Tag: god

God Found a Way: A Christmas Sermon

Posted in sermonTagged , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Sometimes God speaks in unlikely places through unlikely people… 

Yesterday morning, I took the rare opportunity to sleep in. When I finally did get around to stirring, I did what many of us do these days: I rolled over in bed, picked up my phone, and clicked into Facebook.  

After scrolling through friends’ pictures of poinsettias and children’s pageants for a few minutes, I happened upon an ABC Science video, hosted by historian and science communicator, Dr. Ann Jones. She was describing a curious case of parthenogenesis. Parthonogenesis, which literally translates to “virgin birth” in Greek, is the process by which some animals reproduce without mating. 

It seems that a crocodile, named Coquita, who had been held in a Costa Rican Zoo by herself for 16 years, had somehow managed to produce eggs that were developing. (Note the irony here: Coquita means flirtatious in Spanish.) 

Now, parthenogenesis isn’t that unusual in the natural world. Many insects can reproduce without the aid of fertilization. And some fish and sharks can, too. But until 2018, there was no evidence that parthenogenesis could occur in crocodiles. I’m sure some people here know a lot more about crocodiles than I do, but this was all news to me. 

So, let me get back to the basics for a minute…The thing about crocodiles is that they often lay eggs without the usual prompting from the mating process. But, these eggs are never fertilized and so they don’t develop…at least, that was the case until Coquita came along. In Coquita’s case, one of the embryos developed to full-term, though unfortunately, the baby – a female – was stillborn.  

When scientists analyzed the baby’s DNA, they found that she shared 99.9% of it with her mother. The evidence was clear. Coquita had a virgin birth.  

Before anyone jumps to conclusions, rest assured that I am not suggesting that Coquita the Crocodile’s reproductive miracle offers irrefutable evidence of the truth of the virgin birth of Jesus Christ. Humans are not crocodiles, after all.  And believing in the virgin birth is more properly assigned to the realm of faith than reptile science. 

The inbreaking of God in our world through the embodiment, or incarnation, of Jesus Christ does not have to find its proof in the biological sciences. Because God is allowed to break the rules. And, in fact, he often does. 

But, I’m sharing the story of Coquita the Crocodile, because I need you to know the background of her story, so that you can hear Dr. Ann Jones’ final sentence the way it rang in my ears on the eve of Christmas Eve. 

Sometimes God speaks in unlikely places through unlikely people… 

And, Dr. Jones, at the very end of the video, inadvertently makes a theological claim: “Parthenogenesis, [virgin birth], is nature’s last-ditch attempt to save a species.” 

You see, virgin births occur because things have gotten dire. They occur in contexts where the chances of survival have become slim to none. Whether due to habitat loss, isolation, disease, or any number of dystopian scenarios, scientists widely agree that virgin births occur to make the future possible, when the population is in jeopardy, and there is no other way forward. 

The survival of just one baby produced by parthenogenesis could make mating possible for the next generation. It is quite literally a matter of life and death. 

And in a way, isn’t this what our scriptures claim, too? 

“Parthenogenesis is nature’s last-ditch attempt to save a species.” In a world of violence, oppression, apathy, and desperation, the virgin birth, of Jesus Christ, was God’s final attempt to save the world. 

And it worked.  In his first, shrill cry out into the cold night in Bethlehem, Jesus Christ used his brand-new lungs to proclaim LIFE in the midst of death. 

Sometimes God speaks in unlikely places through unlikely people… 

In the Christmas story, God speaks in the voice of an infant; in the bafflement of anxious, young parents; in the lowing of livestock; in the song of angels; and in the excited voices of unkempt shepherds. And God-incarnate makes his first appearance in a room that was the last-ditch effort at last-minute shelter, on a cold night in Bethlehem. 

The curious virgin birth, of Jesus Christ, made the future possible for us. And not just any future: An abundant and joyful future, where wrongs are righted,  and peace mends all the broken things. 

It was just as the prophets foretold… 

The people who walked in darkness 
have seen a great light; 
those who lived in a land of deep darkness– 
on them light has shined… 
For a child has been born for us, 
a son given to us; 
authority rests upon his shoulders; 
and he is named 
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, 
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. 

The baby was born, and so, salvation was born into the world. As the angels announced and the shepherds declared, Jesus had come to bring abundant, loving, expansive, incomprehensible, unending life. 

Finally, God had come down into the thick of it to forge a straight path through the rubble of our lives, and to show us, by word and example, what it means to keep a promise, and what it takes to build and birth an abundant future for the whole world. 

Joy to the world! The Lord is come! 

…against all odds, after so much waiting, just when we thought we couldn’t survive. 

This is the story of Christmas:  A curious virgin birth, a cry piercing the night, a baby in a manger. A message in the sky, the surprising witness of shepherds, the ponderings of a new mother. The salvation of the world. 

And it only took one baby, born in a time and place just as difficult and dystopian as our own. Born to make the future possible.  And it worked. 

Just when humanity thought it couldn’t survive, God found a way. 

Love is Lord of Heaven and Earth | Christ the King

Posted in sermonTagged , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Readings here

On November 11, 1918, World War One finally ended, after four long years. World War One is often called the first modern war. The National Park Service says: “Machine guns, poison gas, rapid-fire artillery, aerial bombardment, tanks, and submarines were all new innovations that brought about horrors never before seen on the battlefield.” 

As many as 22 million people were killed, more than any war in recorded history, up to that point. That kind of destruction doesn’t just impact one family or one community – it affects the world. The result was one big existential crisis.  

Many people asked: How could God permit this suffering? There was no easy answer. 

By 1925, countries long-considered “Christian nations” were allowing new worldviews to take root. In the communist Soviet Union and fascist Italy and Germany, God was no longer part of the equation. God was too abstract and too far away. The people wanted a king.  

Or, rather, they wanted a strongman, a no-nonsense politician who could lead people, scarred by modern war, to a modern promised land. This promised land wasn’t concerned with peace, and it wasn’t imagined through a lens of hope.  Hope was frivolous in times like these. 

Instead, it was all brute force, brute speech, fear of foreigners, scorn of minorities, fences, and locked doors. 

In large numbers, the people of Europe decided that liberty and justice for all was an old-fashioned value after all.  They had become accustomed to rationing, casualties, and adrenaline coursing through their veins.  And the strongmen told them these things were good, and right, and true – signs of their virtuous endurance. 

It was within this context that Pope Pious the Eleventh began a new tradition of the church: Christ the King Sunday. Within a few years, many other denominations had taken up the cause, including Episcopalians. 

Declaring Christ as King in that particular moment was not random. Pope Pious was making a subversive political statement against the politicians and dictators vying for the world’s thrones.  

He was reminding the church that they already had what, and who, they needed, in the person of Jesus Christ. And he was declaring that God still had something to say in these modern times: The Kingdom of God had not died on the battlefield.  God had not gone AWOL. 

Against the powers and principalities, Christ had not been moved, and would not be moved: 

His dominion is an everlasting dominion 
that shall not pass away, 
and his kingship is one 
that shall never be destroyed. 

Christ was and is and will be on his throne. 

The world’s rulers might win the day, but they had no power to bring about the kind of promised land their citizens were really looking for, beneath all their fear and despair. 

I like doing a deep dive into history, because it reminds me that the trials of our current day are not greater than those of the past. In many generations and many places, the people of God have struggled with existential crises. In hard times, we have wondered where God is. And we have desperately looked for someone to save us. 

It is hard to answer the questions of our suffering. The world’s corruption can’t be justified by trite reminders that “God is in control.” 

And, I’m sorry to say that I have yet to find a justification for suffering that provides a quick fix. 

But what I can say – because it is what our Scriptures say – is that there are spiritual realities bigger and wilder than we can understand, here on the ground. I can say that the Kingdom of God is breaking through the cracks of earthly decay, showing up now in flashes, but ever-growing toward the ambient light of paradise. 

I can say that, if the world is actually doomed, it has no business being as beautiful as it is, and people have no reason to be as kind as they often are. 

I can also say that, in my darkest moments, when I have asked God “why?” the answer has not always come in words.  But in time, hope has, eventually, come.  

And isn’t that also worth asking about? How is hope still a possibility in a suffering world? How is hope still alive? 

Our scriptures tell us hope is alive because Christ is alive. Even now, he is situated as King on his throne.  

But what makes this king so different from the crude and failing rulers of this earth? And where is the evidence of his kingdom in the middle of life’s sorrow? 

The answer arrives in the life and person of Jesus… 

In his weekly newsletter on the Gospel reading, scholar Andrew McGowan talked about the dialogue between Jesus and Pontius Pilate, the Rome-appointed governor of Judea. 

McGowan says: 

‘Pilate already knows the answer to the first fateful question, “Are you the King of the Jews?”, at least on his own terms.  This question is verbally identical in all four Gospels, which is remarkable. There is no serious possibility, however, that the homeless Galilean itinerant Jesus, is a “king” of any kind, at least in the sense that Pilate would understand that term—or how we would, normally.’ 

On Christ the King Sunday, the church proclaims that this Jesus, this homeless man, is the only true and wise king. In his humble ministry on earth and in his arrest, trial, and death, he exhibits few signs of kingship: 

He isn’t charming, he doesn’t grandstand, and he doesn’t make political alliances. He doesn’t rally his followers to take up arms, surround himself with “yes men,” or bribe Roman representatives to cut him a deal. Any gift he has received he has already given away. He has no possessions and no permanent home. 

Neither an effective politician nor social reformer, Jesus provides the one thing no earthly ruler has ever been able to offer without coercion: the Truth, unburdened by moral and mortal decay. 

In his humble life, self-sacrificial death, and shocking resurrection, the Son of God reveals himself as the answer to all our questions. The Truth is that worldly power will not save us – only love beyond our reckoning will save us. 

And God is Love. And Christ’s kingdom is “not from this world.”  And this is why we can have hope. 

As McGowan goes on to say:

‘“…the love of God…is the real order of the universe.  

To celebrate Jesus’ kingship is not to look away from the world we know, but to see it as it might be, ruled by the true power of love.’ 

No matter what they tell you, the kings, presidents, bishops, and rulers of this earth will never bring us to the promised land. We are not one election, one war, or one succession away from a resolution to the trials and griefs of this life. 

But, as we are reminded throughout our Scriptures, and in our history books, we are not the first generation to confuse brutality with hope. We are not the first people to be duped into believing we needed a strongman.  

We want our earthly rulers to take care of us, so we don’t have to work so hard to take care of one another. We want them to fix things for us. And too often, we accept the lie that fixing things means some people will stay broken. 

But, when we expect these things, we give them too much power. We cannot afford to make them kings, because we risk making them gods. And these false gods – these earthly rulers – will never be able to bring about the life-altering, darkness-shattering, hope-bringing, joy-giving transformation of the world we long for.  

Only Christ can do that.  Only the Kingdom of God can do that.  

Even in these modern times, in our deepest despair, the light of Christ is breaking through. In defiance of all who would justify cruelty, violence, and dehumanization as means to an end, we proclaim love as our salvation, because Christ is the only true king. Amen.

Our Times are in God’s Hand: A Sermon on Apocalypse

Posted in sermonTagged , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

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

Readings here.

The year was 2002. I was 13 years old.  The country had recently survived Y2K, a contentious presidential election, the September 11 terrorist attacks, 4 major hurricanes, and dozens of tropical storms, one of which was a direct hit on my home. My dad had just lost his job and had to start commuting nearly four hours roundtrip for his new one. My grandpa died. 

And then, one day in the spring, I was home alone, when the sliding glass door on my house began to shake. Suddenly, I heard a deep, resounding BOOOMMM coming from far away. I looked outside and didn’t see a soul on my cul-de-sac, even though the workday had ended. 

I came to the only, logical conclusion.  It was the end of the world. And all the Christians had been raptured – taken up to Heaven before the Great Tribulation on earth. All the Christians. Except, of course, for me. 

The apocalypse was here.  

Things had not gone as planned. Maybe I had prayed a prayer wrong, or maybe my pastor had failed to seal my Baptism in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Whatever the case, here I was, the last member of my family still earthside.  And all I could do was wait for the violence and destruction to begin. 

“There shall be a time of anguish, such as has never occurred since nations first came into existence.” 

“For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birthpangs.” 

A half-hour later, the kitchen door opened, and my mom and sister walked in. My dad got home from his new, faraway job, just a little later than I expected.  A neighbor called to ask if we had heard the “sonic boom,” when the space shuttle reentered earth’s atmosphere, on its route back to Kennedy Space Center. 

Ohhhh…so it wasn’t the apocalypse after all. Just a cascade of disorienting circumstances that had sent my anxiety into a tailspin. 

—

After hearing today’s scripture readings, maybe your heart rate went up a little, like mine did on that day in 2002. 

Our Daniel and Mark readings are undoubtedly “apocalyptic.” They prophecy a chaotic and violent end and warn their readers to stand at the ready for all that is coming. It is tempting to avoid these passages, because they are disorienting. They stress us out and make us feel bad.  And worse than that, they make us feel obligated to prepare for a future of unthinkable difficulty.  

What does apocalypse have to do with Christian hope? 

Well, I think we have often misunderstood the apocalypse. So, let’s talk about what it means for something to be apocalyptic… 

In informal conversation, when we say “the apocalypse,” we’re most likely referring to the final and complete destruction of the world, or at least, the inhabitable world. 

Scientists might speak of climate apocalypse, politicians of institutional apocalypse, and Christians throughout history have read into wars, storms, recessions, and generally bad vibes as signs of the impending final judgment. 

But in the ancient world, apocalypse had a more nuanced meaning.  The word itself comes from the Greek word, apokalypsis, which means “to uncover or reveal.” That definition ties the apocalyptic tradition to the prophets, because prophets are God’s messengers, revealing God’s active participation in human affairs. 

Not all prophecy is doom and gloom, but much if it is a warning that God’s people need to get back on track. And that’s where apocalypse comes in. While apocalyptic stories often carry a sense of foreboding, their purpose is not to make us freeze in fear and await our fate. 

As John Collins puts it: apocalypse “is intended to interpret present, earthly circumstances in light of the supernatural world and of the future, and to influence both the understanding and the behavior of the audience by means of divine authority” (1).

In other words, apocalyptic proclamations reveal the perils of losing sight of God in the short term, while declaring God’s ultimate power over all things in the long term.  In contrast to doom and gloom, they should encourage us to stay the course and carry hope through all of life’s trials.  As we say in our birthday blessing, “our times are in God’s hand.” 

It’s also good to remember that the dark future foretold is not so different from the ongoing fear and violence of our present reality. The drama of these stories casts a spotlight on the worst of the human condition so we can see it for what it really is. And in the process, we can see who we are, and who God is. 

— 

Today’s scriptures bring the trials of living, breathing, suffering people into the context of God’s power. 

They reference many cataclysms and many terrors we ourselves can recognize – when human apathy and wills to power lead to bloodshed, institutional collapse, hunger, and collective trauma that would span generations. 

This is demonstrated well in the book of Daniel, which occurs in the midst of a cycle of terror… 

At one time, the Hebrew tribes were split into two nations: the Kingdom of Israel in the North, and the Kingdom of Judah in the South. In 732 BCE, war broke out in the Northern Kingdom when Assyria invaded, killing thousands, including women and children. 

After the initial bloodshed, those who survived were systematically deported and displaced. The goal was forced assimilation of the Hebrew people, which would make it harder for them to retaliate against the Assyrian kingdom, by reducing their sense of shared identity. 

During this period, Assyria took part of the Southern Kingdom, but they didn’t gain complete control. But in 597 BCE, Babylon took the Southern Kingdom of Judah. Known as the Babylonian Exile, this period saw several phases of forced displacement of the Hebrew people, led by King Nebudchanezzar the Second.  

The war ultimately resulted in the destruction of Jerusalem and its Temple in 587 BCE. Some of the Bible’s most hauntingly beautiful literature is written about the Babylonian Exile, including the books of Daniel, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Lamentations. 

For those whose lives had been burnt to the ground by invading armies, this was surely the apocalypse. This was surely the end of the world.  

Yet, it was within this hopeless context that Daniel’s prophecy rang out: “But at that time, your people shall be delivered.” 

The world of the ancient near east may have been consumed by “war and rumors of war,” but the people of Judah would survive. Their times were still in God’s hand. 

Fifty years later, the Judeans were permitted to go back to their homeland. They rebuilt the Temple. They rebuilt their lives. And God was with them the whole time. 

In Mark, we hear Daniel’s words echoing in the voice of Jesus. Jesus tells his followers there will be destruction and bloodshed, terror and chaos.  

And within the first months and years of the early church, Christ-followers would indeed face persecutions, executions, false prophets, and false narratives. They would be blamed for things they didn’t do, and pushed ever further to the margins of society.  

Just as in Daniel, Jesus’ words are not foretelling some distant, future darkness beyond imagination. They are a clarion call and a comfort in the present darkness. Christ followers can rest assured, in all these trials, that the good news is still worth living out, and that God will sustain them in the end. 

This is what apocalypse should teach all of us: God remains steady in the midst of our chaos, pain, and existential despair – in the very center of the worst thing that we can imagine. God doesn’t ignore evil, doesn’t celebrate injustice, and doesn’t revel in our suffering.  

Our hope comes from a deeper well than the brutality happening around us and to us.  And hope can be sustained no matter the circumstance, because it comes directly from the Creator of all things. 

If you feel today that you are standing at the edge of apocalypse, consider this: maybe it’s not the end. 

It may very well be the end of certain assumptions, communities, families, relationships, and ways of being. It may be the end of the world that you imagined, but it is not the end. 

When the chaos of this world feels apocalyptic, we can see that disorientation for what it is:  a clarion call to live like Jesus, to endure in the struggle, to love self-sacrificially, to pay attention, to rest in the care of one another, and to look for the life of the world to come.  

We do not need to fear the apocalypse. With hope in our hearts, we keep moving forward, held steady in God’s hand. 

1. Collins, John J. (1984). Daniel: With an Introduction to Apocalyptic Literature. Eerdmans.

The Saints of God are Just Folk Like Me

Posted in sermonTagged , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Proper 26, All Saints’ Sunday 2024 – Readings here

I was 23 years old before I celebrated my first All Saints’ Day.  

Growing up in an Evangelical denomination, we were allergic to the word, “saint.” We weren’t really into people and their stories. We were into doctrines and rules by which we could measure ourselves and others. We were determined to cast off the baggage of centuries of tradition in pursuit of a clearer, more consistent, more relevant Christianity. 

This mindset was influenced by a few major ideological shifts: the anti-Catholic sentiment of the Protestant Reformation, which saw the saints and all their associated celebrations as superstition at best, and idolatry at worst; the optimism of expanding imperialism and the industrial revolution, which directed people in the Western world to leave behind the past, in order to forge ahead to a limitless age of progress; and the rugged individualism of American culture, which made religion a personal practice rather than a collective one, and measured each person by their ability to prove themselves worthy of God’s love. 

The saints simply didn’t fit into the picture. They were funny, old relics of medieval Catholicism. Their stories and experiences, so often tied up with struggle, were quite frankly embarrassing to our self-sufficient, modern ears. They were messy and weird, hard to manage, and rarely fit within the norms of fundamentalism. 

My faith story was one without a prologue, because it lacked the stories of the saints. As a result, faith was like a path that had never been trod before. It was dark and mysterious, an unknown venture that I had to endure on my own. No one, besides, perhaps, my parents and my pastor, could offer wisdom for the journey. It was often a lonely place. 

But many years later, I found myself in an Episcopal Church on the occasion of All Saints.  

Still wary of more “Catholic” traditions, I had nevertheless found hope and healing among the people in that big, neo-classical building across from University of Virginia’s campus. They had held me, watched me cry, and let me sit with my grief after leaving the Evangelicalism I was raised in.  

I had left because it turned out that, in addition to saints, they were allergic to women in leadership. But this Episcopal Church hadn’t put pressure on me to contort myself into an “acceptable” version of a woman or a Christian. They didn’t seem to believe that Christianity was about proving myself worthy of God’s love.  

And they didn’t act like the Christian journey was a thing I should do on my own. In fact, through the liturgy, they had carried me along in the faith when I was too spiritually weary to utter the words myself. 

These ordinary, holy people had started to help me feel like Christianity was much bigger and more vibrant than what I had grown up with. Because it wasn’t about me, sitting in a dark room alone with an exacting God. It was about us, wherever we found ourselves, walking together toward the light of a loving God. 

Still, on All Saints, I wondered what the long-dead saints, with their fantastical stories, could possibly teach me about the good news. And then, we sang a silly, little British song about the saints of God. 

To my mind, today’s sequence hymn, “I Sing a Song of the Saints of God,” is perfectly composed. In the first two verses, we encounter abbreviated, and basically anonymous, tales of the formalized saints of our tradition: 

  • Doctors, like St. Luke and St. Hildegaard 
  • Queens, like St. Helena and St. Margaret of Scotland 
  • Shepherdesses, like St. Bernadette of Lourdes 
  • Soldiers, like St. Martin of Tours 
  • And too many priests and martyrs to name. 

There is something jarring about the juxtaposition of the sickly-sweet little children’s tune and the harrowing realities of these ordinary, holy people who walked with God, so often to their own death. 

The jaunty little melody and the laundry list of unnamed saints work together to suggest that the saints, even while being worthy of veneration, are nothing to get worked up about. They’re everywhere, in every generation. There are so many, the song doesn’t even have time to name them. 

And then, what is, at first, subtle in the song’s composition is made concrete in its closing words – 

They lived not only in ages past; 
there are hundreds of thousands still; 
the world is bright with the joyous saints 
who love to do Jesus’ will. 
You can meet them in school, or in lanes, or at sea, 
in church, or in trains, or in shops, or at tea; 
for the saints of God are just folk like me, 
and I mean to be one too. 

For the saints of God are just folk like me, and I mean to be one too.  

When I was 23, red-eyed from crying, but surrounded by Christian love, I sang a song of the saints of God, and I finally understood the saints. 

It’s right there in our church’s catechism: 

“The communion of saints is the whole family of God, the living and the dead, those whom we love and those whom we hurt, bound together in Christ by sacrament, prayer, and praise.” 

It turns out, the saints aren’t just long-dead people with nothing to offer. Both living and dead, they are exemplars of ordinary, everyday holiness, who shore up our faith in turbulent times and show us the way in the midst of life’s uncertainty. 

The church can’t afford to ignore 2,000 years of saint stories because we think they’re old or weird, or mystical or uncool. Because the church is nothing without the saints: the named ones and the anonymous ones, the ones we find acceptable and the ones we find confounding, the ones who died in glory and the ones sitting here in this room. 

All of them have something to teach us about the path of Christ. All of them, in their own time and place, lit up the world with a little bit of good news. 

Our faith rests on the legacy of the saints.  

Because of this, it finds its shape and meaning in a rich and never-ending web of relationships, spanning from ancient times to the far-future. These relationships reveal God’s unbroken chain of love in a broken world.  

Through the example of the faithful in every generation, we understand who the Triune God is, in eternal relationship with Godself. 

Through relationships with our fellow disciples, we learn what it means to live into the greatest commandment to love one another, without worrying about the outcome or the cost. 

And these relationships inform our relationship with the world – with the downtrodden and alienated, displaced and forgotten, hated and misunderstood, immigrant and citizen, rich and poor. 

In communion with the saints, we find that the Kingdom of God “is closer than we know” (1).

And the path of Christ is not ours to walk alone. We are not left without history, tradition, exemplar or teacher. The air is heavy with the prayers of the saints. The streets are crowded with them. 

Like God, the saints are everywhere, always revealing God’s love in places where love has no right to exist. We are not alone.  

So why not rise to the challenge?  

Why not live like you and I could be saints, to someone? 

Why not act like miracles can take place through the mechanism of our ordinary, holy lives? 

Why not share our testimonies, so we can be reminded that love counts for something? That it changes hearts and moves the needle. That sometimes, it even makes enemies friends. 

I have seen the saints at work, loving me back into faith, changing the course of someone’s life, standing up for the vulnerable, overcoming their fears, taking responsibility for the wellbeing of strangers, turning ravaged places into gardens. 

It’s not so hard to find them when you start looking for them. 

As we approach a stressful Election Day, my prayer for all of us is that we look for the saints at work. And that we rise to the challenge, determining to be saints to someone, not worrying whether the love we live out comes across as weird or old-fashioned or even foolish. 

For the saints of God are just folk like me, and I mean to be one, too. 

(1) On his deathbed, my Great Grandpa Camp told my mother: “Heaven is closer than we know.” In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus says “You are not far from the Kingdom of God.”

Everything That Actually Matters

Posted in sermonTagged , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Readings here

“Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” 

In Florida and North Carolina and places in between, our fellow Americans are grappling with the aftermath of Hurricanes Helene and Milton. Though the floodwaters and storm surges have subsided, there are over 1,000 people missing across several states. People are still without access to water and power, and some are still stuck in isolated, waterlogged homes. 

My husband and I, who grew up in Florida, kept vigil Wednesday night as Milton made landfall, anxiously waiting for family to respond to our text messages: Are you safe? Is everyone accounted for? Do you have what you need? How can I help? 

Fortunately, our family is safe.

The physical storms have passed, but the wounds remain. These wounds are social, physical, and financial.  And they cut like jagged lines through neighborhoods and towns: disrupting relationships, destroying the comforts and norms of communal life, and compounding grief. 

It’s enough to break a person. And I think that’s why we tend to assume that things will devolve into dystopia after a storm – we expect looting, marauding, and spats of violence. Under conditions of want, we expect people to give up on the whole social project.  Now, it’s every man for himself. 

But surprisingly, this isn’t the case. While the road to recovery is complicated, it happens at a quicker pace than we might expect. And it’s all because people rocked by the impoverishing aftermath of disaster become more generous,  not less generous. 

In her book, A Paradise Built in Hell, Rebecca Solnit set out to understand what happens to communities after disasters, by studying real-life disasters throughout American history.  

Her findings disprove the dominant story that, in the face of scarcity and suffering, people will become selfish, violent, and uncollaborative. Across time, location, and demographic, the opposite proved true. She found utopia. 

Solnit writes: 

“In the wake of an earthquake, a bombing, or a major storm, most people are altruistic, urgently engaged in caring for themselves and those around them, strangers and neighbors as well as friends and loved ones. The image of the selfish, panicky, or regressively savage human being in times of disaster has little truth to it. Decades of meticulous sociological research…have demonstrated this. But belief lags behind, and often the worst behavior in the wake of a calamity is on the part of those who believe that others will behave savagely and that they themselves are taking defensive measures against barbarism.” 

In other words, when a community loses everything, all at once, our human impulse is to care for one another. Social standing, past hurts, personal quirks, and property lines cease to matter when we’re all equally vulnerable, when we’re all aware of our own fragility and need. 

The only questions that matter are these: Are you safe? Is everyone accounted for? Do you have what you need? How can I help? 

All that matters is finding a reason to hope. And it turns out, the reason to hope is, very often, looking back at us – it’s the family bond and reciprocal care of other humans. As one makeshift restaurant put it, after the San Francisco Earthquake: “one touch of nature makes the whole world kin.” 

And haven’t we all experienced this?  

After 9/11 or Harvey or Helene or Milton, hasn’t the shock forced us to reach out to others, to find reassurance in one another’s company, and to reexamine what really matters?  

Haven’t we prayed a little more, and lingered a little longer while hugging a loved one?  Haven’t we looked up at the clear blue sky with a renewed sense of wonder to be here at all? Haven’t we been moved to donate our time and money, and open up our homes, because we suddenly understood that we need each other? 

It’s no wonder that one of God’s first acts of love toward humankind was creating another human. When things get urgent and raw enough, we remember that the whole world is kin. 

And when we remember that, anything feels possible. 

— 

It may seem like a strange juxtaposition, but Jesus’ command for the rich young man to sell all of his possessions, places him in a context similar to post-disaster communities.  It asks him to place people above possessions and says something about Christ’s vision for the Kingdom of God. 

Let me be clear that, when Jesus tells the man to give up everything, he is not calling him to suffering. Jesus does not want us to hope for disaster, as if suffering will make us more holy. Jesus does not delight in suffering and death – his resurrection testifies to that fact. 

But, when he tells the man to choose a life of poverty, he is pointing him to the root of hope that is buried under the rubble of our material dependency.  

His possessions, and the accumulation of those possessions (1), are a distraction from real living (2). They keep him from recognizing the generous love of God, found most richly in relationships with his fellow human. 

He is trying to get the man to consider that abundant life is not a thing that can be accumulated or possessed. Abundant life is found in reciprocal generosity, caring for and receiving care from others. 

If you had the choice, why wouldn’t you try to live in that blessedness – that place in which the whole world is kin? Choosing it instead of waiting for the inevitable disaster. Choosing it now, because disaster has already struck somewhere, and hope only grows in the context of mutual care. 

— 

In the end, the man couldn’t fathom making such a sacrifice. And Jesus wasn’t surprised. But, Jesus’ words still ring in our ears, and we should consider them, too. 

Material possessions will not be the marker of our success, and they will not ultimately determine whether the Kingdom of God will survive and flourish. 

Because, God’s kingdom is not built with stone, silver, and stained glass, but as a family system of reciprocal generosity. It is predicated, not on financial liquidity, but on the liquidity of love. Which is to say, it is a place of radical trust and radical dependency. 

We give and receive in equal measure, to be reminded that true and lasting wealth is the bond we share with one another, and with God. 

As kin to one another, we are to open our hands and hearts now, not waiting for someday when it feels like we have acquired “enough,” because that day will never come. 

We are to quit judging ourselves and others by material and financial possession. And reject social forces that pressure us to look, act, consume, and invest according to the logics of wealth, power, and control.  

If disasters have anything to teach us, it is that control is an illusion. All that we possess could be gone tomorrow. 

Our true wealth lies in giving up control to Jesus Christ, who alone can bring about the transformation of the world, who exemplifies generosity, even to the point of giving himself to death on the cross, who, in his earthly ministry, had no money of his own, but brought prosperity of health, spirit, and love to all he encountered on the road. 

Jesus is not asking us to give up “everything” to follow him. He is directing our attention to “everything” that actually matters.

So that we can strengthen the bonds of love, building utopia right here, birthing new life in the rubble. 

Amen. 

(1) Thanks to Dean McGowan for making this point.
(2) Martin Buber, in his book I and Thou, says “All real living is meeting.”

Jesus, Our Neighbor (in the Buy Nothing Group)

Posted in sermonTagged , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

You open wide your hand 
and satisfy the needs of every living creature. 

Readings here.

Ever since the start of the start of the pandemic, I have been a member of my neighborhood’s “Buy Nothing Group.”  The Buy Nothing Project is a national organization with one goal in mind: forge community connections by giving and receiving, without exchanging any money. 

To join one, you simply find your neighborhood group on Facebook and verify with the admin that you actually live there. From there, you start interacting with your neighbors in a “gift economy.” 

During the pandemic, I was part of a large Buy Nothing group that included nearly all of New Haven, Connecticut, from scrappy grad students in falling-apart duplexes to rich people in Victorian mansions to residents in subsidized housing. 

In a Buy Nothing Group, none of these economic categories mattered. The only thing that mattered is that you were willing to give and receive without judgment. 

When we adopted a kitten who was destroying all our house plants, I gave them away to my neighbors for a better chance at survival. When my French Press coffee maker broke, a neighbor gave me hers.  And when we were getting ready to move to Texas, I was able to give away three bags full of groceries to a woman whose refrigerator had just broken down, spoiling all her food. 

But these were just the small things.  

Being in a Buy Nothing Group wasn’t just about what I could offer or receive.  It was about witnessing other people’s generosity. 

Someone offered up their car on loan so a neighbor could get to doctors’ appointments.  People painted each other’s houses, moved heavy furniture up and down third-floor walkups, and shared backyard garden harvests. They offered their skills, like carpentry, and their time as babysitters.  

In some ways, I think I mentally survived those dark days of lockdown because I was in a Buy Nothing group. That group gave me more than hope. It gave me proof that goodness was already in the world. 

In the middle of an apocalypse, we were still living in beatitude.

— 

At a basic level, the Buy Nothing Project is just a common-sense way to get rid of things you don’t want. But it’s transformative because it is principled – community connection matters more than transactional exchange. 

One of the primary principles is that: “We come from a place of abundance ~ not scarcity.” 

It asks its participants to behave as though there is more than enough to go around. 

Which is actually a big deal, considering our entire economic system runs on “scarcity.” The idea that “supply is limited” is good for business, because it convinces us that we should spend now and spend more to get what we want or need. 

But economic scarcity impacts more than the bottom line. It forms our social world, too. Scarcity thrives on a dichotomy between the haves and have-nots, and on the power differential between the “self-made” success stories and the naive poor.  It implies there’s not enough to go around. It makes every person on this planet our competition. 

Scarcity discourages us from being generous. Because we feel like we will never have enough. And in all this, it keeps us from building meaningful, dependent relationships with our neighbors and communities.  

We keep everyone at arm’s length, either to protect our assets or protect our pride. We can’t risk giving or receiving in a world of scarcity. 

— 

Over the years, I have often returned to an article written by Hebrew Bible scholar and theologian Walter Brueggemann, entitled “The Liturgy of Abundance, the Myth of Scarcity.”  

In the article, he rejects the idea of scarcity by tracing a theme of “abundance” in the Bible. He starts from the beginning, when God creates the lush and bountiful earth and all its creatures, calling it “very good.” 

He talks about God’s promise to the chosen people of Israel – how, even in hardship, war, and slavery, God ultimately provides for their need. 

  • God gives them manna in the wilderness, and quail when they complain it’s not enough.  
  • God promises them a land flowing with “milk and honey,” a phrase that points toward, not just sustenance, but an overabundance of good things. 
  • God raises up radicals and prophets who constantly remind them to turn away from idols and kings that promise them the world’s riches in exchange for their freedom.  
  • God folds foreigners, women, the poor, and the ostracized into the ongoing story of God and his people, widening the boundaries of the Kingdom of God. 

In all this, God reveals that scarcity, with all its hoarding, boundary-making, withholding, and harsh judgment is not the ethic of the Kingdom of God. 

Today’s story continues that theme of abundance… 

The message of Jesus has been spreading, and now over 5,000 people are gathered to catch a glimpse of him. They have come for healing and hope. But right now, they are hungry. 

And apparently only one boy remembered to pack a lunch. And it’s the lunch of a peasant: bread made from cheap barley and two fish. 

Jesus begins distributing the food and miraculously, everyone is fed, with twelve baskets of food left over. Here, in the most obvious way, our Scriptures reveal that God is a God of abundance. He not only provides for the basic needs of those surrounding him, his generosity overflows. 

This miraculous act of feeding shows the 5,000 that God’s act of abundant creation in Genesis never stopped. Now, it is being lived out in the person of Jesus Christ. More than providing hope, it was proof that goodness was still active in the world. 

— 

But notice that this miracle of abundance was not solely an act of God.  

The Feeding of the 5,000 was kind of like a Buy Nothing Group, if Jesus was your neighbor. The people were hungry. The disciples facilitated. A boy offered what he had. Jesus opened his hands and spread it around. And the people willingly received. 

Giving and receiving required participation from the people in the crowd.  It required a willingness to try from the skeptical disciples, deep trust from the boy, and an honoring of that trust from Jesus.  

And it required a different economic principle – where the entire point was community flourishing. Each person’s open heart and open hand was acknowledged there on that hillside, and then multiplied exponentially in the hands of Jesus. 

Those who bore witness to the Feeding of the 5,000 – as we do now – were reminded that God’s economy is one of abundance, where even the passive desire to care for one another can lead to a miracle. 

— 

We live so much of our lives with our fists closed tight around what we have, afraid that if we lose it, we won’t have what we need. But our scriptures reveal a God who is continually working to gain our trust, and to pry our fingers open.  

God “opens wide his hand” and shows us how to live into abundance. True freedom comes when we trust him enough let go of our pride and accept the gift he is handing to us, take what we need, and then keep passing it on. 

Even the smallest act of letting go and receiving can destabilize the myth of scarcity that poisons our society. Even the most meager resource, offered with open hands, can meet the need and change the hearts of those who witness the exchange. 

And so, we pray that God will pry open our fingers and open our hands, to receive his abundant gift and to pass it on to others until the whole world is not only fed, but full.  Amen. 

The Work of Jesus is Undeniably Good

Posted in sermonTagged , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Readings available here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could lobotomies ever have been deemed ok? 

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

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

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

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

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

All this leads us to our Gospel reading… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No wonder the scribes are mad. 

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

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

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

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

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

And now is a good time to continue the work…

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

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

But we know better, because we know Jesus. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not to Hurt Us, But to Heal Us

Posted in sermonTagged , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Lectionary readings linked here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The incident is a powerful object lesson for Christians.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.