On Refreshment in a Parched Land…

Tags

care, comfort, communion, Coronavirus, grieve, Holy Eucharist, pandemic, parched, prayer, reassurance, refreshment, salve, wilderness

Photo credit:  Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly; resuse with permission only.

Over three months ago, when we closed our church’s doors because of the Coronavirus pandemic, we had to make some quick, difficult decisions.  We knew we wanted to offer a livestream service, but we also knew we did not feel comfortable consuming the holy meal without the community of faith gathered.  Fortunately, we have a rich traditional of prayers from our Book of Common Prayer, so we switched to Morning Prayer on Sundays.  In seminary, I attended Morning Prayer daily, so in some ways, the last many months has been like visiting an old friend.  As the officiant, I have often worn my seminary cross as a sign of gratitude for the formation I receive at Virginia Theological Seminary to be able to confidently officiate the service.

But as our diocese gave us permission to begin the regathering process, the liturgical team began to realize we had a conundrum.  For the limited number of people who would be able to gather in the space, would we keep offering Morning Prayer, or would we offer communion under the new guidelines?  If we offered communion to some, would those watching online feel left out if the livestream was different from the in-person offering?  So, like we often do at Hickory Neck, we decided to try an experiment.  We still did not want the altar party to consume on screen if no one else could consume with us.  But perhaps we could try an offering of “Spiritual Communion”:  a service identical to the familiar Holy Eucharist we normally celebrate, but with a special shared prayer instead of actual reception of the body and blood of Christ.

This past Sunday, we gave the experiment a go.  Shifting types of services is more complicated than it sounds, especially given the challenges of working with limited technology.  My brain was so jumbled with details that when we hit the livestream button, I had not processed the significance of the morning.  I put on vestments I have not worn in over three months – vestments I used to wear every week.  As the celebrant, I was saying words that I have said countless times in the last ten years.  It was only when I elevated the elements, recognizing the muscle memory of my body, that the power of what we were doing hit me.  Holy Eucharist is just one of the myriad things that have been taken away from us during this time of social distancing – one of the many comforts that I have grieved in these last months.  Despite the fact we were not actually receiving communion, despite the fact the room was still empty minus a camera, despite the fact a hundred little things were different, all of a sudden, I found myself overwhelmed with emotion.

Celebrating Spiritual Communion was not the same as celebrating Holy Eucharist.  But celebrating Spiritual Communion felt like a sip of water in a parched land.  It was not complete refreshment, but it was reassurance, comfort, and care.  It was an unexpected gift from the Holy Spirit in the wilderness of this pandemic.  I do not know what our community will decide to do going forward – whether we will keep Morning Prayer or Spiritual Communion, or some combination of the two.  In fact, I am hoping our parishioners and viewers will let us know their feedback.  This week I am just grateful for a community that is willing to experiment – to try, to fail, to learn, and to grow.  That commitment to playful creativity has always been a joy; during this pandemic it is salve to our open wounds.  Thanks be to God!  And thank you, Hickory Neck!

Sermon – Matthew 10.40-42, P8, YA, June 28, 2020

Tags

Bible, Christ, covenant, disciple, God, hospitality, Jesus, love, mirror, missionary discourse, pandemic, power, presence, Sermon, vulnerability

This summer, several parishioners are participating in our 90-Day Bible Reading Challenge.  In supporting each other in our reading, one of the patterns we have noticed is the break-neck pace of reading twelve pages a day means we do not have a lot of time for traditional Bible Study – looking at the original Hebrew or Greek, discerning the historical context of the book, studying the cultural norms of the community, or even delving into the literary devices of the book.  Instead we are drinking from the fire hose of Scripture – capturing the larger narrative God’s covenantal relationship with humankind, but not indulging in the intriguing details.

With a passage like the one we hear in today’s gospel from Matthew, we could easily do the same.  There are only three verses in the text, and they are somewhat repetitive in pattern.  A quick skim brings up an old adage we have learned by heart – welcome the stranger because you may be welcoming Christ himself.  Maybe your mind immediately leapt to a time you saw Christ in a stranger.  Maybe you began thinking about the ministry of hospitality, particularly how strong that ministry is at Hickory Neck.  Maybe you even started to wonder what you could do to be more hospitable, especially during this time of social distancing.

But here’s the thing:  when we slow down our reading, we realize Jesus does not say, “whoever welcomes the stranger welcomes me.”  Jesus says, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me…”  Often when we think of hospitality, we think of hospitality from the perspective of the host.  Whether we acknowledge the reality or not, we are people of power and privilege, and our notion of hospitality is rooted in how we can offer hospitality to others.[i]  There is nothing inherently wrong with this dynamic – in fact, our sense of obligation to offer hospitality is an answer to Jesus’ call to love neighbor.  But Jesus is not talking about offering hospitality to others from a position of power.  Instead, Jesus is inviting us to give up power and receive others’ hospitality.

If you remember, we have been in the midst of Jesus’ Missionary Discourse[ii] the last several weeks.  Jesus told the disciples to go out, without resources, to do the work of discipleship.  He warned them they would face persecution, and family members would turn against one another.  And today, as Jesus concludes his discourse, he tells them whoever welcomes them, welcomes Jesus.  So not only are the disciples to make themselves vulnerable to the hospitality of others, they will be mirroring Jesus to others.  In other words, in every moment, every interaction, every relationship, encounter, conversation, and conflict among the disciples –the disciples will be witnessing Jesus.[iii]

I do not know about you, but that is a lot of pressure.  Making oneself vulnerable is hard enough.  Making oneself vulnerable means opening up all our flaws, weaknesses, and doubts.  And now, Jesus is saying while we are vulnerable, our homes, our marriages, our workplaces, our extended families, even our friendships are windows into Christ for others.  As Debie Thomas asks, “When we know Jesus is visible in and through us at every moment…[will] we tread more lightly on the earth?  Speak less and listen more?  Reconsider our grudges and grievances?  Choose our words with greater care?  Examine our motivations more closely?”[iv]

There is a lot about this pandemic that has been absolutely awful – devastating, painful, and full of death.  But one of the things that has happened to Hickory Neck in this pandemic represents new life too.  Before we closed our buildings in March, we offered hospitality from our comfort zone – hospitality unparalleled once you walked in those doors – hospitality that made most of us join this church.  But once we moved everything online, the doors and walls of this place lowered – we went out, showing who we are and what we are about to a much broader audience.  Here in this exposed setting, we are carefully, thoughtfully, intentionally showing others what Jesus looks like.  The work is hard and scary, but the reward is great too.  In letting down our walls, we are helping people to see Christ – the same Christ who redeems us, gives us strength, and makes us whole.  But the work of discipleship is not just happening on livestream.  I see this work happening in you – as you call to check in on people in the parish you have not met before because you attend a different service, as you don a mask and attend a rally in support of our African-American brothers and sisters during this raw time, and as you have socially-distanced conversations with neighbors about the power of Christ in your life.  The promise Jesus made at the beginning of his Discourse is still lingering today.  Christ is with us always, even to the end of the age.  His promised presence will allow us to keep letting down walls and being Christ’s mirror in the world.  Our job is to take up the challenge we will hear in our dismissal today:  Go.  Receive God’s love and hospitality.  Serve the Lord as Christ’s mirror.  Amen.

[i] Debie Thomas, “Welcome the Prophet,” June 21, 2020, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay on June 26, 2020.

[ii] Eugene Eung-Chun Park, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Volume 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 189.

[iii] Thomas.

[iv] Thomas.

On Race, Earthquakes, and Action…

Tags

action, African-American, beauty, blindness, compassion, complacency, confederate, earthquake, harassed, Jesus, learn, listen, love, power, protest, racism, senses, uncomfortable, value

Photo credit:  https://www.npr.org/2015/05/22/408558234/the-exquisite-dissonance-of-kehinde-wiley

A few years ago, the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts had an exhibit of the works of Kehinde Wiley.  I had not seen his work before, and found his pieces in the exhibit shocking to the eye.  Wiley managed to take traditional poses and settings from art history and infuse them with images of modern African-Americans.  The pieces were jarring to the senses.  As I made my way through the exhibit, it began to dawn on me why my senses were so jarred. By consistently seeing classical art featuring people with light-colored skin, I had been enculturated to expect certain images in art.  The prominence of one kind of subject also created unspoken messages about value, beauty, and power.  Wiley’s vibrant pieces were like an earthquake.  And as someone who considers herself fairly self-aware, I found myself humbled by his work, and sorrowful for my ignorance.

I think that is why I was so surprised by an experience last week.  Last Tuesday night, our family went up to Richmond to take a look at the Robert E. Lee statue and the surrounding damage to businesses and monuments.  For those of you who have not been following the story, as part of the protests about George Floyd’s death and the Black Lives Matter cause, the prominent Confederate monuments in Richmond have come under fire.  The statue of Robert E. Lee’s large stone plinth has been covered in graffiti, protesting George’s death, the treatment of African-Americans by the police, and systemic racism.  As I took in the visceral, pain-filled cries of graffiti, as I looked at pictures of black victims of police violence surrounding the statue, whose names I have prayed for over the years, as I watched families of color take pictures in front of this once pristine, but ever-controversial, statue with a new sense of pride and defiance, what I began to understand is those who are harassed and feel helpless have been begging for our compassion for a long time – cries that could no longer be ignored when staring at that powerfully altered statue.

But mostly, I mourned again for my complacency and blindness.  As a descendant of Confederate veterans, student of African-American history and politics, and pastor of a church built long before the Civil War, I know the issue of Confederate statues and monuments is sensitive.  But watching what was happening at the Robert E. Lee statue created the same feeling as Kehinde Wiley’s art work:  an earthquake for all in positions of privilege and power.  Standing there with my family, I felt like I was on unstable ground, my complicity in systemic racism exposed, and the weight of the question pressing on my chest:  what are you going to do about it?

For my brothers and sisters of color, I am sorry.  I am sorry that you have had to do the work to awaken my senses instead of doing that work myself.  For my brothers and sisters of European descent, we have work to do.  Hickory Neck Church has been posting ways for you to engage this issue – not necessarily telling you what to do, but inviting you into the position of making yourself vulnerable to listening, learning, and acting.  This is our work to do.  It is hard and uncomfortable, and this post may even make you defensive.  Please know that I am here – here to walk with you, here to encourage you, and here to hold us all to Jesus’ message of love.  What you do next will vary widely.  Maybe you can only do one small thing to start.  Our invitation is do something – and keep doing something until we find ourselves doing the work of the kingdom Jesus has desired for a long time.

Photo credit:  Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly; reuse with permission only.

 

Sermon – Matthew 9.35-10.23, P6, YA, June 14, 2020

Tags

African-American, compassion, disciples, empower, God, harassed, helpless, Jesus, justice, love, mercy, police, protest, racism, rally, Sermon, Spirit, truth, witness

Last Sunday afternoon, I attended a rally in Colonial Williamsburg to renew the covenant between our Historical area police departments and the African-American community.  Established just three years ago, initiated by faith leaders in the African-American community, the covenant was established to proactively create collaborative relationships with our local police in order to prevent some of the racial divides that have occurred in other cities.  Although I was there to witness the support of the local clergy for this covenant, what I heard was the testimony of a community of people who have been harassed and feel helpless right here in our community.  Though we may have avoided some of the violence we have seen elsewhere in our country, the African-American community here in Williamsburg still feels the heel of racism pushing down on her neck.

Last week, we heard Matthew’s Great Commission, and we talked about the juxtaposition of civil unrest exploding around the issue of systemic racism and Jesus’ call to go out into the world doing works of justice, mercy, and love.  As some of the heat from protests simmered down a bit this past week, we could easily come to church today and long to turn down the heat too.  But our collect appointed for today, which you will hear later, holds our feet to the fire.  The collect says, “Keep, O Lord, your household the Church in your steadfast faith and love, that through your grace we may proclaim your truth with boldness, and minister your justice with compassion…”  Now the Collect of the Day is not just a random prayer, meant to sound good.  The Collect of the Day pulls themes from the scripture lessons appointed for the day – in essence, the Collect of the Day tries to articulate the thesis of our lessons.

After watching weeks of protests (maybe attending some yourself), hearing countless stories about unrest, reading articles or starting books about systemic racism, and praying diligently for peace, you may have come to church today hoping for some respite or reassurance.  But Jesus’ message to “Go!” from the Great Commission last week does not fade today.  Instead, Jesus’ words from Matthew’s gospel from almost 20 chapters earlier shows us our work is ever before us, beckoning us out into the world.

Years before his cross, resurrection, and ascension, we find Jesus teaching, healing, and proclaiming the good news to crowds of people.  In the midst of this work, we are told Jesus looks at the crowd and has compassion for them because they are harassed and helpless.  When Jesus sees the harassed and helpless, he does not simply fix the problem or strike down the system with godly power.  Instead, he turns to his disciples with a charge.  Jesus calls the twelve disciples by name (Simon Peter, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, Thomas, Matthew, James, Thaddaeus, Simon, and Judas), those who have been following him, learning from him, studying and praying with him, and sends them out, telling them how hard the work of showing compassion will be:  they will go without financial support, will be dependent upon the hospitality of strangers – some of whom will show them scorn rather than hospitality, will be persecuted and beaten, and will be betrayed even by their closest relatives.  This is the sobering work of love – of proclaiming God’s truth with boldness, and ministering God’s justice with compassion.

So how do the disciples hear such a sobering commission and still take the first step?  They take the first step because Jesus empowers the disciples.  Jesus gives the disciples power to heal and care for the oppressed; Jesus teaches them how to dust off their feet when they are scorned; Jesus promises when they need words, the Spirit of God will speak through them.  In other words, they just need to go, and God will take care of the rest.

Several of you have reached out to me over these last two weeks, longing for something to do in the midst of this important moment.  We have exchanged ideas and resources, and many of you have already begun to take specific action.  The content of how we respond in the coming weeks and months will vary widely, given our different gifts and abilities.  But our Collect today is not a prayer asking God to empower others to do the work of love or for God to just “fix it.”  Our Collect today is a request to God to help each one of us – called by name (Sue, John, Linda, Bob, Lisa, Bill, Tori, Don, Terri, Jim, Beth, and Dave) – to proclaim God’s truth with boldness, and minister God’s justice with compassion.  Jesus has already given us everything we need to do this work.  God is already keeping us in God’s steadfast faith and love; through God’s grace we can proclaim God’s truth with boldness, and minister God’s justice with compassion.  Amen.

Sermon – Matthew 28.16-20, TS, YA, June 7, 2020

Tags

Christian, connect, Coronavirus, danger, disciples, engage, Episcopal, God, Great Commission, Jesus, love, pandemic, protest, relationship, Sermon, witness

We have had a week.  For most of us, the Coronavirus alone would be enough – the suffering of those infected, the over 100,000 deaths in our country from the virus, the economic hardship on our communities, and the chafing reality of staying distanced from one another.  But in the midst of a pandemic, our country has also exploded with civil unrest as we grapple with the death of another man of color under the hands of a police officer.  We have witnessed daily peaceful protests, violent, destructive rioting, unsettling debates about the extent of national executive power over state’s rights, renewed conversations about systemic racism, and vivid images of police officers and National Guard members trying to balance their genuine support for the content of the protests with needing to keep crowds safe.  And whether he meant to our not, by the aggressive clearing of peaceful protesters in order to take a photograph in front of an Episcopal Church with a Bible in hand, our President has forced Episcopalians and all Christians to take a hard look at what being a Christian means and what Christian witness looks like.  Like I said, it has been a week.

At the end of a week like this, I had been hoping for a comforting word from scripture – maybe something about the Good Shepherd, or some pastoral scene of Jesus gathered in loving community.  Instead, our gospel lesson today from Matthew is the Great Commission – the very last words of Matthew’s gospel – which are not words of comfort and rest, but words of sending out.  Jesus says, “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you.”  These are not words of retreat and rest.  In these last words of Jesus, Jesus sends us out into the world, encourages us to do work that requires relationship-building, listening, and teaching.[i]  These are words of engagement, witness, and connection.

I do not know about you, but I was not ready to hear these words today.  The idea of venturing out in public still feels fraught with danger in this time of pandemic.  The idea of witnessing Christ’s love, particularly with our brothers and sisters of color, feels fraught with danger because of the volatility and justified anger of many of the protestors.  The idea of relationship building required in the act of “making disciples” feels fraught with hypocrisy as our brothers and sisters of color remind us how deeply our own racism runs.  When Jesus says, “Go!” to us today, I find myself hesitating at the door.  Go how?  Go where?  Go to whom?

So how do we go?  The good news is that Jesus tells us how we will go.  After the words of the Great Commission, Jesus says, “And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”  We can cross that threshold because Jesus is with us – always – to the end of the age.  And where shall we go?  Jesus says we should go to all the nations.  In other words, everyone needs God’s message of love and hope.  The good news today is going to the nations is, surprisingly, still possible.  Even in this pandemic’s limitations on our movement, we can still share God’s love – in our prayers from home, in our words to our neighbors, in our letters to elected officials, in our public witness on social media, and in our calls of support to police officers trying to do the work of reconciliation in their own sphere.  And to whom shall we go?  To our neighbors of color who need our support, to our political opponents (and yes, I recognize those opponents are different for each of us) who need us to stay engaged in honest, calm, productive relationship, to our political allies, who need us to not be an echo chamber, but need us to hold up a mirror to ensure we are actually sharing truth with love.

I know many of you may be thinking, “I can’t.  Even with Jesus’ promise to be with me, I just can’t.  It’s too hard.”  But here’s what I can tell you:  you already are.  I watched this week as over twenty parishioners reclaimed the gospel message of love on the front porch of our historic chapel.  I watched this week as many of you offered up your prayers – for peace, for understanding, for love.  I watched this week as many of you joined peaceful protests – witnessing Christ’s love for all.  I watched this week as many of you searched for reading materials – whether you were looking for books and articles about race, or whether you were ordering your Bibles to join in our 90-day Bible Reading Challenge, looking for ways to hone your ability to make disciples, to build relationships.  Jesus’ Great Commission today may feel like more work instead of the salve you were hoping for today.  But I can tell you the fact that you are already living the Great Commission in your own way, with your own gifts, and your own abilities, is your salve today.  Keep going.  Keep building relationships.  Keep witnessing God’s love.  It’s not too hard – because Jesus is with you always, even to the end of the age.  Amen.

[i] Thomas G. Long, Matthew (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1997), 326.

On Wanting to Go Back…

Tags

ancestors, darkness, Egypt, faith, God, goodness, hard, help, Israelites, journey, lament, longing, pandemic, power, Promised Land, protest, romanticize, trust, wilderness

Photo credit:  http://www.livingintheshadowofhishand.com/2013/06/wandering-in-wilderness.html

The whole congregation of the Israelites complained against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness.    The Israelites said to them, “If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger.”  (Exodus 16.2-3) 

The rabble among them had a strong craving; and the Israelites also wept again, and said, “If only we had meat to eat!  We remember the fish we used to eat in Egypt for nothing, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic; but now our strength is dried up, and there is nothing at all but this manna to look at.”  (Numbers 11.4-6)

 

One of the cries we are prone to in these days is “I wish we could just go back to the way it was!”  I just did it myself in a sermon a few weeks ago, when I talked about how at the beginning of the pandemic, we were all chipping in and helping each other, but then slowly our demons had taken back over and we are becoming fractured and partisan again.  But we do it all the time.  The most famous may be our President’s campaign slogan, “Make American Great Again.”  I have heard the cry from former Senators and Congressmembers who have talked about the time when people worked “across the aisle” with compromise and collaboration.  As we have mourned social distancing and stay-at-home orders, this has especially become the cry of many of us in the Church.  And as violence rocks our country, many are asking protestors to quieten down and find other ways to make changes.

Of course, we are not alone in our lament and longing.  Our ancestors, the Israelites, were famous complainers in the wilderness, longing to go back to Egypt – the very place of their enslavement – because “at least they had food,” or they remember with longing the savory foods.  The hardness of the wilderness made them romanticize a life marked by brutality, oppression, and death.  Keeping an eye on the Promised Land was not so easy after years in the wilderness.

We are not unlike of ancestors.  In hoping to make America great again, we forget that any era of our history has been marked by darkness – whether the subjugation of the Indigenous peoples of this land, the enslavement, segregation, or oppression of African-Americans, the disenfranchisement and sexual subjugation of women, and on and on go the examples.  When we look at our current inability to work across party lines, we forget the ways in which women and people of color were wildly underrepresented in leadership – if represented at all!  Our current mourning of how Church used to be forgets the incredible ways technology has connected us to our neighbors, our extended community, and even strangers.   And both this pandemic and the protests about the treatment of persons of color are pulling back the curtains on disparities around wealth and opportunity for African-Americans.

What we learn from our biblical ancestors is that the wilderness is hard:  hunger, thirst, discomfort, and disagreements over power are real.  And yet, only in the wilderness did the faithful learn to trust God, to restructure leadership in shared ways, and find ways to govern themselves marked by justice and mercy.  As a person of privilege, I certainly have the option to turn off news coverage, wait this pandemic and the protests out, and stay ensconced in my place of power.  Or I can use this wilderness to learn, to be vulnerable, to use my power for goodness (or even better, cede some of my power), and to pray for God’s help on the journey.  It may be quite some time before we arrive at the Promised Land.  But we do not have to flee back to Egypt.

 

 

Sermon – Acts 1.6-14, E7, YA, May 24, 2020

Tags

ambiguity, Ascension, community, empowerment, God, Holy Spirit, Jesus, liminal time, Pentecost, pray, Sermon, waiting

Throughout this time of pandemic, I have struggled with Holy Scripture.  From not being able to wash feet and share in Christ’s last meal on Maundy Thursday, to ringing in the victory of Easter, to watching the disciples be able to touch Jesus or share in communion with him during his bodily appearances after the resurrection, each experience has felt like a stabbing reminder of what we do not have – that we cannot gather, we cannot touch, we cannot share that identity-making holy meal.  But today, as we continue to celebrate Jesus’ ascension, we have finally landed on the perfect Scriptural metaphor for these days.  Thanks be to God!

Of course, I say that not because today’s scripture lesson gives us answers about when we can expect a return to “normal,” (whatever that may mean now), or when this virus will be over, or even when we can safely return to church buildings.  Instead, what our text from Acts recognizes is the brutal truth of this time:  we are in a liminal time.

Now, we have talked about liminal time before.  Liminal time[i] is the time in which we are in the middle of a transition.  Native cultures experienced liminal time most famously in the journey to adulthood.  When young men or young women reached a certain age and maturity, they were sent away from their families and out into the wilderness for a time, a time when they are no longer children, and not yet adults.  Their identity is in flux, their purpose is ambiguous, and their life is on pause.  Liminal time is a time fraught with anxiety, frustration, and confusion.

That kind of transition is where we find our disciples today.  They have spent forty glorious days feeling the victory of Christ’s resurrection, being blessed with further teachings, and being comforted by Christ’s presence.  They are ready.  They confidently ask Jesus today, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?”  Jesus responds with a promise – that they will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon them, and they will be empowered to do their work of witnessing.  But for now, at this moment of climax, confidence, and courage, Jesus says, quite simply, “Wait.”

Now I know I said I was excited about this text because the text is so perfect for this time.  I say that not because this text finally answers all those questions of our liminal time – or even hints at when our anxiety, frustration, and confusion will end.  Instead, what I love about this text is that the text names the very frustrating reality of this time – a time in which we are not longer what we were (a community free to gather how and when we like, doing things like passing the peace, sharing a common cup, and congregating en masse), and yet, we are not yet what we will be – in fact, what we will be is even uncertain.  We are the disciples staring up at the sky, knowing Christ has gone to the father, but frozen in place, not really knowing what is next – waiting.

Karl Barth called the waiting between the Ascension and Pentecost, the days we are experiencing now, the “significant pause…a pause in which the church’s task is to wait and pray.”[ii]  Now, I know what you are thinking.  That’s our Good News?  I should wait and pray?  Telling us to wait and pray seems like a classic platitude, what we say when we do not know what to say.  Will Willimon explains, “Waiting, an onerous burden for us computerized and technically impatient moderns who live in an age of instant everything, is one of the tough tasks of the church.  Our waiting implies that the things which need doing in the world are beyond our ability to accomplish solely by our own effort, our programs and crusades.  Some other empowerment is needed, therefore the church waits and prays.”[iii]  Though the disciples are facing the “significant pause,” the promise of the empowering Spirit is a promise of hope, empowerment, and companionship.  Their waiting and prayer are not for personal comfort during this time of ambiguity, but for empowerment to be obedient.  Instead of praying out of self-pity, they are praying out of determined expectation.

That is our invitation today too – to pray and wait together.  We cannot cram into that Upper Room like the disciples do.  But we can gather – digitally in worship here, in Zoom gatherings, by phone, cards, emails, and texts, even drive-by Coffee Hours.  As David Lose reminds us, in this time of pandemic “God will be with us, comforting, celebrating with, strengthening, and accompanying us in and amid whatever may come.  And God will also be preparing us, preparing us to be God’s emissaries of good news, preparing us to comfort others, preparing us to work for peace, preparing us to live with less fear and more generosity, preparing us to look out for the rights of others, preparing us to strive for a more just community and world.”[iv]  I do not know about you, but I would much rather face the ambiguity of this liminal time with a community who can remind me of God’s promise, helping me see the work of the Spirit.  That is what we do when we pray and wait together.  Our invitation is to accept the gift of this community, gathered virtually for the foreseeable future, and to wait and pray with together.  Amen.

[i] Liminal time is a concept that has been developed by many scholars.  Arnold van Gennep, Victor W. Turner, and Gordon Lathrop all developed the idea of incorporating liminal time into liturgical practice.

[ii] William H. Willimon, Acts, Interpretation:  A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Atlanta:  John Knox Press, 1988), 20.

[iii] Willimon, 21.

[iv] David Lose, “Easter 7A:  Important Interludes,” May 25, 2017, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2017/05/easter-7-a-important-interludes/ on May 26, 2017.

On Glimpses of Love…

Tags

children, conflict, crisis, fight, fragile, frustration, God, grace, humanity, love, mercy, pandemic

Photo credit:  https://www.dayspring.org.uk/Articles/490488/Dayspring_Church/Community/Sundays/Walking_in_the.aspx

It finally happened.  We had established a weekly routine for this bizarre time, and the kids seemed to have adjusted to the new rhythm.  But this week, something finally broke.  From sunrise to sunset the day was full of arguments, timeouts, tantrums, and tears.  For the life of me, I cannot recall the content of the conflict, but I am still recovering from the rollercoaster of emotions from that day.

Late that night, once the house was finally quiet, I tried to figure out what in the world had happened.  After my own frustration and fatigue began to settle down, a moment from the day percolated up in my mind.  During our midday quiet time, I was working diligently, trying to maximize my precious work time.  My older daughter had asked to quietly read beside me, and I had hesitantly agreed.  Soon, I realized her breathing had become regular and her booked had slipped down.  She was sleeping, something she never does midday at her age.  In that brief time, without her anger, arguments, and attitude, her peaceful face reminded me of how very fragile she is.  Just for a moment, I was able to remember that as much as our children are resilient, creative, and strong during the new reality this pandemic has created, our children are also frustrated, confused, and lost as they try to make meaning out of the chaos.  All of my anger about how the day had unfolded evaporated in that moment, and a wave of sympathy consumed me.  In seeing all of the “fight” leave my daughter’s body, I was able to see the fragile child left behind.

As I processed the day with a fellow parent that night, I began to wonder if that moment of insight is perhaps the way God sees all of us in this time.  We adults are struggling too – trying to make sense of this terrible time, trying to control the chaos enough to function, trying not to be overcome by the grief of all we have lost in this time.  Most days we succeed, being resilient, creative, and strong ourselves.  But we too have our days where we lose it – lose control over our carefully constructed hold on this new normal.  I imagine God journeys with us in those strong days and those weak days, overflowing with love for us – loving pride for the ways we are trying our best, and loving sympathy for the fragility of our humanity.  And although I only got a glimpse of that love on that rough day this week, that glimpse was just a tiny portion of the massive well of love God has for us.

I do not know what kind of week you are having.  I do not know what stressors are creating small chinks in your armor or big cracks in your façade.  I do not know whose burdens you are carrying in addition to your own.  Whether you are hitting your stride, or stumbling along the path, know that you are loved this week.  Know that God is right there with you, offering grace, mercy, and fortitude whenever you need it.  And if you have it within your capacity this week, or next, I invite you share that same love with those you encounter this week – whether with your family, the essential workers you encounter, or your neighbors.  Getting a glimpse of how God loves you makes it a lot easier to see others with God’s loving eyes.  And we could all use a dose of that love today.

Sermon – John 14.15-21, E6, YA, May 17, 2020

Tags

accompaniment, accompany, Advocate, apology, commandment, conditional, Coronavirus, Holy Spirit, Jesus, love, obey, pandemic, Sermon

We have been spending a lot more time together as a family since this pandemic began.  All that together time has meant moments of joy and laughter; but that time together has also meant a lot of correcting of behavior.  One would think by now, we have figured out how to perfectly love one another.  Instead, we have been working on perfecting apologies.  I never knew how much of our apologizing could show so little remorse.  There have been the angry, shouted, “I’m sorry!”s, there have been the resistant, mumbled, “I’m sorry”s, there have been the sarcastic, eye-rolling, “I’m sorry.”s  And parental requests for our children to “mean it” when they say, “I’m sorry,” are almost comical.  How can anyone expect anyone else to apologize by force, command, or as a condition for something else?

I think that is what is so strange about today’s lesson from John’s gospel.  Jesus says “If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” and “They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me.”  The commandments Jesus is talking about are those instructions to love God, love self, love neighbor.  In John’s gospel, they are the only commandments Jesus gives.[i]  And who would protest such commandments?  Of course we should all want to love God, love self, and love neighbor.  But there is something strange about the way Jesus presents his command to us – if you love me, you must do these things.  If you love me, you must obey my way.  As lovely as love sounds, there is something that harkens to those forced apologies about our text today.  I am pretty sure Jesus is not asking us to love others with a sense of bitterness, resentment, or obligation – and certainly without shouts, mumbling, and eye-rolling.

I realize many of you may be thinking, “What’s so hard about loving others?  Why would I resist that?”  One of the things I appreciated about the beginning of this pandemic was the way we all pulled together.  People immediately worried about our elders being able to safely procure food and supplies; we pitched in to make sure the hungry were fed with free school lunches and restocked food banks; we sewed face masks and donated to charities to help protect the vulnerable.  Our collaboration, care, and support of one another was a breath of fresh air.  But we have not taken long to remember our demons.  As hard decisions have arisen about reopening businesses to buttress the economy, making cuts to make ends meet, or laying off employees to help businesses survive, we have reverted to our divided, vitriolic ways from before the pandemic, not only disagreeing, but attacking the character, intelligence, and dignity of one another.  So when we ask, “What’s so hard about loving others?” my response is, “This.  This is what is hard about loving others.”  As one scholar puts it, “It is NOT sufficient (or even meaningful) to profess love for Jesus while we hold ourselves apart from our fellow human beings.  To love Jesus is to love others.  All others.  The lover, the friend, the neighbor, the companion.  But also the alien, the stranger, the misfit, and the enemy.  The ones with whom we agree, and the ones with whom we emphatically disagree.  The ones we naturally like, and the ones we don’t.”[ii]  Our love of Jesus is only as authentic as our love of all others.

So how can we possibly love that way?  The good news is Jesus says we will have help.  Just as Jesus has been an advocate for his disciples – “guiding, teaching, reminding, abiding, witnessing, interceding, comforting,” so they will have the Holy Spirit.  “What they have known in Jesus, and fear losing in Jesus’ impending absence, they will always know in the promise of the [Holy Spirit].”[iii]  What Jesus promises today is big.  Now, I know some of us get a little uncomfortable talking about the Holy Spirit – either the Spirit’s presence just seems too amorphous to be of any value, or the Spirit seems to do weird, dramatic things that scare us more than comfort us.  But Jesus is not simply saying the Holy Spirit will be ambiguously hanging around when Jesus is gone.  The Holy Spirit will be, and is, accompanying us.  As scholar Karoline Lewis says, “Accompaniment is not simply having someone beside you.  Accompaniment is not a mere ministry of presence.  Accompaniment means active and assertive abiding—an abiding that enters into places of fear and discomfort, uncertainty, and troubled hearts, and speaks the truth freely.”[iv]

Now I don’t know about you, but that sounds like some really good news.  On those days when loving seems hard, when obeying Jesus’ command to love feels impossible, the Holy Spirit is here to accompany us, to walk with us in fear, discomfort, uncertainty, trouble, and guide us into lives of love.  The Spirit is with us to enable us to be agents of love even when we doubt we can.  That promise today makes the invitation to love as Christ has loved us not only doable, but desirable.  That promise today helps us loosen our grip on resentment, anger, and fear, and open our hands to love and collaboration.  That promise today makes obedience to love feel like a gift.  Thanks be to God.

[i] Debie Thomas, “Love and Obedience,” May 10, 2020, https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2640, as found on May 15, 2020.

[ii] Thomas.

[iii] Karoline Lewis, “A Time for Accompaniment,” May 10, 2020, http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=5433, as found on May 15, 2020.

[iv] Lewis.

On Teachers, Nurses, and Grandmas…

Tags

appreciation, blessing, care, Christ, God, grandmother, gratitude, Jesus, light, love, ministry, notes, nurses, pandemic, sacred, teachers, thank you, thankful, vocation, work

Photo credit:  https://www.considerable.com/life/etiquette/bring-back-thank-you-notes/

One of the things my grandmother instilled in me from an early age was the importance of thank you notes.  She taught me how to write them, how quickly to send them, and the significance of being a person who reliably sends them.  These days I fear she would be sorely disappointed with how those carefully honed skills have deteriorated over time – not that I do not know how to write them or understand their importance, but how my overflowing plate often means the list of thank you notes to be written makes it to the bottom of my “to do” pile.

That is why I am thankful for the ways in which our country has designated this week as appreciation weeks for two powerful vocations:  teachers and nurses.  Left to my own devices, I regularly forget to show my appreciation for the teachers in our lives.  But this annual week always reminds me that for thirty-five-plus hours a week, teachers are the people who are with my children – teaching them, shaping them into thoughtful citizens, helping them grow into their unique identity, and generally helping them feel loved and valued.  I have always thought of teachers as part of our “village,” who are helping my husband and me raise our children.  And this year, more than ever, I am amazed at the ways teachers are pivoting, learning new technologies, figuring out different ways to engage children in a pandemic, and showing love to our kids while socially distanced.

Likewise, I am grateful for a week to show our gratitude toward our nurses.  My most powerful experience with a nurse was in childbirth.  I had been laboring for the better part of twelve hours when I finally elected to have an epidural.  Everyone left the room, and as I leaned forward for the anesthesiologist, I could not stop shaking – whether from exhaustion or fear, I am not sure.  But the nurse took my arms firmly, looked me right in the eyes, and instilled in me a trust so deep I can still feel it palpably ten years later.  Nurses do this every day – take our lives into their hands, guide us through healing and wellness, and comfort us in ways that build confidence, trust, and care.  And in the midst of this pandemic, they are literally putting their lives on the line to do this often-overlooked work.

I’m not sure this is enough of a thank you note to meet my grandmother’s standard.  But what I can tell you is our teachers and our nurses are doing sacred work every day of the year.  They love us, care for us, and show us the light of Christ every day.  If you have a teacher or nurse in your life, neighborhood, or circle of friends, please be sure to thank them personally for the ways in which they are changing our lives today.  I invite you to return God’s blessing they have been to you back to them.