Finding joy in exhaustion…

Tags

anxiety, change, emotional, exhaustion, God, spiritual, work

This month has been one of those months at church that has been super busy.  Three out of four Saturdays have had events, and Sundays have been full too.  That alone can be exhausting, as many of us have commiserated.  But I was thinking about it today, and the truth is that all of the things we are doing are a big deal.  I think that some of our exhaustion is not just because our weekends have been full, but that the things that have been filling our time are emotionally and spiritually significant.

Two weekends ago, our Vestry had our annual retreat.  During that time we were exploring our evangelism efforts here in Plainview and imagining how we might reinvent some of our space to welcome visitors.  Both think about going out into the community and rearranging our own house raised all sorts of apprehensions and anxieties.

Last weekend, we put the soil in our new Garden of Eatin’ – a Grow to Give garden that will allow us to feed our hungry neighbors this summer.  The work was fun, took a physical toll, and brought on a mixture of emotions.  Like any new project, this project has brought a whole host of conversation and at times, conflict.  So in some ways, seeing things moving was completely refreshing and life-giving.  But we still have a ways to go before emotions are completely settled.

Later that afternoon, we held our Annual High Tea.  What I loved about the event was that the attendees ranged widely – total strangers to our church, friends of parishioners, and then a good dose of parishioners.  Now if only we can be as bold to invite those folks on Sundays as we are to invite them to our tea, we would be heading in the right direction.  But thinking about that practice can bring anxiety too.

Finally, this coming weekend, we have two major events.  First six of our teens are being confirmed at the Cathedral.  Although this comes at the end of months of preparation, I really see this as a beginning for them.  They declare on that day that they are ready to take more intentional steps in their journey with God.  It is a declaration made without certainty, but faith that God will be with them along the way.

On Sunday, our confirmands will lead us in worship as they serve in various roles.  We will conclude that service with a parish wide conversation about our ministry and mission here in Plainview.  This is a conversation that parishes throughout the diocese are having.  I am excited to see where the conversation goes, but I know that even this conversation will lead to some tough questions and uncomfortable answers.

What makes me happy about all of this is that this is all good stuff.  That does not mean all of it is easy or does not make us spiritually or emotionally drained.  But if we are not feeling drained, then we are not letting this work really do what it needs to do among us.  So as tired as we are, I hope you can hang in there with me.  I think God is doing great things among us.

Sermon – Psalm 23, E4, YC, April 21, 2013

Tags

Boston, death, God, hesed, images, King James Version, Psalm 23, Sermon, translation, valley

One of the most familiar pieces of scripture is the 23^rd Psalm.  Today we hear the BCP version of the psalm, but most of us know the psalm in the King James Version.  In fact, the Prayer Book even has the King James Version printed within the Burial office because that translation is so familiar and comforting to us.  This is the psalm we turn to when we are steeped in anxiety.  This is the psalm we turn to when a loved one is facing serious illness.  This is the psalm we turn to when death finally comes.

I have been particularly grateful for this psalm this week.  This week has felt like a tremendous “valley of the shadow of death.”  We started the week with the horrible bombing in Boston.  Not only did we lose lives, and were many people horribly injured and maimed, but also something of the innocent joy of that sporting event was taken away.  But the week just kept getting worse.  After powerful testimonies from the Newtown families, the Senate still could not pass legislation around background checks for guns.  I know that gun control is a sensitive political topic, but for many people, the Senate’s not passing this bill felt like an acquiescence to the violence in our country.  Then just a day later, a horrible explosion happened in Texas, killing many.  After the past six months, which have included Hurricane Sandy and Newtown, this week makes our valley of the shadow of death seem more and more barren, and perhaps unending.

Of course that is only our own American valley of the shadow of death.  That valley does not include the hundreds of places around the world where bombings happen every day.  The American valley does not include the places where villages are ravaged by HIV/AIDS, where children are starving, and where violence threatens whole ethnic groups.  Just this week, the night one of the Boston bombers was killed, a bomb went off in Baghdad in a coffee shop, killing 27 people and injuring over 50.  If we really tracked the worldwide and domestic news everyday, we may not feel as though we are just walking in the valley of the shadow of death, but instead our entire world has been exiled to a permanent valley of darkness and death.

But the reason I have been so drawn to the 23^rd Psalm this week has not only been because of the poignancy of the valley.  I have also been drawn to this psalm because of the richness of comfort, blessing, and peace in this psalm.  In fact, in some ways, the valley is mentioned in passing to highlight the ways that God cares for us so abundantly.  Frederick Buechner wrote about a worship service that happened immediately after September 11^th, in which a speaker said, “At times like these, God is useless.”  Buechner writes, “When I first heard of it, it struck me as appalling, and then it struck me as very brave, and finally it struck me as true.  When horrors happen we can’t use God to make them unhappen any more than we can use a flood of light to put out a fire or Psalm 23 to find our way home in the dark.  All we can do is to draw closer to God and to each other as best we can, the way those stunned New Yorkers did, and to hope that, although God may well be useless when all hell breaks loose, there is nothing that happens, not even hell, where God is not present with us and for us.”[i]

This is why we are all drawn to this piece of scripture.  All that we want to believe about God, all that we hope is true about God, is found here in this brief psalm.  Our longing for words like these is why this psalm is so popular and prominent.  The 23^rd Psalm is so well-know that the psalm has been called “an American secular icon,” because even people who do not attend church have come to know this psalm.[ii]  We all want a God who leads us beside still waters, who restores our souls, who takes away all fear, and who comforts us.

I think this is why so many artists and biblical scholars are drawn to this psalm.  Because this psalm captures for so many people not only who we believe God to be, but also who we desire God to be, many have been inspired to rephrase the language of this psalm to capture our imagination in new and fresh ways.  Probably the most familiar is the hymn “The King of Love my Shepherd Is.”  This hymn breathes air into the psalm, describing our God as a God, “whose goodness faileth never; I nothing lack if I am his.”  Just this week I stumbled on an a cappella version of the 23^rd Psalm that uses feminine language to refer to God – “She makes me lie down in green meadows; beside the still waters she will lead.”[iii]  For those of us who struggle with the overly masculine language we have about God, this version of the psalm broke open the psalm yet again for me.  All of the things we hear about God in this psalm – one who comforts, cares, and cradles – are all stereotypically feminine qualities.  When God can be both feminine and masculine, then God truly is bigger and more whole.

But the one translation that really grabbed me this week is from the New Jerusalem Bible.  The verse that we typically recall as, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” in the New Jerusalem Bible is translated as, “kindness and faithful love pursue me every day of my life.”  The “mercy” or “faithful love” we hear translated is the hesed of God in Hebrew – God’s loving-kindness.  This is the kind of overflowing love, loyalty, and lavishness that God shares with God’s people.  In fact, when people show hesed, that loving-kindness is sometimes translated as “godly love.”  But what really grabbed me about this translation is that God’s hesed does not simply follow us in life.  God’s hesed pursues us in life.  God chases after us, actively, even frantically, attempting “to reach us with the gift of life and the resources which sustain life.”[iv]  We hear the strength of this verb because this is the same verb in scripture that is often used to describe what enemies do – they pursue.  So to use the strength of this word to describe what God does to us is to say that God ferociously desires and drives to give us God’s hesed.

Our invitation today is to allow these new images to work on us as we continue to journey with God, even in what feel like valleys of the shadow of death.  Even when we feel like God is useless or that darkness may overwhelm us, God’s love never fails, God’s motherly care is for us, and when we feel most abandoned by God, God is chasing us down to rain God’s hesed upon us.  This is the beauty of our spiritual journey – our words are ever trying to help us understand this God with whom we journey.  Our language will never fully capture God, but each new attempt awakens our journey and invites us into deeper connection.  Our blessing this Eastertide is the myriad voices that help us get just a little closer to God when we need God the most.  Amen.

---

[i] Frederick Buechner, Beyond Words, as found on http://www.frederickbuechner.com/content/weekly-sermon-illustrations-disaster.

[ii] J. Clinton McCann, Jr., “Preaching the Psalms: Psalm 23,” Journal for Preachers, vol. 31, no. 2, Lent 2008, 43.

[iii] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91TbjlaS4kc.

[iv] McCann, 46.

On being an Easter people…

Tags

Boston, death, Easter, funerals, life, Psalm 23

This coming Sunday, the appointed psalm is Psalm 23.  As I have been praying on the texts, that phrase, “the valley of the shadow of death,” has been haunting me.  In some ways, it feels like our country has been in the valley of the shadow of death for quite some time.  After Hurricane Sandy and Newtown last year, multiple deaths by gun violence since Newtown – including two accidental deaths caused by four-year-olds with guns, and now the tragedy in Boston, it feels like we are in a valley of death that we cannot escape.  In fact, on Monday, I almost found that I could no longer watch the coverage about Boston because I could not handle the emotional overload that has been these six months.  The images were just too much to bear.

What is interesting about the texts for this Sunday is that not only do we read the 23^rd Psalm, but also we read a text from Revelation 7.  Both of these are regularly read at funerals.  As I sit with these texts this week, all I can think about is death – which is especially frustrating in the midst of Eastertide – a season supposed to be about life.  So what do we make of a Sunday about death, and what feels like a world overshadowed by death, in the midst of Easter?  I suppose in many ways, this is the same paradox we have at every funeral.  At every funeral, a time when we mark someone’s death, the church encourages us to look toward life.  In fact, we decorate the church in white for funerals because burials are Easter celebrations.

Recalling the many times I have redirected mourning families toward life, I took my own advice today and starting looking for signs of life in the midst of this valley of death.  I was amazed at how much I could recall.  Here in New York, the trees are just now starting to bloom, and pops of color continue to surprise and delight me.  Our Vestry just had a retreat this weekend to talk about Evangelism.  The day brought up all sorts of fresh ideas and a commitment to growth.  The hopefulness of our Vestry is nothing like the weight of the valley of the shadow of death.  Even the empty garden bed which will be filled with soil this weekend is a sign of life here at St. Margaret’s.  As our parish children stood in the bed on Sunday, which will only be empty for a few more days, I smiled to think about the convergence of life both in our children and in our produce for the poor.  And even in Boston, there were immediate signs of life – people rushing to help victims, even to their own personal endangerment, strangers holding hands, people carrying victims, and strangers using their own clothes to stop bleeding and death.

I do not know if I can completely erase those words, “the valley of the shadow of death,” and all that it connotes for me this week, but my hope is that I can at least linger equally on the next words, “Thou art with me.”  Perhaps the answer is not that life erases death, but that God is with us in both.  And knowing that God is with us in death and in life helps me better to be an Easter person this week.

Sermon – John 21.1-19, E3, YC, April 14, 2013

Tags

action, disciples, follow, Jesus, quiet, Sermon, surrender

There are two layers to our gospel lesson today.  In one layer, there is a lot of movement and action.  We have disciples fishing, a man shouting about where to put nets, Peter leaping out of a boat to swim ashore, breakfast sizzling in a pan over a crackling fire, and Peter and Jesus having this strangely repetitive conversation.  This layer of the text is really distracting.  There is so much happening that by the time we get to Jesus telling Peter to feed his lambs, we forget the part of the story about Peter getting dressed to jump into water.  The frenetic nature of the text leaves us with more questions than answers.  Why is Peter fishing at a time like this?  Why is he naked?  Why do the disciples not recognize Jesus at first?  Why is Jesus cooking breakfast?  Why does Jesus repeat his question to Peter three times?

In truth, I think there is so much activity in our gospel lesson because the disciples are a little frenetic themselves.  They had all settled into certain identities in their lives – many of them were fishermen, many of them had families that they worked with, and all of them had homes where they resided.  Their lives were simple and predictable.  Then this guy came into their lives and their identity and purpose got totally out of balance.  They had no consistent daily routine, they left behind everything they knew, this man they were following was compelling but also completely confusing, and they were being asked to totally change their lives.  And just when they had found the rhythm of managing their unpredictable lives with Jesus, then everything turns over on its head again, and they lose everything – their leader, their purpose, and their identity.  So in an effort to find something to hang on to, the disciples become punchy with action.

We all do this.  I know that I am particularly stressed out when I find myself intently scrubbing something in the house.  I may not be able to solve some problem at work, or I might not be able to fix some relationship that needs mending, but I can have a clean floor.  I might not have responded to the forty-eight emails and the twenty-nine items on my to-do list, but my desk will be cleared of all clutter and looking freshly dusted.  My neurotic behavior is cleaning, but we all have some neurotic behavior.  Some of us need to find a mall to clear our minds of all the stuff going on inside of us.  Somehow finding the perfect dress or pair of shoes takes away our other anxieties.  Others of us get out in the garden and dig our way to peace of mind.  Something about a freshly weeded garden makes us feel like something was accomplished, even if the rest of us is in shambles.  Still others hit the gym.  There is nothing like sweating away anxieties or feeling the burn to take away the other feelings going on inside of us.[i]

What is interesting about all the activity and noise found in our gospel lesson is that there is another layer of this text that is completely quiet.  We start with the disciples silently staring at that Sea of Tiberias.  There is nothing left to say among them, because they have talked this whole resurrection thing to exhaustion.  Then we find the disciples on the boat fishing in the middle of the night.  I do not know the last time you went fishing, but fishing is one of the more quiet, uneventful activities you can do.  Despite the splashing of Peter to swim to Jesus, once they all gather on the beach, no one says a word.  The air is only filled with the quiet lapping of water and the sizzling of a pan over a fire.  The disciples have questions, but no one says anything.  Even the conversation between Jesus and Peter has a quiet tone to the conversation.

In some ways, I think this is where the text is really pointing.  The disciples, who have irritated Jesus to no end, finally fall silent.  No more asking about who shall be first, and nor more asking what Jesus means or who he is.  No more crazy proposals like building booths for Moses, Elijah, and Jesus, and no more insisting that Jesus wash all of their bodies, not just their feet.  No more insisting that they would never betray Jesus.  There is nothing left to say.  And so they stare quietly, they fish in silence, and they answer in hushed voices.

This layer is the most important because this layer marks a shift.  The disciples stop trying to muscle their way to discipleship, and they finally learn to let Jesus take the lead.  They have become so physically, mentally, and spiritually exhausted that they stop trying to control everything, and they simply wait for Jesus to tell them what to do.  This is a critical moment in the disciples’ journey with Christ.

I think many of you know this about me, but I love to dance.  I grew up doing all sorts of dancing, but the most difficult form of dancing I stumbled into was formal partnered dancing – the fox trot, waltz, etc.  In the other forms of dancing I learned, I was responsible for myself, learning the steps, and making sure I knew the rhythm so that the dance looked beautiful.  But in partnered dance, especially as the woman, you have to learn how to follow.  As someone with pretty good rhythm and memory for steps, you have no idea how incredibly frustrating it is to follow a man who does not know what he is doing.  The tendency is to want to use your arms or legs to start guiding the man, or even to whisper the directions.  But the role of the woman is to follow where the man leads – perhaps the only time in a woman’s life that she is forced to do this!  But what I also found in this kind of dancing is that when you have a really good partner, he can make you feel like the most graceful, beautiful woman on the dance floor.  In fact, you stop worrying about the steps and the count, and you start moving with fluidity and ease.  The price for such a feeling is total surrender and trust.  But the payoff is that you find a joy so strong that you will hunt down that partner and beg them to save you a dance.

This is the kind of submission the disciples finally master on that beach.  No more trying to muscle Jesus into the way they want him to behave.  No more trying to talk their way through their relationship with him.  They surrender all they have to him, longing for the clarity that only he can give them.  And when they finally do that, in the quiet of that morning, they finally hear the words of purpose for their lives.  “Follow me,” Jesus says.  They are the same words Jesus said to them at the beginning of their relationship with him.  But now they finally hear.  And now they can finally respond with their whole being.  Jesus’ words are as clear as they can be.  Jesus’ words give their life meaning.  And their spirit is finally in the place where they can hear and respond.  They are truly and thoroughly ready to follow him.

This is what Jesus invites us to do as well.  This morning, as we sit in the sacred place, Jesus invites us to shove those piles off the desks of our minds, to rip out the weeds blocking our hearts, and to drop our armfuls of distractions and to listen to his simple words for us.  The words are there waiting.  The direction is clear.  The peace and comfort of clarity and purpose are ours for the taking.  So when you come to this table for the Eucharistic feast, quietly listening for Jesus’ words for you, you will be able to hear those words, “Follow me,” and do just that when you walk out those church doors.  Amen.

---

[i] Gary D. Jones, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 420.

Homily – Matthew 10.7-16, George Augustus Selwyn, April 11, 2013

Tags

George Augustus Selwyn, Good News, homily, Jesus, mission

Today we honor George Augustus Selwyn, bishop of New Zealand and of Lichfield, England, in the mid-to-late 1800s.

Bishop Selwyn was best known for his work in New Zealand.  On his voyage there, he mastered the Maori language and was able to preach in it upon his arrival.  During a ten-year war between the English and the Maoris, he was able to minister to both sides with integrity.  His treatment of the Maori people was so tremendous that the Maoris still make pilgrimages to his grave in England today.

Bishop Selwyn seems to have taken our gospel lesson from Matthew to heart.  The sending out of the twelve is full of action.  They are to go and proclaim the Good News.  They are to cure, raise the dead, heal, and cast out demons.  They are to rely on the kindness of strangers – and brush off those who do not show them kindness.  They are to take nothing – no money, clothes, or staff.  Jesus’ instructions are full of work, but they are also stripped of all the creature comforts that might have enabled the disciples to do the work.  Much like Bishop Selwyn jumped on a ship to New Zealand, to a land whose language and culture he did not know, with obstacles like war to navigate, the disciples too are tasked with dropping everything and jumping into the unfamiliar.

Just recently I had a conversation with a local clergy person about a potential mission partnership.  There were many things about the partnership that intrigued me – but there were also many things that made me wonder if this was “the one.”  There were aspects of the mission relationship that made me think that this would not be an “easy relationship.”  In the middle of confessing my concerns to the other priest, I had to stop myself, and said, “You know what – this trip makes me a little uncomfortable – and that’s how I know we’re heading in the right direction.”

What I have learned, Bishop Selwyn knew, and the disciples found, is that doing Jesus’ work is not easy.  Jesus promises that the work will not be easy in the gospel lesson today.  But inherent in Jesus’ instructions are also promises of deep joy.  There will be people who welcome the disciples and they will develop deep, meaningful, profound ministries that they will be equipped to do.  They will be cared for, even when their natural tendency will be to care for themselves.  When we can trust Jesus to do all that he says he will do, then we can have incredible experiences with God’s people.  The adventure awaits!  Amen.

A few of my favorite things…

Tags

God, Holy Week, liturgy, pilgrimage, spiritual

When I went on a choral pilgrimage in England a couple of years ago, I remember finding that each day I had a new favorite sacred space.  Not once did we visit a place and I say, “Oh, well that one wasn’t as good as yesterday.”  They all blew me away, and I had such a hard time naming a favorite when I returned home.

In some ways, Holy Week this year was like that for me.  Every liturgy of Holy Week brought its own unique gifts and made me feel like the next liturgy could not possibly top the one I had just experienced.  At St. Margaret’s, we began Holy Week a day early with our Cemetery Memorial Service on the Saturday before Palm Sunday.  I am always amazed at how our Cemetery manages to create a community of faith, despite the wide variety of Christian backgrounds present, and I am grateful for the honor of helping that community remember their loved ones every year.

The next day, on Palm Sunday, we began our second service at the Cemetery cross and processed our way into the church.  The sun was shining down on us, and our procession captured some of the joy of that day in Jerusalem for us.  It was the perfect setup for our Passion Narrative.

We came back together Monday night for compline.  I was amazed at how such a brief service could be so profoundly spiritual.  As we chanted “Jesus remember me,” I could hear the echoes of our Passion Narrative from the day before.  The next morning, I renewed my ordination vows with the clergy of our Diocese, and then came home for evensong led by our guitar group.  We hosted the local Lutheran church, and I loved the musical selections of our music leaders.  Their music brought a new flavor to Holy Week.

Wednesday, we headed over to the Lutheran church for a healing service.  There is something quite sacred about laying hands on both parishioners and complete strangers that is entirely humbling as a priest.  I really am so blessed to be entrusted with this ministry.  That same humility overwhelmed me during our footwashing service on Thursday.  The experience of both washing and having your feet washed is a profoundly intimate and sacred practice.  Leaving the church with the bare, stripped altar that night brought a deep quiet over me that lasted until Saturday.

Our Good Friday liturgy electrified the experience of silence.  Without music and adornments, the silence left us with nothing but ourselves to face.  Though we did not sing at that service, I could hear the words from that favorite hymn, “sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble…”  That night, our confirmands led our Stations of the Cross service.  We used a devotional stations of the cross, and I was so proud of our confirmands.  Despite their initial nerves, they led as confident young adults, and invited us into deeper reflection on Jesus’ journey to death.

Saturday morning, we took a brief break from the solemnity of Holy Week, and welcomed tons of children to our campus for our Easter Egg hunt.  The laughter and enthusiasm of the children – whether with crafts, egg hunting, sack hopping, or simply running around – brought me back to why this life that Christ gives us is so precious.  Their energy brought me back to my favorite liturgy of all time – the Easter Vigil.  I cannot say enough about this service.  From hearing the haunting music and words of the Exultet, to listening to our salvation stories in darkness, to ringing in the alleluias, to feasting once again on the Eucharistic feast, that service is one of the most powerful service the Episcopal Church offers.

And after all of that, you might think Easter would be a let-down.  But looking at those much fuller pews just reminded me that no one can contain Easter joy.  Our alleluias are louder, and our hearts explode with love for Christ and one another.  There is no greater joy for us that day.

So you see, picking a favorite from Holy Week is actually quite difficult.  I think the difficulty in choosing a favorite is that each service captures an experience with God – and no one can rank or rate experiences with God.  They are all special in their unique ways, and would each suffice for spiritual strength for weeks.  So imagine my joy in experiencing them all in one week.  If going away for a pilgrimage is not an option for you, I invite you to consider using Holy Week as your spiritual pilgrimage next year.  I guarantee you, you won’t be able to pick a favorite!

Sermon – John 20.19-31, E2, YC, April 7, 2013

Tags

afraid, ashamed, fear, forgiveness, Jesus, love, peace, resurrection, Sermon

As Christians who just celebrated Easter last week, rejoicing in Jesus’ resurrection and all that his resurrection means in our lives, you would think our gospel lesson would be a little more victorious.  You would think the next step after the angels appear saying Christ is not in the tomb but is risen would be the disciples hitting the ground running, doing the work of spreading the good news or at least throwing a raucous party.  Instead, we find the disciples huddled in a locked room, cowering in fear.  They have not taken the good news from Mary Magdalene as reason to celebrate.  Instead, they are paralyzed by fear.

I have often wondered what the disciples were afraid of.  The text says they are afraid of the Jews, perhaps afraid that the same people who killed Jesus would try to kill them too.  But I think there is more to their fear.  I think they are afraid to face others, because they feel as if they have failed.  Perhaps they believe that their pick for Messiah did not seem to be the Messiah after all.  I think they are also behind those locked doors because they are ashamed that they failed to protect Jesus, to keep him alive.[i]  Those locked doors are not just for safety – those locked doors are for hiding the shame, the disappointment, and the fear of facing others that the disciples have.

We know a little about what the disciples feel like.  We all have things about ourselves for which we are ashamed.  There are things about ourselves that we lock away, praying that no one every finds out because we are not who we fully want to be or even who we pretend to be.  Garrison Keillor once said, “We always have a backstage view of ourselves.”[ii]  Most people only see the carefully arranged stage we have assembled for others to see.  But behind the curtain, in that backstage view that only we have, there are all sorts of things hiding: old failures, hurts, guilt, and shame.  And Eastertide is one of the most difficult times for this dichotomy because we feel like we should be at our best – wearing our best clothes, coming to church as perfectly functioning families, showing forth nothing but happy alleluias.  We are working overtime to ensure that our stage is especially carefully arranged at church.

But to this frenzied, harried behavior, what does Jesus say?  Peace be with you.  Jesus comes to those fearful, ashamed, embarrassed disciples, finding them behind their locked doors of protection and offers them peace.  Jesus barges backstage and says, “I see you in your fullness, and I offer you peace.  So forgive yourselves and now go and forgive others.”  This is why Jesus died on the cross – that their sins might be forgiven.  And so, before the disciples get too mired in wallowing in fear, shame, and self-pity, Jesus demands they recognize that they are forgiven – and that they share that good news with others.  For no one should be locked inside a room of shame and fear.  The peace Jesus offers is not some “greeting-card platitude about the sun behind the clouds.  [Jesus’ peace] is the beginning of a new world, the long-awaited world of God’s shalom.  [His peace] comes with freedom from fear, sin, and death.  Jesus opens the door that the disciples had locked…and he shows the way to resurrection reality.”[iii]

This is our invitation today as well.  Our invitation is to offer the same forgiveness to one another that Christ unabashedly offers to us.  In so doing, we invite not only ourselves, but others, to take down the pretty stage trappings, and to recognize that we all have backstage versions of ourselves, which are all in need of Jesus’ love and forgiveness.  This is good news for which we can really shout alleluia.  This is the kind of good news that makes us want to be in church.  Because this sacred space is not sacred because we made our stages look sacred; this sacred space is sacred because we are fully ourselves, and fully forgiven.  Peace be with you.  Amen.

---

[i] M. Craig Barnes, “Crying Shame,” Christian Century, vol. 121, no. 7, April 6, 2004, 19.

[ii] Barnes, 19.

[iii] Kristen Bargeron Grant, “No Joke,” Christian Century, vol. 120, no. 9, April 19, 2003, 18.

Sermon – John 20.1-18, ED, YC, March 31, 2013

Tags

darkness, Easter, expectation, expecting, God, Jesus, Mary Magdalene, Sermon

On that dark, damp, dreary morning, Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb expecting something.  Darkness clings to her like a cloak.  She was there at the foot of the cross two days ago.  She waited, hoping against hope that God would be victorious and Jesus would be miraculously saved.  And then she prayed that God would take Jesus faster, because despair was setting in and his suffering was overwhelming to witness.[i]  She cried so much that night, that her eyes ran dry.  After 48 hours of dazed despair, she drags her lifeless body through the darkness to tend to her beloved Jesus’ body.  Seeing his body one more time will only confirm her grief, but at least she has somewhere to go to mourn; at least his cold body will confirm his death, and begin a journey toward closure.  Mary Magdalene comes to that tomb in darkness expecting something.

We too come to church today expecting something.  Maybe we are expecting a word of joy, the release of the alleluias we have been holding in for weeks.  If we attended the myriad Holy Week services this week, maybe we are expecting a relief from all the darkness of the liturgies during these last holy days.  If we have not been to church in a long time, maybe we are uncertain as to what to expect.  We came here seeking something – some sort of connection, a sense of familiarity, or maybe a place that will accept us as we are, letting us take things as slowly as we need.  Or perhaps you were dragged to church today by a family member, and the most you are expecting is an hour of your time taken away – and that certainly feels like a period of darkness for you too.

If Mary came expecting one thing, what she gets is altogether different.  The absence of Jesus body puts her over the edge.  The first thing she does is run to get the disciples.  But even they only confirm the awful truth that keeps compounding.  Humiliating him, torturing him, and crucifying him were not enough.  Now they have taken his body too?  Having the disciples leave Mary Magdalene alone again starts the downward spiral that seems endless.  This is why she cannot see the angels in their glory – she only mutters a response to them and turns away from the tomb, her vision blurred by her tears again.  This is also why, when a man appears, she desperately begs the man to tell her where he has taken the body.  And then the unexpected happens – or at least perhaps what she had hoped might happen, but would never let herself say aloud.  Rabbouni!  Her teacher is back!

But Jesus only partially fills her expectations.  “Do not hold on to me,” Jesus says.  His words must have felt like a slap to Mary’s fragile self.  In the instant that she recognizes Jesus, a whole new set of expectations arrive.  Surely, they can flee to Galilee again and keep Jesus safe.  But Jesus changes things yet again; Mary Magdalene’s expectations cannot be fulfilled.  Things cannot return to normal.  What Jesus invites is not a return to the way things were, but to a way that is even better than the way things were; a way in which she can develop new expectations for her life in Christ.

When I graduated from college and relocated to Delaware, I was looking for a United Methodist church.  I had experienced a particular style of worship in my hometown, and was looking to replicate that experience.  After six months of frustrated looking, I stumbled into the Episcopal Cathedral.  Parts of my expectations were met – the Cathedral had one of the most diverse populations I had ever seen – racially, socioeconomically, ethnically, by household definitions, and by sexual orientation.  They were doing some incredible urban ministry, and seemed to have an inspiring commitment to the poor.  But the worship killed me.  It was so formal and the music was so uptight, that I wondered how such a progressive church could be so rigid.  I remember hearing an offertory anthem one Sunday that was so good that I said a very loud, “Amen!” at the end.  I realized right away that that was not what was expected of me.  Ultimately, after several Sundays, I decided that I would stay, but only temporarily.  When we moved again, I would just look for another United Methodist church.  But God had other expectations for my life.

That is the funny thing about expectations.  Both the realistic expectations Mary Magdalene has – the expectation to remain in bitter darkness – and the hopeful expectation Mary has – that everything could go back to normal – are not met.  But that does not mean that Jesus does not make a way out of the darkness.  We have heard from the very beginning of John’s gospel about Jesus and the light.  “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it,” says John’s gospel[ii]  The later, John says, “Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.’”[iii]  Jesus, then, this light of the world, cannot meet the expectations of Mary; because Mary’s expectations are smaller than God’s.  Mary cannot go back to the way things were.  But the way things are going to be is infinitely better.  “God gives a new kind of life, a life that is still worth living, a new kind of aliveness toward God and the world…”[iv]

Mary’s interaction with Jesus invites us to consider our own expectations of this day.  If we came here today, only seeking joy without transformation, then our expectations might go unmet today.  If we came here expecting to rub out all the darkness of these last days, then our expectations will only be partially met today because we cannot celebrate the resurrection, without the cross ever with us.  If we came here as seekers, expecting to just sit in the pew and then go back to our lives, then our expectations might not be met either.  Once we learn that this room is full of seekers just like us, who want us to enrich their journey, this place cannot be seen in the same way.  Even for those of you who just hoped to survive this hour of forced worship will not have your expectations met.  Because even if you are not touched today by Christ’s light, those who brought you here are being touched by the light; your relationship with them will be changed because they are being changed.

So the polite Southerner in me wants to say, “I am so sorry we did not meet your expectations today.”  But at the end of the day, I am glad that our expectations are not met today.  God is doing bigger and better things than we can imagine.  Our job is to trust that the light of the world will lead the way into the new resurrection journey that awaits us.  Amen.

---

[i] Joan Gray, “Beyond Rescue,” Journal for Preachers, vol. 22, no. 3, Easter 1999, 51.

[ii] John 1.5

[iii] John 8.12

[iv] Gray, 52.

Sermon – Luke 24.1-12, EV, YC, March 30, 2013

Tags

Easter Vigil, God, light, liturgy, Messiah, movie, salvation, Sermon, tomb

Our liturgy tonight operates a bit like a movie whose mode of telling stories is in flashbacks.  We start the movie with the scene we just heard.  Several women are gathered around the empty tomb, their mouths agape, and their minds racing.  And then, the flashbacks begin.

Mary the mother of James recalls that ancient story of creation.  That empty tomb reminds her of those words – tohu wabohu – the formless void.  She vaguely remembers what God said about creating humankind in God’s image.  And she hears those words repeated over and over again, “It was good; ki-tov”

Meanwhile, another woman flashes back to when humankind’s sinfulness so angered God that God flooded the earth.  For forty days, Noah knew the nothingness of that empty tomb in front her.  But she also remembers that covenant God made with Noah – that never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth.  Perhaps there is a rainbow in this tomb, and not only the watery floods that she sees.

Joanna looks into that empty tomb and remembers another time her people faced desperation.  She flashes back to the rushing Egyptians who have pinned her people to the Red Sea.  She remembers the panicked screams of her people toward Moses.  She remembers how God saved them then – how God created a way out of no way.  She wonders whether the empty tomb is not unlike that empty seabed – the one that the Israelites used to get to freedom.

Another woman stares into that vacant tomb and she remembers a different tomb.  She remembers the death and hopelessness of those bones in that valley – the thousands of devastated lives.  But then she remembers what God told Ezekiel.  She remembers the rattling of those bones coming together, and the way the breath of God, the ruah of God breathed life into those bones.  She wonders if she hears the faint ruah of God now coming out of that empty tomb.

But Mary Magdalene remembers a different story from Zephaniah.  She hears the words of that song in a fresh way today.  “Sing aloud, O daughter of Zion.”  Is this the day that God will save us?  Can her beloved Jesus be not missing, but raised?  Might Jesus be the one who will restore her fortunes?  She longs for God to be saying to her, “Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem.”  “Please let this empty tomb be an occasion for rejoicing and not for more pain and suffering for my Lord,” Mary Magdalene prayers in her heart.

And then the movie brings us abruptly back to the empty tomb, the sound of silence like so many times before in their history.  The appearance of emptiness threatens their fragile, exhausted psyches.  Their unspoken memories fail to comfort them because they are unable to utter a word of remembrance and assurance to one another.

As outsiders watching this movie, as we watch those looking into the tomb, we begin to connect the various flashbacks.  The answers are there before the angels need to say a word.  God loves us and creates us in God’s image.  And we are not only good – but we are very good – wehineh-tov.  God promises to never destroy us again as God once did.  God promises liberation from oppression.  God promises restoration to our bodies and spirits.  God promises to bring us home.  God promises and God saves us time and again.  And now, with this Messiah who has finally arrived, God saves us once and for all.  What has felt like a defeat is now the reason to rejoice.  The smiles that spread across our faces are exact mirrors of the smiles that spread across the faces of those women at the tomb.  The smiles are smiles that happen as we connect the varied flashbacks, remembering our salvation history, and this final act of salvation through the death and resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.  That tomb is not a formless void, but the holy site where all our salvation narrative culminates.  That empty tomb is in fact not empty at all.  That tomb is full of life.  Tonight is a night for alleluias, for songs of joy, and for dancing.  The light shatters the darkness this night, and we celebrate the greatest victory of all time.  Alleluia! Christ is risen.  The Lord is risen indeed!!

Homily – Philippians 4.4-9, Thomas Ken, March 21, 2013

Tags

God, homily, integrity, joy, song, Thomas Ken

Thomas Ken was the Bishop of Bath and Wells, and served as a priest and chaplain in the late 1600s.  His ministry was marked by his relationships to royalty.  His challenge was that he had a fierce sense of integrity – one that got him into trouble when he refused to condone poor behavior by royals.  His conscience meant that he had to step down from his see for a time, but he refused to let go of his morals.  Given the trials he faced – losing his jobs and being relocated for his opinions and actions, Ken was still able to hold on to his joy, writing many works and hymns – the most popular being our Doxology, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.”

There are few of us who manage to maintain such a strong sense of integrity and such joy; we like to make things easier for everyone, avoiding conflict if possible.  And whether we are avoiding conflict or are standing our ground like Ken, we can get down in the dumps about our lot in life; this life God has “blessed” us with can make us feel not blessed at all.  The trials and burdens of life are just that, and we more often feel stooped over with the weight of the world than foot-loose and fancy-free.

But what our lessons and what Thomas Ken encourage us to do today is to hang on to joy.  In fact, our Epistle lesson, our Psalm, and Ken’s doxology point us toward joy through song.  From Philippians we hear, “Rejoice in the LORD always; again I will say, Rejoice.”  If you haven’t heard the gospel group Israel Houghton and New Breed sing this refrain, you don’t know the power of these words to revive a soul.  From Psalms we hear, “Taste and see that the LORD is good.”  I have sung these words from our LEVAS hymnal more times that I can count – but the words always bring a soulful smile to my heart.  And who hasn’t been moved by our doxology?  My family sings this at every Andrews gathering, and just the words bring back joyous memories from my childhood and adulthood.

Conflicts and challenges and trouble are inevitable, especially if we hold on to any sense of integrity.  But today we are invited to hold on to joy anyway.  Whether through the testimony of Ken, the words of Scripture, or the power of song, we are invited into the joy that only comes from God and is the only joy that can overcome adversity.  So come to the table – taste and see that the LORD is good.  Amen.