.

This uncertainty is immediately obvious in the story of the Exodus, as the people of God face hardship and hunger in the wilderness. In fact, in today’s reading, we encounter the Israelites at a rare moment of clarity and peace.

But it’s also apparent in today’s Gospel reading…

The section begins with an observation:

“When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like a sheep without a shepherd.”

Jesus looks into the downturned faces of his followers and immediately understands their distress. He decides that he is going to do something about it…

He calls twelve apostles for an important mission: they are commanded to “Go!” Go out and proclaim that the Kingdom of God is near!

In other words, Jesus responds to the uncertainty of his followers with the certainty of the Kingdom.

Especially in light of church decline, I think it’s worthwhile to consider what this passage may be teaching the church today.

What can we learn about the church’s call by studying the apostles’ mission?

I want to focus on three attributes of Jesus’ instruction: power, place, and relationship.

First, let’s talk about power. Who empowers the apostles to do the work of the Kingdom?

Matthew is clear that they have been empowered by Christ. They didn’t get together, discuss it among themselves, and then launch mission programming. Their authority comes directly from Christ, who calls them, provides them with diverse and miraculous gifts, and lays out the framework for their journey.

In the church today, it is easy to think we get our power from the institution – or perhaps from various experts inside and outside the church. It calms our anxiety to get the ball rolling ourselves.

But Jesus reminds us that he is the one who empowers the church. We must spend time in discernment and prayer so that we know where the Holy Spirit is leading us.

The work of the church depends on our understanding that Christ is the one who calls, equips, and sends us.

Ok, so now let’s talk about place. Where are the apostles instructed to go?

Matthew is unique among the Gospels in that Jesus instructs the apostles to go only to “the lost sheep of Israel.” In other words, their fellow Jews.

Scholars note that this is just as much a geographical instruction as it is a religious one. They are to stay in a certain place. Jesus isn’t asking the apostles to go on an international mission trip, or waste time trying to convert people with whom they have little in common. He is telling them to go to their neighbors – to the people who live nearby and share some context.

With that in mind, the church today might ask: “Who is my neighbor?”

When it comes to living out the mission of the church, we can remember that it is good to focus on those who live in close proximity to us. In the Book of Jeremiah, God instructs his people in exile to “seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you.”

We build the Kingdom of God right where we are, seeking to provide for the needs of all who live among and around us.

The work of the church is local, inclusive, and attentive to our neighbors.

Finally, relationship. How do the people in this story relate to one another and to Jesus?

The apostles are empowered because they are deeply connected to Jesus, not just as followers but as friends. And they are sent to a particular place so that the community of the Kingdom can take root.

But, even more telling is that Jesus tells them to travel light, and not request payment. This is because their mission isn’t transactional, it is relational. When the apostles are sent out empty-handed, they are granting others the dignity of showing up for them. They are making it clear that even though they have been empowered and equipped by Jesus, they are still vulnerable and in need of good food, and a place to lay their heads.

They are still human. The apostles and the “lost sheep” are part of the same flock and Jesus is the shepherd.

When we think about what it means to be the church, we must prioritize relationship. Christ’s kingdom is one in which all people are beloved – it’s not an us-versus-them. Kingdom-building requires the humility to know that we need other people.

So, being the church is about expecting our neighbors – regardless of what they look like, how they act, or who they love – to become our friends.

The work of the church transforms us through the hard and beautiful work of loving one another.

Of course, all that being said, we know that our Scriptures aren’t merely prescriptive. They’re not a rulebook for life. They’re the first part of the story of how God-incarnate disrupts our normal life, because God loves us too much not to intervene.

They tell of the eternal story we enter through our Baptism, and within which the Holy Spirit whispers.

Like those first Jesus-followers, Jesus reaches out to us and offers the certainty of the Kingdom of God. Like those first apostles, we have received power through the Holy Spirit to foster communities that are being transformed by the hope of the Gospel.

So, when someone says “The death of the Episcopal Church is near,” we can counter with, “The Kingdom of God is near.”

Because, even in these uncertain times, there’s no doubt about it: We are still being called. No matter what comes our way, the work continues. In Christ, we are continually being empowered to proclaim good news, cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, and cast out demons.

So, let the Amen and Alleluia ring out over the doubt! The church is alive because Christ is alive!

Amen! Alleluia!

A Sermon for Pentecost: Fire

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We Carry the Flame

Readings available here

“And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting.  

Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.” 

When I shared this story with the day school kids on Wednesday, the first question out of their mouth was,  

  • “Why is there fire on the disciples’ heads?” 
  • And in that moment, I realized I didn’t actually know. 

The only answer I could come up with was that fire is a symbol for the Holy Spirit. 

  • It’s, presumably, related to other stories about the presence of God, like when God speaks to Moses through the burning bush. 

But that doesn’t really answer the question, does it? 

  • The question still remains, “Why fire?” 

— 

To answer the question, I really needed to know more about fire. So I got to researching… 

Here are a few things I learned: 

First, fire is more than its visible flame.  

Fire occurs when something is ignited by intense heat and combines with oxygen.   This creates combustion, which produces heat and light.  

The visible effect of this chemical process is the flame.  But beyond our sight, fire emits the same kind of radiation as the human body. 

In other words, the transformation of elements that we call fire is both a visible and invisible process. 

Second, though fire is often associated with destruction, it is vital to the flourishing of ecosystems. 

Fire actually creates micro-habitats within the same landscape, as different life forms adapt to different stages of wildfire life-cycle.

One really cool example of this is the fire chaser beetle,  which can detect infrared radiation from forest fires more than 80 miles away.  It lays its eggs on charred wood, which makes nutritious food for its larvae. 

Because different plants and animals are adapted to phases of fire, recovery, or re-growth,  fire actually makes room for a greater diversity of creatures to thrive within the same landscape. 

And third, fire is an extremely powerful tool. 

On the positive side, fire’s ability to cook our food, keep us warm, and stave off predators, makes it responsible for human civilization as we know it.  On the negative side, fire has been used to commit horrific violence. 

Whether used for good or for ill, fire gives humans access to power beyond ourselves. 

— 

With all of that in our minds, maybe we can get back to that question:  

Why is there fire on the disciples’ heads? 

Well, our scripture readings for today show us that fire and the Holy Spirit share some common traits: 

  • They spur both invisible and visible transformation. 
  • They make room for greater diversity. 
  • They give humans access to power beyond ourselves. 

The Holy Spirit truly is the FIRE of the incarnate God, a living flame that never stops burning. It touches people and ignites a spark – we can’t help but be changed. 

When we are attuned to the Spirit, everything feels like it could combust at any moment.  There is palpable energy in the room. 

When we feel the Spirit moving, we sense the possibility for peace and harmony among people who have nothing in common. 

When we look for the Spirit, we are swept up in the beauty and pain of life as God sees it. We see the truth of things so that we can be transformed. 

And when we call on the Spirit, we receive the power of Christ that is now let loose in the world and coursing through our bodies. 

No, I’m not a Pentecostal. But I believe the Spirit moves.  

I believe this, because I have seen, heard, felt, and sobbed the Holy Spirit.  

In this last month of baptisms, I have witnessed the Spirit spur us to clapping and dancing and laughter. 

In moments of sadness and anxiety, I have connected heart-to-heart with the Spirit of God in you. 

I have gotten the goosebumps of the Spirit when I have suddenly noticed beauty in the cracked and broken things. 

— 

The Holy Spirit landed like fire on those first disciples. And the combustion still hasn’t stopped. 

One thousand, nine hundred, and ninety years ago, the Holy Spirit came in like a wildfire and cast the anxious disciples out into the busy streets, where they suddenly stood up straight and started preaching! 

And we stand here today, in 2023, in Houston, Texas, because that wildfire of the Holy Spirit could not be contained. 

Church, you are the evidence that the Spirit moves in our midst. 

  • Because you are the descendants of those who left the upper room, and started testifying in the street.  
  • You are here today because the Spirit of the Living God caught the world on fire.  
  • You have been empowered by Christ to transform, welcome, and empower all of creation to live for the joy and peace of His kingdom! 

— 

Ok, I have one last story: 

A few weeks ago, the altar party noticed that the top of the Paschal Candle had burnt to a crisp.  

The fire, normally contained in the wick, had attempted to spread.  It managed to scorch the top of the plastic pillar.  It is lit today only by the grace of God, and the persistence of our sexton, Mario. 

I keep thinking that maybe the paschal candle was trying to remind us that the fire of Christ can no longer be contained. 

On the day of Pentecost, when the fire of Christ engulfed the world, the church became the church. We no longer need the paschal candle to remind us that Christ is in the world.  

(Extinguish candle.) 

Because we are in the world. And the Spirit of Christ is in us. In other words, we are the fire. 

What would it be like if we really acted like people with fire on our heads? 

I think we would run toward the darkness of this world knowing: 

  • We carry the flame.  
  • We enlighten the truth.  
  • We radiate good news. 
  • We ignite the movement.  
  • We love with the all-consuming love of God. 

The church is alive! The Kingdom of God is here! Combustion and transformation keep happening! 

Church, it’s time to set the world on fire. Amen. 

Sermon for Easter: The Florida Snail Kite

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A Sermon on Unexpected Hope

Readings available here

Snails, Kites, and an Empty Tomb

In 1964, the U.S. Government published the very first official list of endangered species. The list included the now-extinct Ivory Billed Woodpecker and the critically-endangered Florida Panther. But there’s one species whose story has taken a surprisingly hopeful turn, nearly 60 years later…

This is the story of the Florida Snail Kite.

Related to hawks and eagles, the Snail Kite is a large, bird-of-prey that lives in Florida’s wetlands. The males are charcoal gray and the females are dappled with brown and white. They have large, round, red eyes; bright yellow talons; and, a nearly 4-foot wingspan.

In ancient Egyptian mythology, the Kite is said to appear when the gods are resurrecting someone. But it looked like the Florida Snail Kite was the one in need of resurrection…

You see, Florida Snail Kites feed on one thing: the Florida Apple Snail. And that’s where the problem started.

By the end of the 1990s, much of the Florida Everglades had been drained, or disrupted by industrial agriculture. This caused a significant decline in the native apple snail population. And this, in turn, threatened the survival of the Snail Kite, whose long, hooked beak is uniquely adapted to hunt and eat the snail.

By the early 2000s, there were fewer than 800 birds remaining. And progress was slow.

In 2011, the governor of Florida cut Everglades restoration funding by over 120 million dollars. The next year, the National Research Council gave Florida an “F” rating for their progress in conserving the Snail Kite population. Without significant changes at the state level, it seemed that nothing was going to save the Snail Kite.

…Meanwhile, when no one was looking, someone quietly released their pet snails into the Everglades.

While politicians slashed funds, conservationists shook their heads, and nature-lovers mourned, the island apple snail was on the move.

Like any invasive species, the island apple snail was never supposed to be there. And conservationists tell us that invasive species are almost always bad news. They signal the slow death of an ecosystem, as fragile food chains are disrupted, and natural resources get knocked out of balance.

Once an invasive species really takes off, this normally signals the end of an ecosystem’s harmonious story; the death knell of abundant life…the proverbial stone being rolled across the tomb.

Maybe you’ve heard some of these terrible, awful, no-good invasive stories:

  • The aggressive gray squirrel starves out the red squirrel.
  • The Burmese Python eats the wood storks.
  • The European starling spreads disease, to livestock and humans.

Violence and death are everywhere when invasive species roll in.

And once they get a foothold, there is no future for the habitat, without somebody or something making a way where there seems to be no way.

Without something that makes HOPE possible.

So, you can imagine my shock when I read this headline:

“In Florida, an invasive snail is helping save an endangered bird.”

In March 2022, conservationists reported that there are now over 3,000 Snail Kites living in Florida’s wetlands, compared to less than 800, 20 years ago. And their numbers are on the rise!

All because someone dumped their pet snails in the Everglades. And the snails decided to make the best of it. All because something that never should have happened DID happen. And it made hope possible.

Today, on Easter Sunday, we make the most daring and strange declaration of our faith.

We declare that something that never should have happened DID happen. Jesus was dead, and now he is alive. Jesus was in a tomb, and now the stone is rolled away. Mary was weeping, and now she is running, and shouting the news: “I have seen the Lord!”

As Christians, our story is now marked forever, not by death, but by abundant life. The death knell became Easter bells.

If that first Easter had a headline, maybe it would read:

“In Judea, an invasive resurrection is saving the world.”

Bishop N.T. Wright notes the invasive nature of the Easter story by calling it “strange.” Strange because, throughout most of the Gospel stories, the writers nearly constantly draw on Hebrew scriptures to legitimize Jesus’ ministry.

But when they get to Easter, all the theological commentary suddenly falls away. And they let the resurrection speak for itself.

The disciples were just as surprised as we are that Jesus, dying as a human in a mortal body, could rise from the dead. The bodily resurrection of one person was never part of the Messianic narrative. The Messiah was supposed to come back at the very end of time and resurrect all people. Not roll out of a tomb three days after being murdered.

For the disciples, the death of Jesus was never meant to signify anything other than the world’s cruelty. They couldn’t see the resurrection coming, because it defied everything they understood about the natural world, and everything they believed about God.

So, in the moments before the resurrection, Jesus’ community was grieving not only the death of a friend, but the death of hope.

They were witnesses and victims of extraordinary oppression and violence. They thought that Jesus was going to start a revolution. That he would create a habitation in which all could thrive. As long as Jesus could just stay alive, abundant life was on the horizon.

His crucifixion was the death of a dream. In those days and nights before resurrection, the disciples were an endangered species with no hope in sight.

But something was happening in the shadows. An invasive resurrection disrupted the old story of death and grief.

Something that never should have happened DID happen.

Through his death, Jesus defeated death and mortality for all time. The stone was rolled away. The screeching of the Kite was heard again above the marshes.

And in his rising, Jesus brings us all back to life. We have a future, because Jesus is alive!

Jesus calls us to hope when all seems lost. He calls us to hope when our leaders aren’t making it possible to thrive, the money has dried up, our tears have dried up, and our voices are cracked from shouting.

Jesus’ love reproduces and grows in the murky swamps, even when we can’t see it.

The Risen Christ descended into Hell and defeated evil. Rose to heaven and sits at the right hand of God. Stands with us in the garden as we weep for all that is lost.

He is the one who brings us out of our tombs into the bright light of day, and tells us that he is building something new. He will give us good things to eat, and friends on our way.

We are called to abundant life, because Jesus is alive. We are called to harmony with our siblings, because Jesus is alive. We are called to love with an invasive and persistent love, because Jesus is alive.

We are called, today, to dare to hope for resurrection in the graves and murky swamps and dark valleys, of our world, and of our lives.

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

Snails, kites, and an empty tomb remind us that things that defy the odds can also be true. A future is possible.

An invasive snail made conservationists rejoice. And a God whose death defeated death changed everything.

Christ is alive! Hope is alive! Alleluia!

Sermon: Beatitudes & Heptapods

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A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany

Readings available here

If you were to rank Bible passages by popularity, I’m pretty sure the Beatitudes would be in the top 5, after the Golden Rule, Psalm 23, John 3:16, and maybe Paul’s reflection on love in 1 Corinthians. 

It’s not surprising that this passage is popular. On its face, the Beatitudes are comforting words. They’re a reminder that Jesus has blessed us in our lowest places. Even when the world is cruel and punishing, we know that God can see what we’re dealing with. 

But I think the Beatitudes have become so commonplace that we can easily forget that these words are more than words: they are literally revolutionary. They change the world. 

This is because Jesus’ words are not wishful thinking. They are true. When Jesus speaks, he makes them true. 

Let me digress for a moment…For the last month, I’ve been reading the collected works of science fiction author, Ted Chiang.  

One of my favorite stories is called The Story of Your Life. It was adapted into a movie called Arrival.  

The story follows a linguist as she encounters the language of aliens. 

These aliens, called Heptapods, don’t use speech the way humans do. Their sentence structure isn’t linear. It doesn’t make a series of connecting points all in a straight line. 

Instead, it’s a three-dimensional web, with parts of meaning interconnecting and going off in many directions. In order to write down the sentence, you have to know where the sentence is going from the first pen stroke.  

It’s hard to visualize, but what it means is that, in order for the heptapods to communicate anything, they have to have the complete picture already. To begin a thought, they already have to know how the story ends. 

Humans use sentences to arrive at meaning, eventually. But because heptapods already know what the end of their sentences are, their language isn’t about thinking through things or negotiating meaning.  

The narrator concludes that the only reason the heptapods use language at all is because their speaking is a “form of action.” 

This concept is a real one used by linguists. It’s called speech act theory. Let me quote from the story for a second: 

“According to speech act theory, statements like “You’re under arrest,” “I christen this vessel,” or “I promise” were all performative: a speaker could perform action only by uttering the words.  

For such acts, knowing what would be said didn’t change anything. Everyone at a wedding anticipated the words “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” but until the minister actually said them, the ceremony didn’t count.  

With performative language, saying equaled doing.” 

Ok, now back to the Bible. What does speech act theory have to do with the Beatitudes? 

It turns out, everything. Because when Jesus speaks of blessedness, his speech is an action. He is speaking the Kingdom of God into existence. Don’t just take my word for it: Biblical scholars point out that the Beatitude form and syntax are associated with prophecy. 

Like heptapod language, one scholar says that “the Beatitudes are written as unconditional performative language. They do not merely describe something that already is, but bring into being the reality they declare.”  

In other words, they are true because the God who knows the end of the story has declared them. 

When Jesus speaks of Beatitude, he is turning the world upside down. These are not words of comfort – they are a challenge to every assumption we make about who is blessed and who is not.  

Blessed are the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, the innocent, the weary, the angry, the ones who keep trying to make the world a better place even when they can’t see any proof that it’s possible. 

It’s not the wealthy, the happy, the attractive, or the powerful who are blessed. It’s the ones on the margins. The ones who are heavy-laden. The ones who are at risk of being gunned down and beaten.  

The ones who carry each other’s burdens. The ones who aren’t sure a better world is possible, but know without a doubt that the one we’re living in isn’t nearly good enough. 

The Beatitudes are not just words: they are Christ’s action, now and forever. 

And this isn’t just a theory.  

We can see the fruits of this action. Because of the words of Jesus, we have churches and monasteries, hospitals and charities. We have liberation theology and Black Civil Rights movements. We have martyrs and civil disobedience and civil war.  

We have light in darkness and hope where hope has no business showing up. 

Political regimes have fallen because people with no earthly power took the Beatitudes seriously. 

Jesus speaks, and the whole world changes. Jesus speaks, and the Kingdom of God breaks through. 

– 

The mistake we make in reading the Beatitudes as comforting is that we turn Jesus’ eternal and irrevocable blessing into something closer to the saying, “Bless your heart.” 

But, unlike those who say “Bless your heart,” Jesus isn’t frowning and shaking his head in pity for people who suffer in this world. He’s not merely letting us know he cares about us.  

Like God’s voice booming into the void at the beginning of time, Jesus’ voice is the voice of creation. 

The Beatitudes make hope possible. Which means they show us the way. 

They are Christ’s vision of new creation. To live into them, we need to follow his gaze.  

Our job is to notice where the kingdom breaks through. Not in places of glory, but in places of neglect. Not in places of calm, but places of chaos. Not in places of wealth, but in places of poverty.  

The cracked and broken places of this world are where the light of the Kingdom is breaking through. 

So, no matter where you see yourself in the Beatitudes, I encourage you to remember that Jesus is already acting. Jesus has always been acting and creating and renewing, and he will never stop. 

Thanks be to God! Like the heptapods, we already know the end of the story, too. And because of that, we are empowered to speak and act without fear of the future. We walk the path with God, by faith, with assurance that every small act of justice, mercy, kindness, love, and solidarity makes the Kingdom a little more visible. 

Jesus has covered us in blessedness, in beatitude.  

Where do you see the light of his kingdom breaking through? 

Amen. 

Ponder Anew: A Sermon for Christmas Day

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A Sermon for Christmas Day

Readings available here | Watch the recording here 

But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. 

Ever since I was a kid, if anything exciting or life-affirming or unbelievably good happened to me, I kid you not, I would say to myself, “But Leah treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.” 

Now, I didn’t spend a lot of time as a nine-year-old analyzing what this passage might actually mean.  

But I think there was something about Mary’s reaction that just made sense to me. It felt honest. It felt real. 

That’s because the juxtaposition of those two words – Mary treasured and she pondered – seems to accurately summarize a common response to a particular human experience: 

The experience of receiving good news. Think about a time when you’ve received good news. You got the job you wanted. Or the surgery went well. Or the person you like, likes you back. Or you hear the piercing cry of your newborn baby for the first time. 

You are elated as you realize that life is better than you could have imagined even a moment ago. 

And you’re suddenly caught up in this urgent need to remember this moment, this moment that everything changed for the better. “Of course,” you say to yourself, “life is precious. How could you not have noticed this before?”  

You want to treasure what’s in front of you. 

And then, that observation of your own joy leads to another feeling: hope. All of a sudden, the whole world seems bigger and brighter.

You think: “if this one thing could work out, then maybe it could all work out. Maybe your life could be different than you imagined.”  

You piece together the old losses with the good news. You ponder anew what God is doing in your life. 

Because of this good news, your future is more unpredictable than ever, but in the best way. Everything feels possible now.

–

But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. 

Mary does what any of us would do when we receive good news beyond our expectation. She holds the words close to her heart, and she ponders what they could mean for the rest of her life. 

— 

Now, some of us might feel uncomfortable with the idea that Mary doesn’t already know the whole story. We sometimes try to impose a kind of stagnant perfection on Mary, making her into the perfect, all-knowing disciple.

But if Mary already knows everything – if there’s no need to ponder – her complicated and relatable humanity is downplayed by a cliché. We turn her into someone who doesn’t get to ask any questions about the nature of her call. 

Still, it’s fair to ask how Mary got to this point today, with the shepherds, acting as if she’s hearing good news for the first time.

— 

After all, just nine months ago, a literal angel showed up at her house and told her she would give birth to the Son of God. She even wrote a daring song about the experience, which we call the Magnificat. 

But nine months is a long time. And a lot has happened since then. The fear of being rejected by her fiance, Joseph. The morning sickness. The rocky journey to Bethlehem. Not to mention the labor and delivery.  

And now, she’s looking into the face of crying newborn. Maybe she’s wondering if she heard the angel right. The good news from nine months ago didn’t need a lot of pondering when it was just a hypothetical.  

But now the good news is real. There’s a baby to feed and raise. If this is the Savior of the world, how is she supposed to get him from point A to point B? From infancy to empowered deity? Who could really feel prepared for this? 

— 

It is important that the shepherds show up at precisely this moment. They assure Mary that she’s not imagining things. 

The good news – “the Savior is born today in the City of David” – is true. What the angel told Mary is true. What she and her people have been hoping for, for generations, is true.  

Life is better than she could have imagined even a moment ago. Because the good news is finally real. And, by some miracle, she is a part of the story. 

Jesus, the Savior – Christ, the Anointed One – is no longer a thing wished for, but a person.  

With the shepherds’ confirmation and affirmation, Mary is suddenly caught up in that familiar human experience: the need to treasure this gift, and to ponder anew. 

She still doesn’t know what the future holds, but she knows she has a future. 

Mary cherishes the reality that she gets to participate in the grand design of God. She allows herself the hope of imagining how beautiful her future will be because Jesus Christ is a part of it. 

Everything is now possible, because with God all things are possible. And God, in human form, is right here. 

— 

During Christmas, we, like Mary, receive the good news we’ve already heard. But, the fact is, we need to hear it again. We need confirmation and affirmation that the Gospel is true. That God is here. That we have a future.  

If the good news hits us just right, we get the chance to hold it close to our hearts. We get the chance to treasure the fact that we are participating in the unimaginably big story of Jesus Christ. And we get to ponder anew what the Almighty can do. 

Receive this news with hope: “to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Christ, the Lord.” 

Amen. 

Sermon: Immanuel

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A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

Readings may be found here

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

I’m about to hit the six-month mark of my ministry here at Grace. These first months have been full of unexpected experiences.

  • I’ve danced to Cuban music in the parish hall. 
  • I’ve tried, and failed, to capture stray cats. 
  • I’ve repeatedly asked God to bless noses, ears, and tummies with the day school kids. 
  • And I’ve participated in a Brubeck Jazz Mass, of all things.

But if someone were to ask me which experience has shaped me the most so far, I could easily sum it up in one word: funerals.

Since July 1st, I have participated in seven funerals. And that’s not even counting the many I have missed.

This number says a lot about the scale of the grief that our community is holding right now. We have lost so many people this year.

And that loss is tangible: Each beloved person who has died leaves an empty seat. Things feel different without their singing and their laughter ringing through the building. 

I imagine that many of us are living in the tension between wanting to “get back to normal” and knowing that we can never really go back to how things were before. Because grief changes us.

—

And I am far more sensitive to this now, because I have become a student of funerals.

Here are some things I have observed about funerals…

First, funerals create a space for authenticity. Unlike most other public events, at a funeral, no one expects you to act like you’re doing fine. There’s no point pretending.

Second, the liturgy does a lot of the legwork so that we can simply be. It anticipates that each of us responds to loss in highly personal ways. But it also creates sacred space for us to be together in our grief. The funeral service carries us through the tides of sadness, memory, and joy – we are allowed to feel it all, together.

And the biggest lesson of all, funerals are a reminder that simply being there makes a difference. 

In fact, in my particular role, I’m learning that the only way to do a funeral is to be with the people at a funeral.

By being with, I mean to focus on what it means, not just to be present, but to have presence: Pay attention. Ask people what they need. Listen to stories. Speak with reverence. Protect sacred spaces. Acknowledge the value of feeling it all.

Above all, open your heart as wide as possible.

As I reflected on today’s scriptures, I realized that my time at funerals has helped me to feel, in my gut, that it really does make a difference that Jesus is called “Immanuel,” God with us.

—

Isaiah prophecies that a child will be born to save the people of Judah. He will be called Immanuel. The prophecy claims that this holy child will witness the defeat of the violent and exploitative rulers of the day.

Of course, as we know from our Matthew passage, this prophecy is directly linked to the Christian belief that Jesus is the Messiah, the savior of the world. When a messenger of God appears to Joseph, Matthew’s narrator argues that Jesus’ birth was the fulfillment of the prophet’s words:

“Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,

and they shall name him Emmanuel…”

—

Now, I should mention that Jewish interpretations of the Isaiah prophecy vary significantly from Christian ones, as might be expected. 

Biblical scholars suggest that Isaiah was speaking of events that would happen within the lifetime of his listeners. This was an uncertain period when ancient Judah was threatened by Syria and the Northern Kingdom of Israel.

So, we see that the Gospel writers use Hebrew prophecy in unexpected, and even contested ways. I mention this only because I don’t want to suggest that everything in the Christmas story is straightforward. 

But if we believe, as I do, that the Gospel writers were speaking to the real experience of early Christian witnesses, then it’s important for us to figure out why these prophecies and stories about Jesus were so important that they needed to be written down.

Jesus’ story is linked to ancient prophecy because there is something happening here that speaks powerfully of who God is…

“Immanuel.” 

For early Christ followers and for us today, everything hinges on the promise that we worship a God whose central quality is “being with us.”

I mean, this is what Christmas is about: the incarnation! God came to earth in human form because it mattered for God to show up. It mattered for the Creator of the universe to be in solidarity with our full humanity: with our laughter and our weeping, our joy and our pain. 

And it matters that he can feel that bodily ache of loss and grief, in just the same way we do. Because God became flesh in the person of Jesus, he identifies with the full spectrum of our experiences, and remains with us when everything feels too hard to bear.

And when you think about it, so much of Jesus’ doing on earth was mostly being with people. On hillsides, in boats, and at dinner tables – even on the cross – he pays attention, asks people what they need, listens to even the smallest voices, protects the vulnerable, and models unconditional love.

To the disappointment of many, he didn’t show up in the way anyone expected – people thought he was going to start a bloody revolution that would signal the end of the world. 

But Jesus’ revolution – this being with revolution – was even more significant than a war. Jesus was killed for claiming that the love of an incarnate God could change everything. In his life, death, and resurrection, he opened his heart so wide that the world, with all of its grief and suffering, could be cradled inside!

Christ, Immanuel, flings out his arms and tells us that all human experience is and will be permeated by the presence and love of God. All things will be redeemed. All suffering will have its ultimate end in the comforting arms of God.

As followers of Jesus, Immanuel, our own work is straightforward:

It is being with: opening our hearts to others, and making room for Jesus to enter into the damaged and grieving caverns of our spirit. 

It is being like Joseph, who decided to stay in the uncertainty and vulnerability of being with Mary and his divine stepson, Jesus, trusting that his presence mattered.

—

But, alas! I’m getting ahead of myself. After all, it’s still Advent, and we’re still waiting. 

So I’ll share one last image. 

A few years ago, while on a retreat, I prayed with an icon of a very pregnant Mary. Her rounded stomach contained a surprising scene. Instead of a child, she carried the Milky Way galaxy in her womb. 

This abstract representation of the Christ-child reminded me that Christ has always been here, since the beginning of things. The baby we are waiting for already holds the whole world.

My hope for us today is that, in being with one another, holding Christ in our own hearts and bodies, we can make Immanuel fully known. Amen.

Sermon: Origin Stories

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Sermon for the First Sunday of Advent

Lectionary Readings here

O house of Jacob, 
come, let us walk 
in the light of the Lord! 

I must admit that I struggled to write this sermon. 

I kept trying to interpret today’s prophetic and apocalyptic lectionary readings through the lens of the increasingly violent news of the last two weeks. 

But my mind kept spinning in circles… 

I couldn’t manage to make sense of any of it. The days counted down and I still couldn’t find the right words. 

  • As I read Isaiah’s prophecy of paradise, I kept thinking about the multiple mass shootings that we have endured over the last couple of weeks. And the bigotry and legacy of violence that make killing our neighbors seem like an option at all.  
  • As I read the Psalm, I found myself sighing with the knowledge that, in every generation, we have needed to pray for the peace of Jerusalem. 
  • As I read Romans’ morality checklist, I found myself frustrated at Paul for wasting his words on little behavioral issues in the midst of so much worldly chaos. 
  • And as I read Jesus’ apocalyptic warning, I wondered, as I often do these days, if maybe we have endured as much as we can.  

Maybe Christ really is coming soon. 

— 

Of course, we know that Christ is coming soon.  

In Advent, that’s what we’re waiting for. Only four more weeks to go!  

Though, I bet when most of us think about Jesus coming this time of year, we are likely picturing a baby in a manger and not a grown man descending from the clouds as our friends and coworkers are mysteriously “taken.” 

But, Advent has always been trippier and time-warpier than the quaint nativity would lead us to believe. 

When Christians use the word Advent, we are simultaneously referring to the arrival of the baby Jesus and the second coming of Christ.  

In other words, his coming and his coming again. 

The mental work of holding the past, present, and future together in our minds reminds us that our faith is disruptive. It takes us out of finite and linear time. 

Just as we think the story has ended, it starts all over again. 

In this season, we are dropped back into a story we are already participating in. 

It is a story that we live as people of faith whenever we declare hope in the face of death and love in the face of hate. 

— 

So, it’s kind of a side effect of Advent that everything feels a bit wobbly. It’s no wonder I struggled to find the words! 

But, as I kept thinking about it, I began to see today’s readings as origin stories… 

Creation and destruction, beginnings and endings. These prophecies, songs, exhortations, and apocalypses ALL tell us something about the ancient people who followed God into the wilderness of their lives. 

They reveal their terror. And their ultimate hope that God would intervene in their displacement and their grief.  

And they reveal a God who promises to intervene, and then actually shows up. 

These stories tell us about the ancestors of our faith, in hopes that we can glean something from their witness and their wisdom. 

In other words, when we tell these stories and listen to them, we are attempting to learn something about who we are and who God is. 

As we hear them, we take on the responsibility of interpreting them and letting them change us. Because our origin stories are not just old wives’ tales or ancient myths. They are calls to action.  

But, I didn’t fully understand all of that until I visited the First Americans Museum in Oklahoma City a couple of weeks ago. 

— 

The museum, which was curated by 39 of the indigenous tribes now living in Oklahoma, is essentially about origin stories.  

Let me walk you through the exhibit… 

At the beginning of the exhibit, you are greeted by a video that tells the creation stories of three of the tribes who were displaced to Oklahoma in the 1800s.  

The clear voice of a young woman pierces the darkened room. She says:  

“Our stories give meaning to our lives. They teach us how to live and how to act responsibly. They are always with us.” 

These indigenous creation stories are harmonious and hopeful. They talk about a divine creator who cares for humankind and gives them everything they need. 

They find food in the fruitful forests of North America, and companionship in the animals around them.  

The Creator is fundamentally good, and all is well in this earthly paradise.  

— 

But, too quickly, you walk a little further in, and the story changes. 

As you turn the corner in the exhibit, a new video begins playing. This time, the mournful voice of an elderly woman sings in the background. 

This is the story of the Trail of Tears… 

Between 1830 and 1850, as many as 200,000 Native Americans were forcibly removed from their homelands by the U.S. government.  

Since the start of European colonization, 55 million Native Americans had already been killed by disease and violence. At least 3,000 more died while taking the arduous journey from the east coast to the expanding American West. 

After they arrived, they continued to face encroachment and violence from white settlers.  

Firsthand accounts describe grandmothers and children being slaughtered in front of their family members. One indigenous educator, still alive today, recalled that her great-grandmother always slept with moccasins on her feet, in case she needed to run. 

This destruction story shapes contemporary indigenous life just as much as their creation stories do. 

— 

And then you walk a little further in… 

In the third section of the exhibit, activists, educators, and elders share stories of indigenous autonomy, pride, and activism. Like the ancient prophets, this generation of indigenous people “have a fire shut up in their bones…and cannot hold back.”  

They are responsible for their stories. Because they know that who they are today is dependent on telling and retelling their stories with as much clarity and truth as possible, in order to understand who they are and who their Creator is. 

Their creation stories remind them that the Creator is fundamentally good, and that the earth is rightfully a place of peace, abundance, and joy. Displacement and destruction cannot take away that promise. When everything is ending, their stories show them how to begin again. 

They tell their stories, because, in doing so, they shine a light on the past that makes a bright future more possible. 

— 

The First Americans Museum gives Christians a good reason to be ashamed of our origin stories.  

After all, the colonists interpreted the Bible’s stories as an excuse for domination. To them, America is what God owed them as God’s chosen people. They failed to remember that whole part about “beating their swords into plowshares.”  

And there is no doubt that the recent massacre in Colorado was influenced by violently homophobic interpretations of Bible passages. 

For good reason, I think we often get hung up on the way our origin stories have been dangerously misinterpreted. It can be easier to keep them at arm’s length.  

But we can’t move forward as people of faith without knowing who we are and who God is. 

— 

When I think about Biblical origin stories through the First Americans Museum’s lens of responsibility, they show me a path forward: 

  • In Isaiah, I hear that God’s aim for all creation is peace, abundance, and joy. 
  • In the Psalm, I hear that our call as people of faith is to praise, pray, build unity, and do good. 
  • In Romans, I hear that our commitments to Christ create new rhythms for our lives that draw us into the fellowship of God’s church. 
  • And in Matthew, I hear that Christ has not deserted us. Though we can’t predict the future or mark our calendars for Christ’s return, we can know that Christ is with us in an eternity that goes in both directions, from past to future. We are never alone. 

— 

We have a responsibility to listen to our stories with faithfulness and humility, and to be honest about the past so that we can travel the path to Christ’s future. 

Advent’s time loop reminds us that we are always in a process of interpreting who we are in light of where we came from.  

And just when we think the story is over, a little light gets into the darkness of our apocalypse, and we can begin again. 

And yes, our stories are often strange and inconceivable. Because in a world burdened with violence and sorrow, it is inconceivable that God could ever show up.  

And yet, our stories remind us that God, in Christ, is present and active.  

They make it a little more possible to believe that our fragile, mortal lives carry meaning and promise.  

They remind us that we are called to build communities without borders or barriers, where love is the highest value. 

Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord! Amen! 

Risking the Way of Love

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Sermon for the 10th Sunday After Pentecost

Readings

May I speak in the name of 
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. 
Amen.

On the evening of August 11, 2017, I was locked inside my church with 500 other people. 

As the interfaith service began to wind down, the worship leader suddenly walked to the back of the church. He spoke quietly with someone out of my view, then headed back up to the front. *

Then he told us: “The Nazis are outside.”

I have no memory of the next few seconds. But, someone must have told us we were in lockdown. It wasn’t safe to leave.

Then the worship leader spoke again: “So, we’re going to sing loud enough to drown out their hate.”

This week, Facebook reminded me that I had made a recording in the sanctuary as we sang: “This Little Light of Mine, I’m Gonna Let it Shine…” 

…For some timeless period, we tapped on the backs of the hardwood pews in front of us, and stomped our feet to the rhythm. The candle flames danced on the altar. 

In my memory, this moment feels almost like a dream. It felt like the Kingdom of God.

—

Meanwhile, back in the narthex, unarmed priests, pastors, rabbis, and imams were guarding the doors. 

There was no police presence at first. Because the Nazis had called in dozens of false emergencies to deploy the Charlottesville Police away from their tiki torches and hateful chanting, as they marched through the University of Virginia’s campus across the street from the church.

The only things separating us from terror that night was “This Little Light of Mine,” our clergy, and the big red doors of my church.

—

But I didn’t know any of that then. All I knew was that I was singing and stomping my feet in the sanctuary where I had been confirmed only a few months earlier. 

And, I felt peace. I had shown up – against my better judgment – because I believed that Jesus had called me to love my neighbors. And we were all there doing just that, despite the risks.

The next day, local clergy and congregations led hundreds of counter-protesters downtown to confront the hate of the Nazis. They took their little lights and let them shine.

These white nationalists could terrorize a community and murder an innocent person, but they could not overcome the way of love.

– 

But, when national news networks broadcast the violence of that weekend in MY TOWN, they focused on the division. 

They played footage over and over like it was a football game. They implied that there were winners and losers. But the division of that weekend wasn’t the problem. The problem was white supremacy, which is evil.

Those who stood up to it weren’t being divisive. They were answering the call of their faith, to love one another, even when it is risky! 

–

Today, we meet Jesus at another risky time. His coming death is starting to weigh heavily on him. He cries out, “What stress I am under until it is completed!” 

As the days of his ministry wear on and he gets closer to Jerusalem – where he will be killed – you can hear his parables become more urgent. And, today’s reading isn’t even a parable. 

It’s straight-up apocalypse. 

These words are intentionally prophetic. They recall the Messianic prophecies, like those of Isaiah.

But they feel shocking, because, up until this moment, Jesus has been showing everyone a new way to love one another. He has been blessing the poor, performing miraculous healings, teaching people how to pray, and recruiting women, tax collectors, and foreigners to his new way of living.

Along the way, some of his followers have gotten the impression that his ministry will ultimately result in some epic, political situation where Christ is the new king on earth. It’s not their fault, really. Their prophecies have always been interpreted to mean that the Messiah will bring peace on earth.

So putting two and two together, they think that Jesus will simply make the world good without too much struggle for them. And they will ride his coattails to power.

But today, Jesus says that’s not what’s happening. He warns his listeners that his mission isn’t a “get-peace-quick” scheme.

Instead, Jesus tells us that the peaceful kingdom we were hoping for won’t arrive the way we had hoped. To get there, we have to walk toward death and come back to life again.

This strange road is Christ’s way of love. It makes us act in service of others and deny claims to earthly dominance. It forces us to turn away from the easy road, and stop getting distracted by our fear.

Choosing this kind of love is difficult in a world that craves domination and supremacy. Families turn on one another. And people’s personal sense of security is turned upside down. When Jesus is let loose in our lives, things become awfully unpredictable.

The way of love seems divisive because it requires us to take risks that look foolish to a world preoccupied with power and security.

– 

Speaking of which, this week was a doozy in national news…

Much of the country is either underwater or on fire, literally and figuratively. The former president is being investigated for stealing the Nuclear codes. Author, Salman Rushdie, was stabbed at a talk in New York. It seems that everywhere you look, vigilantes are storming federal buildings, conference centers, and places of worship. 

Depending on what circles you move in, people are enraged, giddy, forlorn, optimistic, or apathetic. There are a lot of people on edge.

We are living in what some call divisive times.

And yes, we are divided. Too many of us are treating terror like a football game, with winners and losers.

But, Jesus isn’t a Republican or a Democrat. He’s not a fascist or a socialist. He’s neither rightwing nor leftwing. He doesn’t map onto our narrow and unimaginative political arguments.

Jesus isn’t building a political party. He’s certainly not advocating for vigilante justice. He’s busy, building a freaking kingdom! Christ’s kingdom is about creation, not destruction. And we are being called to follow him in the way of love, which is the farthest thing from earthly power and control.

Choosing love means choosing what and who Jesus chooses, even when it goes against the grain.

Jesus chooses the lost, the losers, the poor, the left out, the sick, the eccentric, and the lonely. He touches dead people and makes them alive again! He chooses everyone, especially the ones the world keeps telling us to hate!

When we begin to practice this kind of love more fully, we come to understand that Jesus’ prophetic proclamation in Luke isn’t a threat of a future apocalypse. He is merely telling the truth about the world as it is.

Because, when we choose to pursue the Kingdom of God over worldly power, we inevitably choose division. We can no longer blend in or be quiet. The way of love is loud, wild, and unpredictable.

And when we stand up and let love throw a spotlight on the evil in this world, we also risk the vigilantes coming for us. I wish that was an exaggeration.

–

But Christ is still calling to us, and we have to answer. 

Will we uphold our baptismal vows to “resist evil, respect the dignity of every human being, and love our neighbors as ourselves?”

Will we do that even if it stirs up controversy in our families? Even when it puts us at odds with our communities? Even when it feels like the promise of the Kingdom is so far away?

Transforming the world in love when it is so bent on everything but love is one of the hardest things we can ever commit to. Jesus’ ministry was always too radical to not ruffle any feathers.

–

But as the writer of Hebrews reminds us today, we are not alone in this great and terrifying labor of love.

So many have gone before us, acting on faith and believing in God’s promise. Through miracles and tragedies, the faithful journeyed on. 

They walked the way of love, risking division and danger, because they knew that these things were inevitable in a divisive and dangerous world. They could not avoid it. They had to answer God’s call.

Like it did for that great cloud of witnesses, violence encroaches on us. Christians in a so-called Christian nation are not safe when we choose the Kingdom of God over militant loyalty to political parties and nationalist ideals.

But, through faith, we believe that Christ’s Kingdom of peace is still before us. To build it here on earth, we must risk taking the way of love.

So, do not weep over our division. Division means someone out there is still letting God’s light shine. Someone out there is still following Jesus in his way of love.

Amen.

*In talking this over with my spouse, I realized that I may misremembering some of the finer details of this moment. I’m not sure if we were explicitly told what was happening as it happened. Some details came out hours and days later. Such is the nature of trauma memory. For more on that, I recommend Tim O’Brien’s “How to Tell a True War Story.”

Things Above

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A Sermon for the 8th Sunday After Pentecost

Readings

Let your continual mercy, O Lord, cleanse and defend your Church; and, because it cannot continue in safety without your help, protect and govern it always by your goodness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Last month, I went on a pilgrimage to Canterbury with other Episcopal students from my seminary.

But, why go to Canterbury? 

Canterbury Cathedral has actually been a pilgrimage site since the 12th century. Millions of Christians and seekers have traveled from across the world to pray at the shrine of St. Thomas Becket, which is housed inside Canterbury Cathedral. 

In 1170, Archbishop Becket was brutally murdered inside the cathedral by the king’s knights, because he chose loyalty to the church over allegiance to the king. After his death, locals began reporting miraculous healings, almost immediately. News spread fast, and soon people started showing up from far away.

In the earliest times, these pilgrims made offerings to the cathedral, and asked God for healing and forgiveness. 

These days, many people show up to listen to daily evensong or attend morning prayer services.

Episcopalians and other members of the Anglican Communion often go to Canterbury to learn about the origins of our tradition, and marvel at the magnificence of the cathedral. 

In fact, right now, three Diocese of Texas bishops are in Canterbury for the Lambeth Conference. They are there worshiping and discussing important topics of the church with other bishops from around the world.

—

And that’s well and good for everyone else. But, to be honest with you, I went to Canterbury, because it was a FREE trip to England. 

I didn’t plan ahead, I didn’t reflect on the meaning of pilgrimage. I didn’t even do any research on the history of Canterbury! (Which is very unlike me.) I was content to let everything just wash over me, after three years of isolation and burnout.

But, I still learned an important lesson in Canterbury. I learned that even the most imperfect practice of pilgrimage is enough for Christ to work through his church.

—

But it took me awhile to get there. Because, the thing I can’t stress enough about Canterbury Cathedral is that, it is weird. 

For one, the medieval pilgrims were fond of drinking “Becket water,” which was said to be a mixture of Thomas Becket’s blood, brains, and water. These pilgrims claimed that the Becket water healed them of life-threatening diseases. And there are manuscripts to back up these stories.

For two, Canterbury Cathedral is the epicenter of the Church of England, which is a state church. That means that it’s closely tied to the political power structure of England. 

It didn’t help that we were there during the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee. I was, frankly, horrified by the number of prayers dedicated to the Queen. 

But, even without that, the political connection would be obvious. Because, when you’re inside the cathedral, kings and queens glare down at you from stained glass and mounted statues. 

It’s upsetting to think that Becket died because he went against the monarchy, and now the cathedral is practically a shrine to the monarchy.

For three, I couldn’t simply brush off the weirdness of Canterbury Cathedral. Because it’s a sacred site in OUR tradition!

These were my people, I was one of them. We shared a common belief system and a common history. And I couldn’t deny that. It forced me to stay curious about the way God works through an imperfect church and imperfect people.

—

I think that’s why I was so compelled by the story of the firewatchers…

During World War II, the German air force devised a plan to damage the morale of the British people. Using a tourist guide book, they targeted major cultural sites, including Canterbury. Their main target in Canterbury, of course, was the cathedral.

The people of Canterbury knew the Germans were coming. Early in the morning of June 1, 1942, several men from the city camped out on the roof of the cathedral. 

As incendiary bombs landed on the cathedral roof, they quickly tossed them off. More townspeople waited on the street, nearly 200 feet below, where they extinguished them one-by-one.

By the time the blitz ended, one-fifth of the city of Canterbury was in ruins. 1,800 buildings were either seriously damaged or totally destroyed, and 43 people had died. But these men, known as the “firewatchers,” are credited with saving the cathedral from total destruction.

—

What do you make of this story? 

It is undeniable that the firewatchers were brave. They risked their lives to protect their place of worship. But, at the same time, they made an uncomfortable choice.

Yes, the cathedral was saved, but so many people suffered. Houses were destroyed. Families were buried in rubble. The city as they knew it was gone. What motivates someone to save their church building, instead of their neighbors?

See, the self-righteous part of me is tempted to get on my soapbox right now. I want to add this to the list of the things I found WEIRD about Canterbury. It seems unjust to prioritize a building over people’s lives. And even more unjust when you realize that the cathedral costs millions of dollars to maintain.

But, while I can’t explain the Becket water or the obsession with kings, I think I can understand the firewatchers.

It seems to me that a person who decides to risk their life for a building isn’t really doing it for the building. They’re doing it for what the building represents. 

And Canterbury Cathedral represents quite a lot. Its cavernous sanctuary echoes with the memory of millions of pilgrims’ footsteps. With their urgent prayers, singing, and weeping. The cathedral has been a place of daily prayer for 1,400 years.

So in a way, the cathedral isn’t just a building. It recalls the Christian worshippers who paved the way for us. These people came from every place and every culture. They represented every possible identity and prayed for every possible problem.

And there in the cathedral, they found rest together. They found Christ there. Even in the weirdness of it all. Even though every generation of pilgrims, priests, and kings practiced their faith imperfectly.

The firewatchers understood that places hold memory and meaning for people. And, though a building is just a building in the end, it can be a gathering place that helps us dwell on “the things that are above,” (as Paul puts it in Colossians). 

—

We have our own sacred site. We are gathered here today in a building, representing Christ’s church. And what should that mean for us?

Grace Episcopal Church isn’t the building. But it is, at least partially, what happens in the building as we worship together. This is a place where we hold each other through uncertainty and hardship. It has been a literal refuge for people in times of disaster. And it helps us gather in order to care for one another through the pilgrimage of life.

This building also holds the marks of the great cloud of witnesses, those faithful people who prayed and worshiped here before us. The books under our seats are faded from the sun that has illuminated worship over many Sundays. The columbarium holds the ashes of our dearly departed. The plants outside continue to grow, even though planted by tender hands years ago.

It is good to let this place remind us that Christ has been present in the lives of Grace’s pilgrims over many generations. 

These people from the past and present are imperfect, and they haven’t always had pure motivations or the most orthodox beliefs. But, they keep showing up to pray. And because of that, God answers prayers, again and again.

—

If Canterbury Cathedral had been destroyed that morning in 1942, Christ’s kingdom would not have been diminished. The pilgrims would not cease to be pilgrims for lack of a clear destination. Their prayers would not go unanswered for lack of a sanctuary.

God doesn’t need a sanctuary in order to be present in the world. But the reason our church buildings and cathedrals matter is because they help us see Christ, “who is all and in all.” The firewatchers didn’t save the cathedral in an attempt to save God. They saved it because they earnestly believed it was a tool for Christian faith and global church unity.

It can feel impossible to be unified when Christians keep being weird: we know that the church is full of pettiness, disagreements, and sin. But the good news is that I don’t have to agree with every other Christian in order for Christ to transform the world.

As long as we still come together with a desire to love better, Christ will help us love better. As long as we remember that we’re not right about everything, Christ will teach us how to forgive. And, as long as we still come into this place expecting to receive Christ’s renewal, the church will serve its purpose.

As long as there are pilgrims, the true church can never be destroyed.

Amen.

Sources:

  1. Thomas Becket – Canterbury Cathedral (canterbury-cathedral.org) and in-person tours
  2. The Cathedral and World War II: The bombing of the Library – Canterbury Cathedral (canterbury-cathedral.org)
  3. 75-year anniversary of Baedeker Blitz on Canterbury when city was showered with bombs (kentonline.co.uk)

I Will Never Again Pass Them By

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A Sermon Given on the 6th Sunday After Pentecost

In today’s collect we pray:

…grant that we may know and understand what things we ought to do…

Figuring out “what we ought to do” feels just as pressing as ever. I don’t think it’s a stretch to assume that many of us have been asking the question: “how do I show up in the midst of….ALL OF THIS.” (move hands)

In just the last two months, we have borne witness to at least five, highly-publicized mass shootings. And dozens more that didn’t make national news.

In that same time frame, our nation’s highest court made decisions that, whether we agree with them or not, have seemed to bring further ideological division to our communities.

On top of that, we are dealing with our own health crises, family emergencies, and grief.

And, all of this has taken place against a backdrop of continuing racial violence, a global refugee crisis, war in Ukraine, economic uncertainty, and a pandemic that just won’t go away. 

What are we supposed to do?

—

Fortunately for us, our Old and New Testament readings get right to the point…

God’s fiery justice in Amos and the Samaritan’s unlikely compassion work together to show us how God shows up, and how we should show up in the face of the world’s suffering and injustice. 

Both readings remind us that the People of God are called to not pass anyone by.

In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus tells the story of a man who is beat up, robbed, and left for dead on the roadside. 

When two men from the same religious and ethnic heritage as him, see him, they pass by the suffering man. They are afraid for their own safety, or perhaps even concerned that being near this dirty and bleeding man will harm their religious commitments, to ritual purity.

And then, something really unexpected happens. Another man is so overwhelmed with compassion for this total stranger that he shows up, and he stays. He carefully cleans the man’s wounds.

Then, sparing no expense, he uses his own funds to purchase a hotel stay until the man can recover. Here, the wounded and traumatized man can begin to heal.

—

This story is one of Jesus’ parables. The characters are not real people, but they are representations of real problems in Jesus’ society.

The first two men who passed by represent respected religious leaders in the community. 

The Samaritan, however, came from a group that Jesus’ listeners likely hated. The Samaritan people had different religious beliefs and different political ideologies. In fact, some of the Samaritans were known to cause trouble for Jesus himself.

So, when Jesus makes the Samaritan the good guy in the story, he is actually doing something pretty radical. He is challenging his listeners to completely reconsider their prejudices. And he is showing what it means to see the good in people, even people he had a reason to avoid.

In the parable of the Good Samaritan, we learn how WE should show up in the face of injustice: When we see a person in need in front of us, we should not pass them by. 

…Even if their circumstances are a burden. Even if we have nothing in common, and see the world in different ways. The Good Samaritan shows us that there IS an antidote to the world’s suffering. It’s a hard thing that looks like a simple thing…

We don’t let worldly divisions and learned prejudices keep us from caring for one another. Instead, we show up for one another. 

We don’t pass anyone by.

—

But, we do NOT do this work by ourselves.

In our Amos passage, there’s a curious turn of phrase that connects our action and God’s action in the world…

But first, a little background on Amos. Amos prophesied during a time of immense economic prosperity and political power in Israel. The nation was as big as it was ever going to be.

And yet, Amos prophecies that the nation is in moral failure. The people of God aren’t acting much like the people of God. They have abandoned their care for the poor, the widow, the orphan, and the immigrant. 

They are ignoring profound acts of violence and injustice in their society. And all the while, they have extravagant religious events that look more like political parades than acts of worship. 

By this time, God has shown mercy over and over again, but nothing has changed. God is fed up.

So, in the passage we read today, an angry God issues a decree: 

“See, I am setting a plumb line in the midst of my people Israel; I will never again pass them by.”

Now, in many translations of that passage I just read, the phrase, “I will never again pass them by” is simplified to say something like, “I will never again forgive them.” But that’s not really what the Hebrew text says. 

The word, AVAR, which means “to pass by” in Hebrew, is almost exclusively used to describe God’s powerful intervention in human activity. 

There’s this idea that God’s simple presence is so bright, rich, and awe-inspiring that people must usually be protected from it. For instance, when God passes by Moses on the mountaintop, Moses’ face is so blindingly bright from that brief encounter, that the Israelites ask him to cover it up until it begins to fade with time. 

When God “passes by,” that means that God is making sure that the Divine presence doesn’t totally overpower the person God is interacting with. Most people can’t handle a God who shows up, and stays.

—

But, in Amos, when God says, “I will never again pass them by,” God is saying, “I won’t turn away from this madness. I won’t pass by those who suffer. I will show up.” And when God shows up, injustice has nowhere to hide. The world MUST reckon with the suffering it has caused.

Like the Good Samaritan, God’s refusal to pass by injustice is fundamentally an act of compassion. God stays here, with us, in this chaos.

God’s presence is uncomfortable, precisely because it uncovers everything: the horrors of human action and human sin. But that is exactly what we need in times like these. Because the suffering is too great to ignore.

So, when we consider our Old and New Testament readings together, we see that the full context of “not passing by” means to show up and stay with our communities. We care for each other by expecting both love and accountability, and by offering the same.

—

But…when we attempt to show up for others, it can feel like such a small thing. 

It can feel like our desire to be in real relationship with one another is never grand enough to remedy the world’s suffering and pain. For every small way we tend to others, there are a thousand new terrors, and a thousand new things to grieve. 

But, God knows this. God knows that we can’t possibly dig ourselves out of this mess alone. And God also knows that the first step toward healing is to reach across profound difference in order to show up and stay with one another, just as the Good Samaritan did. 

This world wears us down. People and circumstances will enrage and horrify us, push us to uncomfortable places, and even cause us to question our good intentions. 

Doing what we know we ought to do can isolate us from our ideological camps. It can make people question our sanity. It can lead us to places we never thought we’d go. 

But, God promises to never pass us by. Because of that, we can know without a doubt that God is present in every circumstance that reveals injustice. God speaks in every word that declares the Truth. God’s power is greater than a gun, a court, an army, or a border. Greater, even, than death.

It is our job to uphold THESE truths, and to love one another in defiance of all the world throws at us.

We, the People of God, carry God’s powerful presence with us when we DARE not to pass anyone by. Amen.