Category: sermon

Sermon for Easter: The Florida Snail Kite

Posted in sermonTagged , Leave a comment

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

Posted in sermonTagged , Leave a comment

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

Posted in sermonTagged 1 Comment

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

Posted in sermonTagged 1 Comment

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

Posted in sermonTagged 1 Comment

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

Posted in sermonTagged Leave a comment

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

Posted in sermonTagged , , Leave a comment

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

Posted in sermonTagged Leave a comment
Photo by Kamaji Ogino on Pexels.com

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.

A Good Friday Meditation

Posted in sermonTagged Leave a comment

May the words of my mouth
and the meditations of our hearts be pleasing in your sight,
O Lord, our strength and our Redeemer.
Amen.

I was recently talking with a friend about his mother’s death.

She had been diagnosed with a terminal illness. And for weeks leading up to her death, as the family kept vigil in their house, they heard a multitude of hushed conversations, even though it was just my friend and his family there.

It got us talking about this concept of the cloud of witnesses, which shows up in the Book of Hebrews. During those last days of his mother’s life, it was as if the veil between heaven and earth was thin.

And these quiet voices were the faithful ones who had already passed on, waiting for my friend’s mother to join them.

When the family returned home after the mother’s funeral, they were struck with a strange sensation.

Total, unrelenting, silence.

This house that had felt full with the love of family and the presence of ancestors, now felt utterly desolate. The days and months and years of mourning were long, made even longer by the visceral sensation of absence.

—

When I began preparing my reflection for today, I kept asking the question, “What makes this Friday Good?”

How could the chaos and suffering of Jesus’ crucifixion be good?

How could this profound betrayal of friendship be good?

How could the anxiety and fear that the disciples experienced be good?

How could Mary’s tears be good?

What is good about death? Especially unjust and untimely death?

—

In my frantic search for an answer, I came across an article that said that some Christians used to refer to this day, not as Good Friday, but as Long Friday.

And after reading today’s Passion narrative, that rings very true. Because, like my friend who experienced that seemingly endless, stark silence after his mother’s death, this day must have felt long to everyone who loved Jesus.

From his arrest in the garden to his prosecution. From his long walk carrying the cross to his final words, “It is finished.”

His loved ones were caught up in the chaos of preemptive grief from the moment the day began to unfold.

Then, after he died, these loved ones were carried against their will into the long silence of his absence.

This day was long. It was beyond bearing. It felt meaningless.

And all of it was made worse by the fact that the very person they needed most in times of despair was now dead.

—

Good Friday does not feel good. It feels long with the silence of the burdens that we carry.

But, as we mourn the death of Jesus today, we remember that we worship a God who is intimate with grief. We gather at the cross of a Savior who understands our suffering, because he felt suffering in his own body. And we are made into a family in this community of Christ’s church.

—

The day is long. The silences can feel unbearable. But it is good that we can be the cloud of witnesses for one another. And it is good that the God who created the universe sits with us at the foot of the cross.

Amen.

A Homily on Lamentations

Posted in sermonLeave a comment

Our ancestors sinned; they are no more,
    and we bear their iniquities. – Lamentations 5:7

Children crying in the street, water shortages, bombed-out buildings, and mass graves. The displacement occurs at a scale beyond our comprehension.

I am talking about Judah. In 586 BCE, Judah was invaded by Babylon. It took nearly 70 years for its displaced citizens to return to the wreckage of their homeland, and many families never returned. In 2022 CE, Ukraine was invaded by Putin’s army. Millions have fled, and millions more are left behind.

The phrase “history repeats itself” is perhaps never more apt than when we think of the violence that occurs against God’s children. It is unrelenting. It was here before Putin’s army marched into Ukraine and it will be here after they leave. Lord, have mercy. Make them leave.

The book of Lamentations bears witness across millennia to the profound devastation humans perpetuate against their own kind.

We are bound together as we ask, like Lamentations does, “how?” How could this keep happening? How could a loving God not intervene? How could our religious narratives be true in the face of such horror?

—

I am tempted to simply sit with these questions, because I have been taught that to do otherwise would bring up uncomfortable ideas about God’s anger or suggest that suffering people deserve what they get. I wouldn’t usually dare to touch the idea of sin.

But Lamentations isn’t compelled by the kinds of arguments that resist God’s wrath or refuse complicity – in fact, Lamentations spends almost as much time talking about sin as it does grief. It argues that suffering is a result of collective, generational sin.

Sin is a tough thing to reckon with, but what makes Lamentations’ assessment particularly instructive is that it specifically judges the sin of its own people. We have a parallel teaching in 1 Corinthians: “For what have I to do with judging those outside? Is it not those who are inside that you are to judge?God will judge those outside.” In other words, it’s not our job to judge the suffering of others.

But, it is our job to understand our own complicity in the collective, generational sin that contributes to suffering around the world.

Our denomination sent indigenous people to abusive residential schools, violently destabilized countless communities through coercive missionary work, fails to confront the anti-Semitism in our scripture and liturgy, and continues to hold onto the immense wealth stolen off the backs of enslaved Africans and pillaged from the lands that it colonized. And in the shadow of a possible nuclear threat, let’s not forget that this “Christian nation” is the only country yet to have used the atomic bomb. None of us here are personally responsible for these sins, but most of us are caught up in its deadly web.

Lamentations shows us that lament involves self-accountability. It requires us to bear witness to pain without ignoring our agency, complicity, and vulnerability. This work doesn’t negate prophetic calls for justice outside of our immediate culture. But we should remember that we still have to deal with ourselves. Otherwise, we end up missing the grace of God.

The world cannot afford for us to see ourselves as innocent spectators of its violence and grief. It cannot stand for us to blame everyone but ourselves.

It is time to look to the hidden places where sin festers and call our own tradition and society to account, in ultimate service to God’s Beloved Community.

Maundy Thursday Sermon 2021

Posted in sermonTagged Leave a comment
Photo by mas_hha on Pexels.com

A Sermon Preached on Maundy Thursday 2021

They did not know, as we do now,
though empires rise and fall,
your Kingdom shall not cease to grow
till love embraces all.

The words I just quoted come from the hymn, “To Mock Your Reign, O Dearest Lord.” I wanted to start my sermon with them because I think they tell a story of a love that has teeth.

We often think of love as passive, even quaint, but these lyrics suggest that love is a force to be reckoned with. It is revolutionary, because it will not cease to grow beyond and apart from the social and political world we live in. Like ivy on a building, it covers and transforms every edifice, and every imperfect structure of human creation.

In the act of foot-washing, Jesus shows us how we can participate in this active and growing, revolutionary love.

Under normal circumstances, we would spend this evening participating in the foot washing ritual Jesus began in the Gospel. I have always found this ritual to be one of the strangest and most awkward events of the church year.

As a kid growing up in a tradition that didn’t even do communion every Sunday, I could not for the life of me figure out why we were so committed to sticking our unwashed, sandaled, Florida feet in buckets full of dirty water, while the nearest parishioner delicately took them between their hands. As a shy and germ-conscious preteen, there could be nothing more embarrassing or alarming than such an act.

And to make matters worse, the sermon for the day often honed in on just how dirty those disciples’ feet must have been, seeing how they lived in pedestrian society and walked the dirt roads in sandals all day. It made me squirm in my seat. In fact, I was so weirded out by Maundy Thursday that I refused to participate in foot-washing until I was in my mid-twenties.

On the day of my first foot-washing, I remember feeling a sudden urge to march down from the choir loft and just do it. I couldn’t explain why it suddenly felt possible for me, I just knew the Holy Spirit was calling me to confront my discomfort.

I knelt down by the altar table and washed the stinky feet of a teenage girl who had struggled to untie her Converse high-tops for the occasion. Then, an older choir member who I didn’t have a particularly good relationship with, washed mine.

All that grimy, uncomfortable strangeness! And yet, you know what I felt? I felt free. I wasn’t embarrassed or grossed out. I felt like I belonged in a way I hadn’t experienced for a long time. I found one of the clergy team afterward and remarked to her that something inside me had shifted.

You see, all this time I thought I would lose my pride in having to wash someone else’s feet, but I didn’t realize I was really trying to keep someone from washing mine. I didn’t want to be the one perceived as in need of washing. Until that experience, I had thought that foot washing was just a silly relic of the past.

Suddenly, I realized that Jesus’ remarkable act of washing his disciples’ feet was a living act that continues to teach us how to live and love well. As one commentary notes, that first foot washing revealed that: “Jesus loved them until the end of his life, and he loved them in a way that surpasses all imaginable loving.” When my fellow church member knelt down and washed my feet, I felt that I had been touched by the powerful love of Christ. And I felt a new motivation to act as a member of the Body of Christ.

So let me get back to those hymn lyrics, because I want to think about something for a little bit. If Maundy Thursday’s foot-washing shows us what Christ’s love looks like, a love that is paradoxically both humble and assertive, I wonder what that means for the world.

What it means for those “empires that rise and fall.” Because we know that Jesus’ death on the Cross wasn’t just for our personal salvation and personal transformation. Theologian Walter Rauschenbusch put it this way: “The purpose of all that Jesus said and did and hoped to do was always the social redemption of the entire life of the human race on earth.”[1]

With Jesus’ social mission in mind, I see the equalizing act of foot-washing as an echo of Mary’s words in the Magnificat. When Mary hears that she is pregnant with the Son of God, she sings a very peculiar song:

He has shown strength with his arm;
    he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
52 He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
    and lifted up the lowly;
53 he has filled the hungry with good things,
    and sent the rich away empty.

This is not the passive, quaint language of a lullaby. This is revolutionary. Mary has a sudden urge to tell of God’s love by reminding the listener that God’s kingdom is a place of unstoppable growth. Like ivy on a building, it has the power to crush the brick and concrete of injustice.

Her words tell us something about the working of God in the world. And they’re often used politically to suggest that Christians should participate in uprisings and even violence. Mary’s words do sound violent, because we are so used to experiencing social transformation through acts of war.

But if foot-washing is God’s way of telling us what the Kingdom looks like, I think that means that the powerful need their feet washed.

Hear me out, because it takes one to know one. No, I may not be considered powerful in the grand scheme of things, but I know firsthand what it feels like to evade the humbling act of sitting down while someone awkwardly washes my feet.

I know what it feels like to try to puff myself up and isolate myself from others so they can’t see my faults. I know what it looks like to hoard things and count my money, and to focus on earthly power at the cost of losing sight of God’s vision for humanity.

For the rulers of this world, those inclinations must be almost unbearably strong. There’s so much to gain, and so much to lose.

In so many ways, we can find ourselves yearning for the kind of earthly power that would put us on thrones someday, a power that would make us untouchable and unquestioned, away from the prying eyes and hands of others. Whether we like it or not, we are often working to grow empires of power and wealth instead of the unstoppable love of God.

But Jesus tells us what we must do. First, we wash each other’s feet, knowing full well that it means committing ourselves to an extended community of awkward, messy, fallible people.

People we’ve been fighting with. People we hate. People who will betray us. People with stinky feet. We do this in the literal sense when we can, but we also must do it daily, by examining our hearts for resentment and self-righteousness, by asking for both forgiveness and accountability, and by continuing to show up for each other.

In giving up the fortresses we’ve built around ourselves, I think we’ll feel something we didn’t know we had lost. Freedom. Not the freedom of empires, but the wild, unstoppable freedom of Christ’s love. This love topples the mighty by revealing that political power looks like prison in light of the Kingdom of God. It humbles the rich by suggesting that pride is a poison that turns us away from the connection we long for, as people made in the image of God.

Like the act of foot-washing, Christ’s love knows no bounds, and acknowledges no hierarchies. Through each of us, Jesus’ hands reach out into the world and welcome others to a practice that makes us understand our shared humanity, with all its pain and with all its pride.

We are mutually humbled and mutually freed to build communities where all are honored and accounted for. This love requires communication, it demands humility, and it asks all to participate. Most of all, it keeps showing up. It keeps responding. And it covers us all with the sprawling ivy of God’s belonging.

In the vision and practice of foot-washing, we see a model for enacting Jesus’ love. In humility, we step forward and start saying “yes” to full participation in the Body of Christ. Let us keep saying “yes” to God ‘til love embraces all.

Amen.

[1] Christianizing the Social Order (1912 ed.), 67

Unfathomable and Undeniably True: A Song of Songs Sermon

Posted in sermonLeave a comment
Photo by Any Lane on Pexels.com

Scripture Passage: Song of Songs 1-2

Last week on Twitter, an old tweet posted by the Atheist Forum began to gain traction among Christians. Given that twitter is a cesspool of petty arguments and hot-takes, I’m sure that this is not the first time that Christians have engaged with atheists on the platform. 

But this tweet was different. Because, maybe for the first time in twitter history, Christians liked what the Atheist Forum had to say. 

Here’s the tweet that they posted:

“CHRISTIANITY: Belief that one God created a universe 13.79 billion yrs old, 93 billion light yrs in diameter (1 light yr = approx. 6 trillion miles), consisting of over 200 billion galaxies, each containing ave. of 200 billion stars, only to have a personal relationship with you.”

WHOA! My immediate reaction was wonder and delight. I read it aloud to my husband whose only reply to me was also, “WHOA!” 

I mean, it’s a beautiful thing to imagine! A God that big who desires to know us.

—

But, you probably see what the Atheist Forum was going for. They were trying to reveal the absurdity of such a belief. After all, why would a God who created the universe be invested in us? 

In a way, the idea that the Creator of the Universe loves us is fundamentally unfathomable. And in Christianity’s specific version of this story, the idea that this Creator walked among us on earth in the form of Jesus, stretches the imagination even further. 

In fact, in Psalm 8, the Psalmist asks a similar set of questions:

“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars that you have established; 

what are human beings that you are mindful of them,
mortals that you care for them?”

As unfathomable as it is that the Creator of the universe would care about us – that this God would even LOVE us – this is what our faith claims.

—

Our scriptures are brimming over with God’s love. And there’s one in particular that narrates this love in such honest and intimate terms that it can actually make us uncomfortable. It’s in the Hebrew Bible, or what we often call the Old Testament. And it’s called Song of Songs.

On its face, Song of Songs is straightforward love poetry. It is written as a dialogue between two lovers who are pledged to be married to one another. We follow them through the valleys, hills, and city streets of their home in the ancient near-east, as they engage in an earnest and vocal account of their love for one another.

I should mention that Song of Songs is undeniably erotic, even to our modern ears.

It is filled with ancient euphemisms that can seem a little silly, but can still feel inappropriate to discuss at church… 

“Your hair is like a flock of goats, moving down the slopes of Gilead.”

“Your navel is a rounded bowl that never lacks mixed wine.”

“Your nose is like a tower of Lebanon, overlooking Damascus.”

Even in its strangeness, or maybe because of its strangeness, I can’t help but delight in such creative compliments. It beats the repetitive clichés of most modern love songs for sure.

There is something to be said for the simple delight of reading Song of Songs, but it’s less clear how this text made it into the Bible. 

After all, the poem makes no obvious mention of God. 

—

So, how did Song of Songs even get here?

The answer to that is actually pretty straightforward if you put it in the context of its time and culture… 

The poem is in the same genre as other ancient love songs of the time. This genre had two uses:

  1.  In the ancient, near-eastern world, depictions of love between a couple were popular forms of entertainment. Love songs describing a couple were often performed at weddings. 
  2. But not all love songs in this genre were intended to describe only the love that exists between a human pair. In many cases, they were written as divine love songs, between a god and their people.

With that in mind, we begin to see the picture more clearly…

For Jewish people, Song of Songs was and continues to be understood as a dialog between God and the people of Israel. 

In early Christian thought, the concept continued, with some theological changes. Now it was understood as the love between Christ and the church. 

And a first-century rabbinic commentary on Song of Songs, called a targum, places the poem within the broadest possible scope. 

In this case, the rabbis considered Song of Songs in the context of other ancient songs found in the scriptures, like in the Psalms. 

Looking at them as a unit, they suggested that the Bible’s divine poetry revealed the love of God within the fullness of creation. In other words, this divine poetry includes all people. 

The Bible’s divine love poetry tells us in the most intimate language that the God who created the universe loves us. WHOA!

But even knowing that, when I look at Song of Songs, I am still really challenged by the depth of intimacy, maybe especially if this is a poem about God’s love for humankind. I don’t often hear people talk about God with the familiarity of a partner, lover, or friend. What can it mean for God to delight in us so earnestly? What can it mean for God to compliment us, over and over again?

To share a bit of my own perspective, I think I know that God loves me, but I am uncomfortable with the idea that God might be paying so much attention to me. I am uncomfortable with this pleading, joyful, ecstatic God who absolutely delights in my existence. If a person was talking to me this way, I think I’d tell them to shut up! I can take a compliment, but not two-dozen compliments at once!

I suspect I’m not the only one who has trouble with this. Even though kind words are supposed to affirm who we are, they can often make us more self-conscious. Whether we are giving or receiving them, they open us up to vulnerability. They can feel transactional, or embarrassing. And in some cases, an unwelcome or inappropriate compliment can be a form of harassment.

I wonder if that’s why it can be so hard for partners or friends to openly delight in one another. We may want to tell and show people how much we love and appreciate them, but actually doing it carries a lot of baggage in a world where love is often manipulated and where people can be cruel.

–

But the compliments in Song of Songs aren’t coming from just anyone. They’re coming from God. Here, God reveals God’s love for humankind without hesitation, fear, or shame. Here, God tells us that we are a delight – that our lumpy bodies, crow’s feet, terrible habits, regrets, griefs, and even our ignorance can’t keep us from being loved by the very Creator of love.

—

Song of Songs also models how we can respond to this love. When God voices such great love, the human believes it. She brims over with gratitude, delight, and wonder. In experiencing God’s love, she understands what it means to love. 

The human becomes a partner in sharing divine love. And in this ongoing dialog between God and humankind, love is exponentially multiplied. It is shouted from the hillsides and rooftops as a gift to the whole community.

—

As strange and uncomfortable as it may seem, it is worthwhile to consider the idea that God loves us, not just as a matter of God’s character but as a matter of God’s particular relationship with us. We are known by God. 

Song of Songs shows us that being known and authentically loved has the power to affirm us in ways that we have never been affirmed before.

And from the comfort of that affirmation, new possibilities emerge. We may find ourselves more quick to delight in the love of our friends and family. It might open us up to giving and receiving care without awkwardness or second-guessing. It could transform our will to be seen as self-sufficient into a desire to know and be known by one another. 

In the center of this holy love, we would be able to offer our pain, resentment, and grief to God and one another, making a way for new things to flourish. In the reassurances of God’s love and our own belovedness, we would be freed up to act with kindness, justice, and humility without worrying about where we stand.

This isn’t merely speculation: Yale psychologist Laurie Santos says that “the people who self-report the highest positive emotions, they’re the ones who are taking action.”

Imagine what would happen in our families, congregations, neighborhoods, and country if we all understood ourselves to be secure in God’s love, and acted out of a spirit of overflowing abundance instead of fear?

—

As we go about our lives this week, I want us to think about what it means to delight in God, and for God to delight in us. What this means for you may not be what it means for me. God loves us as the unique people that we are. In return, we can work to discover what it means to offer that love back to God and our neighbors.

More than anything, God’s delight encourages us to understand ourselves in a web of mutual care. We don’t need to be afraid to ask for what we need or reach out in care for others. When we do this, we join the Creator of the universe in co-creation. We join God in building a new earth.

—

The God who created the universe loves us! We can step forward in wonder and delight, knowing that such an unfathomable thing is undeniably true.

Amen.

The Road Home

Posted in sermonLeave a comment

Readings:
Jeremiah 31:7-9
Mark 10:46-52

A Sermon Given To My Seminary Community

Tell me, where is the road
I can call my own
That I left, that I lost
So long ago?
All these years I have wandered,
Oh, when will I know
There’s a way, there’s a road
That will lead me home

—

This verse is from Stephen Paulus’ choral piece, “The Road Home.” Though an original, it is based on the folk music tradition of the Scots-Irish who settled in Appalachia.

The Scots-Irish are sometimes called “borderers,” because they always lived on the edges and in the backcountry. They migrated often, and were often displaced with no firm place to call home.

I sang The Road Home two times at my presenting parish in Charlottesville, Virginia.

Coincidentally these instances book-ended my discernment process within that community. And the last time I sang it with them was the Sunday before I moved to New Haven to begin my time here, with you all.

Because of that, and because of the story it tells about wandering, yearning, and listening to the call of Christ, I have held this song close to my heart.  I come back to it often. I sing it when I’m sad, or when I’m nostalgic for what I left behind. I sing it when I’m confused about the road I’m on. And I sing it when I’m heartened by hope that transcends the profound grief of the world.

In the long months and years of seminary, Covid-19, and ongoing family health issues, it has become my wandering song. And it seems I’m often lost and wandering these days. It seems I can’t find home.

—

I share this because I know that many of you are also wandering.

You are dealing with mental health issues, physical illness, feelings of isolation, or a simmering rage.

You are questioning your place in this institution, this denomination, or this religion. You are incensed at the slow movement of justice, and overwhelmed by the world’s inconsolable grief. If you are anything like me, you are crying a lot.

You are not convinced that there is a place where you belong. You are not sure where home may be found.

You have wept and wandered more than you ever thought you could.

With these things in mind, today I want to talk about wandering, hope, and the road home.

—

Sing aloud with gladness for Jacob…

See, I am going to bring them from the land of the north,
and gather them from the farthest parts of the earth,

among them the blind and the lame, those with child and
those in labor, together;
a great company, they shall return here.

With weeping they shall come,
and with consolations I will lead them back…

I read today’s passage from Jeremiah over and over again in the last few weeks, and I couldn’t stop weeping. I think I was jealous.

The Judeans were weeping, too, but at least they were headed back to the comfort of home.

What was it like to turn their wandering song into a going-home song?

I wonder whether they danced and hit tambourines against their hips. I wonder how much cajoling it took to get everyone to join in. I wonder if they kept singing through tears. If they cried for no reason and every reason, their grief and trauma mixed with hesitant hope that things were about to get better.

—

But all of that is beside the point. In fact, in the timeline of Jeremiah, this sing-a-long is only a dream. It’s only a wandering song after all.

That’s because Jeremiah’s words are a foretelling of a future event, not a summary of what has already occurred. The Judeans are not singing for what has already come to pass. Instead, the text puts words in their mouths. It is only imagining a future freed from displacement. That means that they probably revisited these words over and over again in the midst of their exile.

There is a kind of cruelty here. Putting words in the mouths of those who suffer, trying to rev them up for a future they can hardly imagine, in the middle of their exile and isolation. It looks a lot like toxic positivity.

How can Jeremiah suggest something as foolish as hope when all the Judeans can see is ruin, and all they can do is weep?

But hold up! Before I cancel Jeremiah, it’s important to consider the genre of prophecy. Rabbi Abraham Heschel points out that the words we read are not merely those of the prophet Jeremiah, but the very words of God.

Heschel says:

“…what appears to us as wild emotionalism must seem like restraint to him who has to convey the emotion of the Almighty in the feeble language of man. [The prophet’s] sympathy is an overflow of powerful emotion which comes in response to what he sensed in divinity. For the only way to intuit a feeling is to feel it” (The Prophets, 395).

It turns out that the prophet is not downplaying grief by advocating for false hope. Not at all! Jeremiah is actually a conduit for the emotion of God.

Think about that. When we read the prophets, we are being blind-sided by the raw emotion of God. Which means that Jeremiah’s proclamation of future joy is a promise from God, not a demand based on false hope.

It is God calling to God’s people in the midst of sustained grief, profound uncertainty, and even embitterment and rage. It is God proclaiming God’s presence in the wandering and the whirlwind.

And in time, God leads the Judeans home.

This passage shows us that hope can be complicated, but it isn’t foolish. Because God is here, and God makes good on God’s promises.

—

In today’s Gospel reading, we meet another displaced person:

“Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

Bartimaeus shouts these words with abandon as Jesus and his disciples prepare to leave Jericho. Bystanders try to shut him up. Maybe they don’t think he has the right to transgress his rank as a beggar.

Or maybe they’re just shocked by his public display of emotion. But Bartimaeus doesn’t care. Pleading and impatient, he cries out again: “Have mercy on me!”

Pay attention to what he says here. Because, in naming Jesus as the Son of David, as the Messiah, Bartimaeus acts as a prophet. In this moment, he senses the divine sympathy of God incarnate, and he dares to respond with all the emotion he can muster.

In the presence of Jesus, things are suddenly made clear:

Here is a God who responds in love. Here is a God who keeps promises. Here is a God who leads me home.

Yes, hope is complicated. But it isn’t foolish. Because God is here, and God makes good on God’s promises.

—

In the presence of God, Jeremiah agitates. The Judeans weep. Bartimaeus shouts. If Heschel is right, these strong emotions can be evidence of God’s activity.

They are a reminder of the urging of the spirit within the souls of humankind. And in this, even in our most confused wandering, we have a cause for hope.

The cause for hope is simply this: God is with us. God is here! God has called us to discipleship for and with one another.

It is not the home of our ancestors or a place of placid peace. In our deep emotion, we have entered the whirlwind where God dwells. Here, in God’s presence, our wandering is transformed to Christ’s way of love.

—

But what does it look like for us, a crew of misfits, to walk the way of love when it feels so much like we’re wandering? What does it look like to come home to the Body of Christ, here in this community?

I think it means living into God’s promise, knowing that God responds to our deep emotion. And to claim our calling as disciples, gathered up by God and walking the same path.

In light of God’s promise, we can understand ourselves as capable of uncanny hope in the midst of deep emotion. We can claim life in the face of all evidence to the contrary. We can embrace each other as we weep and shout and sing. We can learn how to love each other well, even when it costs something. We can ask for what we need. We can belong to one another. And we can know that we will always belong with Jesus.

On this new road, there’s no such thing as going back. Instead, we are propelled by hope to let our rage, sadness, and grief merge with the emotion of God, and the mission of Christ.

We have hope as we trudge forward on whatever road we find ourselves on. Hope as we take the wrong turns in dark forests, and put our trust in people who may betray us.

Hope because, as Heschel says, “the only way to intuit a feeling is to feel it.” And we become like prophets when we dare to declare that God’s hope is real, even when it makes us look like fools.

So, let us agitate, weep, shout, and sing: of the grief, the anger, the fear, the urgency, the hope – the enormity of it all. God is with us.

“Take heart; get up, he is calling you.”

Amen.

A Church of Valor

Posted in sermonTagged Leave a comment
Photo by Nikko Tan on Pexels.com

A Sermon for the Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost

Readings: Here

If you were to read the Bible as a self-help book, today’s passages would leave you with a laundry list of things to try achieve:

This is perhaps most evident in the passage from Proverbs. While our translation identifies the subject of this ancient poem as “a capable wife,” the Hebrew uses the term eshet chayil, which means a Woman of Valor.

Though Proverbs was first compiled as early as 700 BCE, the woman in this passage is the picture of modernity. She seems to be the perfect encapsulation of the idea that women can “have it all.”

The Proverbs 31 woman has…

  • A trusting relationship with her adoring husband
  • Artistic skills
  • A good eye for quality goods
  • An inexhaustible work ethic
  • Physical strength
  • Business savvy
  • Empathy for the poor
  • An unfailingly good attitude
  • Appropriate self-confidence
  • The love of her children
  • And a right relationship with God

I don’t know about you, but I am exhausted just reading out this list.

—

And, lest the men here today think they’re off the hook, our Psalm, Epistle, and Gospel hammer home a number of other expectations! They practically berate us: Do this, not that. Here’s what you’re doing wrong. Why are you so covetous? Why are you so selfish? Stop being so juvenile! Get your act together!

To say such a reading is anxiety-inducing is an understatement! If the Bible is really telling us to get our act together, doesn’t God already know that we’re doomed to fail?

—

Measuring up feels impossible, so we fall into patterns of unhealthy behavior:

  • As individuals, we may feel like isolating ourselves from those who seem more pious than us, or over-compensating by acting more confident than we are.
  • As a church, we may feel like restoring things to “how they used to be,” or over-compensating by rushing to build new programs.

In either case, reading the Bible as a set of expectations pushes us to react rather than to listen. It pushes us to lose sight of new possibilities.

It turns out, if you read the Bible like a self-help book, the Bible becomes a bully. The instructions are impossible to follow. And you’ll never measure up.

—

It leads me to a question…

Is it possible to understand the moral stories of the Bible in ways that are inspiring rather than overwhelming?

I think so. And what it comes down to is revisiting our scriptures with an eye toward their multiple contexts and interpretations. When we pay attention to the history and context of Biblical passages, it helps us let go of our assumptions, and discover new insights. It gives us a more open path, and may even compel us toward holy creativity.

For today, let’s focus on Proverbs 31…

—

There are three things that I want to bring to light:

First, the passage is culturally and historically situated.

The Woman of Valor may not have really existed. One Proverbs commentary says that the intended readers of this passage were likely “affluent and moderately wealthy members of an urban commercial class,”[1] living under the Persian Empire. These upper middle-class readers may have owned enslaved people who were made to help them with weaving, dying, and other household tasks. So, this woman, even if she existed, was not running a business empire by herself.

The passage probably served as instruction for both men looking for a wife, and young women and girls learning how to behave appropriately in their society. This is probably the reason our 20th century Bible translators call the Woman of Valor “a capable wife.” But we miss the larger possibilities if we only see her this way.

Author Rachel Held Evans points out that, in Jewish tradition, women are still called eshet chayil, a woman of valor, whenever they achieve success. It’s less about what position they occupy and more about their orientation to it. They are praised for their determination, courage, and gifts.

So, in the contextual sense, the Woman of Valor is an archetype. She is a concept about what it means to be a woman, written for an ancient audience and interpreted through Jewish practice.

Second, Proverbs 31 has been interpreted as allegory within Christian tradition.

Early church fathers like St. Augustine read Proverbs 31 as a symbol of the church, not as a single person. His interpretation was so influential that it continued to be read this way throughout most of the Middle Ages.

This is really helpful! Because, when the passage is read as an aspiration for the church, things become much more manageable. This multi-talented woman becomes a suggestion for our collective work, not our individual skills.

In this view, we are not being asked to be perfect multi-taskers, parents, entrepreneurs, or money managers. Instead, we see an example of the abundant possibilities of the church, when we each bring our limited skills to the table. It shows us what could happen if we really understood that amazing things are possible when we work together.

So, in the allegorical sense, the Woman of Valor can be read as Christ’s church, working together for God’s purposes.

[Note: to read this passage as Christian allegory does not negate or supersede historical or contemporary Jewish readings. It is simply one way for Christians to explore the text within our own inherited tradition.]

And third, Proverbs 31 is actually a story about God.

Though the Woman of Valor seems to have her whole life together, she is said to “fear the Lord.”

Commentaries point out that this proclamation is at the end of the passage for a reason.[2] It’s because her reverence for God is what matters most among her many gifts. It’s because all the life advice contained within Proverbs only matters in a world where God is understood to be present.

So, in the narrative sense, the story of the Woman of Valor reveals that all is made possible in relation to God.

—

Fundamentally, the intent of every Bible story is to point to God’s intervention and our worship. Each human story and parable – each expression of emotion – is a reminder that God is present with us in the midst of our lives.

We see that, even though the Bible does contain advice, it is not a self-help book.

In truth, it is actually a God-help book. Its admonitions are not intended to be taken on as individual challenges, but instead understood in the light of God’s ongoing presence with us.

This means that any valor we demonstrate is not the product of gumption, but of careful listening to the Spirit of God.

We were never meant to do everything by ourselves.

—

This learning has practical ends within the life of the church.

As an example, I want to talk for a little bit about a project I’m helping with, here at this congregation. As many of you know, I was your seminarian intern last year. This year, my role is a little bit different…

In addition to calling this congregation my worshipping community, I am working as a student facilitator for a project called “Reimagining Church.”

[This congregation] is among ten churches selected by [my seminary] to embark on a year of discernment, dreaming, and reimagining for the sake of the future of the church.

A working group from this congregation will meet regularly to discuss the history and culture of this church, work through fears, understand the wider community, and share our hopes for what this place can grow into.

Reimagining Church is not about throwing out tradition or giving up on beloved and life-giving programs. It is about letting the Spirit move in new and curious ways through old and well-trod terrain.

As in all churches, this process is an ongoing one. It began long before we filled these pews and will continue after we are gone. And it has been expressed most recently through the renovation of this sanctuary, and shown in the joy and hard work of last week’s Jamboree.

At the end of the year, we may arrive at a pragmatic goal, or you all may continue in discernment. Either way, this is a practice of learning how to turn our good intentions from a practice of anxious self-help to a trusting God-help. It is about orienting ourselves toward God-given possibilities, so that the church can be called eshet chayil.

—

When the work of the church is thought of only as a self-help project, we lose sight of the creativity that exists beyond the horizon of our own limited thinking. We can’t hear the Spirit’s voice over our own worry, fear, and over-compensation.

But, when we internalize the idea that the Bible is a story about God with us, we are able to understand ourselves in relation to our own context. We can ask: How is God working now? What are our community’s needs?

We are also able to understand ourselves as a community, not just as individuals who get together sometimes. We can ask: What skills do we each bring to the table? What are we afraid of? How will we grow together?

And finally, we are relieved to understand that our hopes and strivings in this church are a part of God’s eternal story with us.

In truth, God’s church was never about getting our act together. It is about transformation and belonging, love and grace. It is about reorienting ourselves to the story of God acting with and in us. Because all that we undertake as a church only matters in a world in which God is present.

Like the Proverbs 31 woman, it is only with God’s help that we become a community of valor.

Amen.

[1] Fox, Michael V.. Proverbs 10-31, Yale University Press, 2009. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/yale-ebooks/detail.action?docID=3420503.
Created from yale-ebooks on 2021-09-15 13:00:27.

[2] Ibid.