Tag: season after pentecost

That We May Embrace Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anyone unwilling to work should not eat.”

“…they will arrest you and persecute you…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Word of Truth | Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The scripture cautions:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

References:

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

“Convicted”: Lazarus and the Rich Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not always, but sometimes…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I am also struck by another lesson:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Jesus now proclaims:

“You already know how to live righteously…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Heaven Smart: The Dishonest Manager

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, let’s try…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this leads us back to our Collect…

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

–

References:

Rules are What Make Things Fun?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Has Stepped Out of Line

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Readings here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything That Actually Matters

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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)

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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 Scandal of Suffering

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A Sermon on the Beheading of John the Baptist

Readings available here.

The beheading of John the Baptist.  

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

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

The story is disruptive, in more ways than one. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

Herod didn’t want to kill John.  

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

So why would Mark place it here? 

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

Theologian Henri Nouwen spoke of this when he wrote: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

Amen. 

Little Lamb, Get Up!

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Sermon for the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

Reading available here (Track 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daughter, your faith has made you well.” 

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

— 

By now, Jairus’ daughter is dead.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus is calling us toward resurrection. 

Amen. 

The Work of Jesus is Undeniably Good

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Readings available here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How could lobotomies ever have been deemed ok? 

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

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

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

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

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

All this leads us to our Gospel reading… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No wonder the scribes are mad. 

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

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

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

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

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

And now is a good time to continue the work…

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

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

But we know better, because we know Jesus. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hear, Read, Mark, Learn, Inwardly Digest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And through this practice, we expect God to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For example:

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

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

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

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

Instead, it says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, for today, this is what stands out:

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

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

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

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

Well, here’s where the digestion comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do not fear!”

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

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

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

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

Hear them, read, mark, and learn.

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

Amen.

The Parable of the Pumpkin Patch

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A Sermon given on the 20th Sunday after Pentecost

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

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

— 

But this week’s passage felt different. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

The Kingdom of Heaven is like a pumpkin patch.

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

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

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

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

The first hour was rough.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As we worked together:  

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

But we can rejoice.  

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

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

Amen. 

Walk the Little Way

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is Therese trying to tell us? 

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

St. Therese of Lisieux

— 

So, what’s Therese’s story? 

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

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

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

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

Therese entered the convent shortly after. 

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

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

— 

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

Therese described it this way: 

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is that she spent her ministry being honest. 

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

Walk the little way.