Sermon – Jeremiah 31.31-34, Psalm 51.1-13, L5, YB, March 18, 2018

Tags

clean, comfort, communion, covenant, exile, God, heart, Lent, persistence, Psalm, relationship, repentance, Sermon, sin, sinfulness, ten commandments

As we heard our psalm today, you may have thought the psalm sounded familiar.  And you would be right.  Just under five weeks ago, we said this exact same psalm on Ash Wednesday.  After we were invited into a holy Lent – one of fasting, self-examination, and repentance, and ashes were spread across our foreheads, we said this psalm.  “Have mercy on me, O God…For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me…[I have] done evil in your sight…” we confessed.  We begged God to create in us a clean heart and renew a right spirit within us.  I wonder how saying these words again, just several weeks later, feels today.  Perhaps after weeks of following your Lenten discipline, you feel closer to that clean heart and renewed spirit.  Maybe you are making your way out of Lent and the repetition of Psalm 51 feels unnecessary because you have completed your repentance work.  But maybe Psalm 51 feels unattainable, because your sinfulness feels like something you cannot shake.

If you are in the latter category, and if, in fact, you are beginning to wonder if you will ever master this sinfulness thing, take heart.  I actually say verse eleven of this psalm every time I celebrate the Eucharist.  Week in and week out, whether we are in Lent, Eastertide, or Ordinary time, even after I have prayed and confessed with the community, before I approach the altar to celebrate holy communion, I say these same words, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.”  Whether in a season of penitence or not, whether I have already celebrated Eucharist two times earlier in the morning, I still pray Psalm 51.11, longing for the God of mercy and hesed, or loving-kindness, to create in me a clean heart.

That is why I think the beginning of our liturgy was so hard today.  As part of the penitential order, we prayed the decalogue, or the ten commandments.  With each commandment, we responded, “Amen. Lord have mercy.”  Reading the decalogue in scripture, as we did just a few weeks ago in Lent is a bit different – somehow having them in paragraph form makes them more palatable – with only certain commandments jumping out at us as areas of improvement.  But praying them is more difficult.  With each commandment receiving a closing petition, the idea is hammered home – we struggle with every last one of these commandments.  Now I can imagine what you are thinking – but I have never murdered.  While that may be true, the poor and the oppressed die every day because no one cares enough to change policy or ensure each person gets help.  Or maybe you are muttering that you have never put any gods before our God.  But we commit idolatry every day when we believe money or even we ourselves are in control instead of our God.  Each petition we pray in the decalogue reminds of how deep and diverse our sinfulness is.

But here’s the funny thing about those commandments – the Israelites could not follow them either.  The Israelites had been rescued from slavery and protected relentlessly.  Once the Israelites were finally in safety and heading to the Promised Land, God created a new covenant with the people.  God sent Moses up the mountaintop and had Moses write the law on tablets – the law that would guide the people into faithful, covenantal living.  But before Moses could even get down the mountain and deliver the covenant to the people, they had already created the golden calf – an idol in the place of God.  They people would struggle so much with the ten commandments that a whole generation of God’s covenantal people would not be allowed into the Promised Land – not even Moses himself.  Although God intended for the decalogue to shape the lives of the people and to create the boundaries for the covenant, and although none of the petitions are all that unreasonable, yet still the people would break their covenant with God time and again.

We are just like our ancestors.  I was just retelling a parishioner this week about my Lenten discipline in college.  You see, in college I picked up a bit of a potty mouth.  It got so bad that my freshman year, I decided to charge myself a quarter for every curse word I uttered, with the plan of giving the proceeds to church on Easter.  By the end of week two in Lent, I had to reduce the fee to a nickel because I could not afford the fee!  And the funny thing was that every year in college was the same.  “This year!  This year I will master my filthy mouth.”  And every year I would have to reduce the fees.  We are creatures of habit, masters of repeated sinfulness, just like our ancestors.

That is why reading Jeremiah is so powerful today.  Jeremiah writes in a time of desperation for the people of God. The Babylonians have razed the temple and carried King Zedekiah off in chains.  Effectively, the Babylonians have “destroyed the twin symbols of God’s covenantal fidelity.”[i]  Sometimes we talk about the exile so much that I think we forget the heart-wrenching experience of exile.  Being taken from homes and forced to live in a foreign land is certainly awful enough.  But the things that were taken – the land of promise, the temple for God’s dwelling, the king offered for comfort to God’s people – are all taken, leaving not just lives in ruin, but faith in question.  But today, in the midst of the physical, emotional, and spiritual devastation, Jeremiah’s reading says God will make a new covenant.  God knows the people cannot stop breaking the old covenant, and so God promises to “forgive their iniquity and remember their sin no more.”  Instead of making the people responsible for the maintenance of the covenant, God goes a step further and writes the law in their hearts, embodies God’s way within the people.

The words of Jeremiah in the section called “the Book of Comfort,”[ii] and this new covenant by God, show a God whose abundance knows no limits.  God offers this new covenant to a people who surely do not deserve another covenant.  God has offered prophets and sages, has called the people to repentance, has threatened and cajoled, and yet still the people could not keep the basic tenants of the covenant established in those ten commandments.  But instead of abandoning the people to exile, God offers reconciliation and restoration yet again.  And because God knows we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves, God basically says, “Here.  Let me help you.  Let me write these laws in your hearts so that you do not have to achieve your way into favor with me, but you will simply live faithfully, living the covenant with your bodies and minds.”  And when even that does not seem to work, God sends God’s only son.  God never gives up on us or our relationship with God.  Even all these years after Christ’s resurrection, God is still finding new ways to make our covenant work.

I have had parishioners attend two services in one day – maybe they were a speaker at two services or maybe they sang in two different choirs.  Invariably, one of these multi-service attendees will ask me, “Should I take communion again?  I shouldn’t, right?”  I always chuckle because I have to remind them that I take communion three times every Sunday – sometimes four or five if I take communion to someone homebound on a Sunday.  I confess all those times, I pray all those times, I say those words of Psalm 51 all those times, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” Lent is the same way – sometimes we are confessing multiple times in one day.  Sometimes we need to say the decalogue, and we need to confess our sins, and we need to hear Psalm 51.  And before we go to bed, we may need to confess to God again.  We do all those things with confidence because our God is a god of mercy, hesed, and restoration, always looking for ways to renew God’s covenant with us.  God’s persistence with us is what inspires our work this Lent.  So yes, create in us clean hearts, O God, and renew a right spirit within us – every week, every day, every hour.  Amen.

[i] Richard Floyd, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 122.

[ii] Jon L. Berquist, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 123.

Advertisements

Sermon – Matthew 21.33-46, P22, YA, October 8, 2017

Tags

balm, comfort, covenant, darkness, forgiveness, generosity, God, goodness, grace, Jesus, Journey to Generosity, light, love, mass shooting, mercy, parable, scripture, Sermon, tenants, vineyard, violence

One of the things I love about coming to church week in and week out is the practice setting time aside to discern how Holy Scripture is speaking to our everyday life.  Whether I have had a stressful week or a week of celebration, whether I am struggling in life or am experiencing a time of joy, or whether I am pained by the world around me or encouraged by the world around me, the Holy Scripture that we hear on Sunday always finds a way of speaking to me – of comforting, encouraging, challenging, and journeying with me.

But I confess to you I have been struggling to hear a good word from God through Holy Scripture this week.  You see, six days ago, we awoke to the news of the deadliest mass shooting in our modern history.  I cannot seem to shake the awful images and sounds of that night – the rapid sound of gunfire, the screams of terror in the crowd, the panic created in a crowd who had no idea how to escape the unseen shooter, and the sheer volume of deaths, injuries, and psychological trauma.  A week later, having no real leads on motive, all I am left with is the reality of violence in our society that seems inescapable – of one more city to add to the growing list of instances of mass violence:  Columbine, Blacksburg, Aurora, Newtown, Charleston, Orlando.

With the weight of the sinfulness of our violence upon one another, what I really wanted from Holy Scripture was a balm or a promise from God that love would win.  Instead, our gospel lesson today feels more like a mirror of our modern violence.  Jesus tells the leaders of the faithful a parable about a landowner who plants a vineyard and entrusts the tending of the vineyard to tenants.  When the time comes for the tenants to proudly show the landowner the fruits of their labor, instead the tenants do something awful.  They beat, kill, and stone the servants sent by the landowner.  And their action is not a one-time occurrence.  The landowner sends even more of his servants to the tenants, and they beat, kill, and stone them too.  The landowner even sends his own son; but filled with greed, entitlement, and violence, they kill the landowner’s son too.  Instead of redemption at the end of the parable, Jesus says, “Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom.”

Because this is a parable, we know that Jesus is trying to tell the people of Israel something about themselves.  Stanley Hauerwas interprets the parable in this way, “The parable of the wicked tenants can serve as an outline of Matthew’s understanding of the life of Israel.  God [calls] Israel to be his vineyard fenced by the law, grounded in the land, and protected by worship of God in the temple.  God [sends] his prophets to call the people to faithfulness, but the people beat, [stone], and [kill] them.  Finally God [sends] his very Son, but even he [is] rejected…Jesus [leaves] no ambiguity about how this parable is to be understood.  The chief priests and the Pharisees [realize] that they are the ‘rejected.’  Yet they are not in any fashion to repent.”[i]

The starkness of Jesus’ parable has left me wondering whether we have become like the tenants in this story.  Not knowing the motive of the shooter in Las Vegas, we can somewhat distance ourselves from him – perhaps blaming mental illness or labeling him as an outlier in an otherwise healthy society.  But what concerns me more is that this is not an isolated event.  This is not the first time I have had to talk about a mass shooting from the pulpit.  We have not just beaten, killed, and stoned a couple of servants.  We keep committing awful violence, and what is worse is I fear we are becoming desensitized, accepting violence as the status quo – a consequence we are willing to live with in order to have the things we want in life.

In the spiral of darkness between our news feed and Holy Scripture, I had to take a deep breath, praying for some glimmer of hope.  So I started with where we started in worship today – with our collect.  We prayed, “Almighty and everlasting God, you are always more ready to hear than we are to pray, and to give more than we either desire or deserve: Pour upon us the abundance of your mercy, forgiving us those things of which our conscience is afraid, and giving us those good things for which we are not worthy to ask, except through the merits and mediation of Jesus Christ our Savior…”  The collect today reminded me that no matter how dark things seem, there is always light to be found.

With the encouragement of the collect, I was able to go back to the parable.  I realized that perhaps the tenants, or perhaps even ourselves, are not going to be the origin of our hope.  Instead, our hope in darkness rests on God.  The landowner in the parable is marked by goodness.  The landowner plants the vineyard, puts a fence around it, digs a wine press, and builds a watchtower.  Then the landowner allows tenants to use the land, having given them the tools they need, trusting them to care for the land.  Heard another way, we hear all the good news of our creative God.  God creates this beautiful land which we are given the privilege to tend – our own breathtaking vineyard.  And because tending vineyards is hard work, God gives us the “fence” of the law – a set of guidelines to order our common life.  God gives us the tools for work, protection, and worship, knowing we will need those things too.  God even sends us prophets, knowing we will likely go astray.  Eventually, God sends us God’s Son.  This parable is the story of God’s covenantal relationship with us – a relationship marked by love, forgiveness, and grace.  And just like the whole of our Christian story, there will be moments of faithfulness, and moments of repentance.  There will be moments of honor and moments of shame.  In spite of the winding nature of our journey, God is ever present, pouring out love, abundance, mercy, and grace.  Even on our darkest days, when we crucify God’s Son, God does not answer violence with violence.  As one scholar conveys, “… rather than return violence for violence, in the cross of Jesus God absorbs our violence and responds with life, with resurrection, with Jesus triumphant over death and offering, not retribution, but peace.”[ii]

In the midst of stewardship season, I have been wondering all week how in the world I could talk about stewardship today.  But I think stewardship might be the perfect response to the seeming hopelessness of the world and this parable.  A Journey to Generosity is just that:  a journey.  Each one of us has been gifted a vineyard to tend, is surrounded by the gift of God’s word to root us in love, is given the tools needed to tend the vineyard, and is promised that even when we are pretty terrible farmers, Jesus will redeem our darkest days.  God has given us all we need, walks with us in the darkness, and makes a way for us toward light.

The invitation for us today is two-fold.  The first is to go back to the beginning – whether we go back to the collect we heard today, go back to the covenantal stories of our walk with God, or go back to our own vineyard to look around at the abundance in which we find ourselves.  Sometimes in order to appreciate where we are in our Journey to Generosity, we have to look back at the faithfulness of God that is often only evident in the rearview mirror.  After we have immersed ourselves in the abundance of love, grace, mercy, and forgiveness offered by our God, then we take the next step on our journey.  What that next step is will be different for each person in this room.  But if we can envision each person in this room as agents of God’s light and love, imagine the collective power we have to drive out darkness, and transform the world into goodness.  We do not do this work alone.  We are encouraged today by fellow companions on the Journey to Generosity.  I cannot wait to hear the stories from your adventures in generosity.  God is doing great things through you.  And that is reason enough for hope.  Amen.

[i] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew:  Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 186-187.  Verbs in quotation changed to present tense for preaching purposes.

[ii] David Lose, “Pentecost 18A: Words and Deeds,” October 6, 2017, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2017/10/pentecost-18-a-words-and-deeds/ on October 6, 2017.

On Comforters and Church…

Tags

church, comfort, comforter, community, God, invitation, meaning, routine, vacation

Photo credit:  https://www.upi.com/Health_News/2015/11/20/Sleeping-in-on-the-weekend-may-be-bad-for-your-health/1821448035720

I have a confession to make.  Though I always encourage parishioners to go to church when they are traveling, and though many of my clergy friends love checking out other churches while on vacation, this year I skipped church both Sundays I was on vacation.  There were options available to us – in fact, I could have seen some clergy friends celebrate in their own churches.  Instead, I slept in, went shopping, took a long walk, ate brunch, and generally treated the day as a true day “off.”

Now don’t get me wrong, I think it is perfectly healthy to just take a day off from church now and then.  For parents with children, I totally get how hard it is just to get out the door, let alone manage their squirminess in the pew.  In fact, I’ve had parents tell me that they always have to read my sermons on my blog because their kids are just too distracting.  And even if you do not have kids, sometimes the allure of a warm bed or cozy pajamas is just too much.  Sometimes you just need a break.

But here is what I noticed about skipping two Sundays in a row:  something was missing.  I had a hard time tracking what day of the week it was the rest of the week.  I missed seeing familiar faces and hearing about the joys and challenges of the week.  I missed singing songs of praise, being challenged by Holy Scripture, and participating in the holy meal.  I missed prayer time with God, being surrounded by a community that confesses their sins as I confess my own, and having time to set an intention for the week – whether something the preacher said or something the Holy Spirit inspired.

That’s the thing about going to church:  it gives meaning to everything else I do during the week.  The things we say and do in worship, the ways that we relate in community, and the purpose we find as we are sent out into the world define how I experience the rest of life.  And when you find a really great church, that experience makes it a lot easier to toss off that comforter and head to church for some real comfort.  If you are looking for such an experience, you are always welcome at Hickory Neck.  And if you already found a church home at Hickory Neck, invite a friend to join you next Sunday.  The paper and that cozy bed will be waiting for you after church!

On Food, Tears, and God…

Tags

comfort, community, emotion, familiar, food, God, intimacy, memory, power, relationship, taste, tears, worship

About ten years ago, I traveled with a group of seven seminarians to Myanmar, or Burma.  The purpose was to learn about, develop relationships with, and support the Anglican Church in Myanmar.  I could talk for days about that four-week trip, but one of the experiences that lingered with me was the food.  Part of why the cuisine lingered with me was because each of my three years in seminary we had one or two Burmese students at the seminary.  After the trip, we took to having reunions at a local Burmese Restaurant.  We found the meals reminded us of the flavors of that trip, the food comforted our Burmese friends, and the fellowship kept the experience vivid and meaningful for years to come.

This past weekend I was traveling in the area of my seminary and made a trip to the restaurant for lunch.  I ordered my two favorite, most potent memory-invoking dishes:  mohingar, a fish-based soup, and pickled tea leaf salad.  I had been looking forward to the food for weeks – so much so that I was salivating by the time I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant.  What I was not expecting was the wave of emotion that accompanied the food.  As the heat of the salad opened my sinuses, I was reminded of multiple episodes on our trip where funny food-related experiences happened – a too-hot pepper eaten, the presentation of tiny birds as an appetizer, an avocado milkshake.  As I sipped the mohingar, the warmth in my belly reminded me of all the times the food, though foreign, was exceptionally comforting – like discovering a comfort food you never knew you missed.  As those memories and feelings emerged, I became overwhelmed and found myself fighting back tears.  The rush of emotions was completely unexpected and disorienting, and I could not be sure whether I was sad or profoundly happy.

I have talked a couple of times about the power of food, taste, and memory (both here and here) to connect with our spiritual life.  But what I realized this weekend (as I tried not to cry into my mohingar) is that food and taste point to the powerful experiences that can happen in faith communities.  For the team that traveled to Burma, the food was a tool for bringing us together and sharing memories.  For our Burmese friends and fellow students, the food was an opportunity to experience intimacy and trust that I do not think would have happened in the classroom alone.  The taste of the familiar dishes were not simply familiar tastes.  They were also tools for creating and sustaining community, and honoring that community through the senses.

This week, we will be starting a new summertime worship service at Hickory Neck.   Though rooted in our Episcopal and Anglican identity, the service is a departure from our Sunday morning services.  We are using different prayers and music; we are settling into a more casual style of worship and preaching; and we are even changing small things like the type of bread we eat for communion.  Part of the changes are certainly meant to shift the sensory experiences of worship.  But another part of the changes is meant to shape community a bit differently – to create a sense of intimacy, familiarity, shared spiritual journey.  I am not sure if pita bread will be able to accomplish all of that, but I hope you will come out and give this new offering a try.  Who knows what memories, relationships, and encounters with God you will create?!

On Cuisine and Community…

Tags

church, comfort, comfort food, communion, community, cuisine, Eucharist, feast, fellowship, food, God, journey, recipe, strength, sustenance

Photo credit:  whoneedsacape.com/2016/10/italian-mac-cheese/

This weekend, I made a family recipe from my husband’s grandfather.  Though Grandpa Gray is no longer with us, somehow, making this recipe for the first time in a long while flooded me with all kinds of memories.  You see, Italian Mac was the family’s favorite dish – the ultimate comfort food.  One year, I finally asked for the recipe and stayed with Grandpa Gray in the kitchen while he made it.  Now, as I look at the words of the recipe, I can hear his beautiful voice in the words.  As I crush the herbs as he instructed, I can imagine his worn hands doing the same thing.  As our house fills with the aromas of Italian Mac and garlic bread, I can remember the smell of his house.  As I sip the red wine that the recipe suggests I pair with the meal, I can recall the comforting sound of his laughter.

Food has a special power.  Whenever I have been on mission trips, food has created intimate connection.  In Honduras, we all took turns helping the women of the village cook for our team.  After ten minutes of attempting to grind corn, we were all laughing at how much stronger the women were than the men who were lifting bricks to build the church.  On my second visit to Costa Rica, I wanted to learn how to make the beans and rice we ate regularly.  The women were surprised that I was willing to get up early with them and learn.  After that morning, our relationship shifted.  In Myanmar, giggles and laughter ensued as we tried new foods and our hosts appreciated our boldness.

The same is true of the Eucharist.  I have been in churches that use grape juice and a small cube of pasty, crunchy “bread.”  I remember the splendor of the sweet Hawaiian bread used at another church.  I remember the first time I had real wine at communion, and the way that it burned down my throat, lighting a new fire in me.  Whether baked bread, bland wafers, or store-purchased pita bread, each texture and flavor imprints in my mind the church, the community, the spiritual place where I was at the time.  Even this weekend, at my goddaughter’s baptism, my own daughter commented on the “yucky” communion bread they had.  I would have just said it was dense, but that dense texture will linger in my mind as my reminder of our celebration.

Holy Eucharist is the comfort food of Church.  That is why I love being a part of a sacramental church that has Eucharist every Sunday.  But the Church offers other comfort foods as well.  The pancakes we eat every Shrove Tuesday remind me of years of fellowship and laughter – with communities all over the East Coast.  The Brunswick Stew of the Fall Festival at Hickory Neck will always remind me of warmth and community.  There are those dishes at every potluck that you search for, knowing the comfort it will bring.  And of course, there is the Sunday morning coffee – a staple of hospitality and grace.  If you have been missing a sense of community and comfort, I hope you will make your way to Church this week and join us in the feast that not only comforts us, but also strengthens us for the journey.  God has given us great work to do – but God has also given us the sustenance we need for the road ahead.

Photo credit:  stthomasnorwalk.com/religious-ed/sacraments/Eucharist

On Traditions and Routine…

Tags

Advent, church, comfort, identity, liturgy, power, routine, tradition

Photo credit:  https://scpeanutgallery.com/2013/12/01/1st-sunday-in-advent-isaiah-21-5-psalm-122-romans-1311-14-matthew-2436-44-suddenly-out-of-zion/

As I began personal preparations for Advent this year, I began to wonder if a change was in order.  The last few years, our family has used the same Advent calendar.  It has wonderful daily devotions, and fun, pop-out depictions to coordinate with each day.  It has suggested ways to pray as a family and how to make Advent through Epiphany Day meaningful.  But I wondered if my family was boring of the same old tradition, so I started to think about alternatives.  Right as I prepared to place my order, I mentioned something about the order to my husband.  My seven-year old immediately chimed in, “We’re getting the same calendar, right?!?  I want to do the devotions.”  Shocked by her commitment, I went back to the old order, and ordered a new calendar right away.

Just this past weekend we purchased our annual live tree.  Though I knew I had a day or two to let the tree settle, my husband was anxious for me to get the lights and ornaments on and to unpack our Christmas decorations.  I, on the other hand, was not as enthusiastic about the work it would entail.  As soon as my daughter heard that I would be unpacking ornaments, she begged to help, even though it was a school night.  So, we turned on the Christmas music and got to work.  Her enthusiasm was contagious.  As she unpacked various ornaments, she would declare, with glee, “I remember this one!!!”  She eagerly reminded me of how we strategically place delicate ornaments up high, out of reach of her younger sister.  She also worked to place all the ornaments that make noise down low so her sister could enjoy them too.  As I watched her revel in reliving Christmases of years past, I was flooded with memories of a similar routine with my own mother.

My interactions with my daughter this year have reminded me of why being a part of a liturgical church is so special.  Though “routine,” or tradition, may sound boring to some, the routine of liturgy is a tremendous source of comfort and belonging to those who participate.  Every Advent we hear of Isaiah, John the Baptist, and Mary the Mother of God.  Every Christmas we retell the Lukan nativity narrative.  Year after year, the pattern of the liturgical calendar, the repeating of holy scripture, and the weekly practice of Eucharist are our routine – our tradition.  Though we always want to keep church fresh and relevant, the routine is what grounds us.  The routine brings us comfort.  The routine gives us a sense of identity.

I am especially grateful for that grounding in identity this year.  In a year of political upheaval, of community and country divisions, and of raised awareness to the phobias and “isms” of our time, I am grateful for a liturgical pattern that reminds me of who I am, what is important, and what brings us peace.  Though I am always excited to try new experiments, I am reminded this Advent of the power of tradition – and it is anything but routine!

Sermon – 1 Kings 18.20-39, Galatians 1.1-12, Luke 7.1-10, P4, YC, May 29, 2016

Tags

comfort, confession, discomfort, faithful, friend, God, Jesus, need, Sermon, Spirit, temptation, truth, witness

The older I have become, the more solid my support system has become.  Over time, I have figured out in which friendships to invest my time, and which friendships, while fun, are not necessarily nourishing.  I know which friend to call when I need fashion advice and which friend to call when I need major life decision advice.  I have learned which friend to find when I want to be comforted, and which friend to find when I need to be discomforted.  The discomforting friend is probably the most valuable one any of us has.  That is the friend who will tell you the brutal, ugly, harsh truth – not to be mean to you but to save you from going down a dark path, to snap you out of a rut, or to help you get your act together.  Of course, sometimes we avoid that friend like the plague because we are not ready to hear the truth.  But when we feel ourselves slipping away, when we feel drawn in by temptation, or when we simply feel incapable of doing the right thing, we know we can trust that friend to hold us accountable to being the best version of ourselves – the version God created us to be.

This morning, the lectionary seems to be filled with discomforting friends.  In First Kings, we hear about the ultimate showdown with the prophets of Baal and Elijah, the prophet of the Lord.  The story is dramatic, with Baal’s prophets comically trying to rain down fire to prove Baal’s power, and Elijah showing them up by demonstrating the Lord’s triumph.  But we quickly learn that Elijah is one of those discomforting friends when he says to the people of God, “How long will you go limping with two different opinions?  If the Lord is God, follow him; but if Baal, then follow him.”[i]  Desperate for rain in a three-year drought, the people of God have begun to hedge their bets.  They figure they can worship both Baal and the Lord.  But Elijah will not let them be so divided.  Either they trust in the Lord their God, or they do not.

If Elijah sounds harsh, you should hear Paul this morning.  Paul starts his letter to the Galatians with a traditional greeting, but we can tell from his lack of thanksgiving for the community, that some harsh words are about to come.[ii]  After a quick introduction, Paul cuts to the chase, “I am astonished that you are so quickly deserting the one who called you in the grace of Christ and are turning to a different gospel…”[iii]  At the heart of the issue is whether Gentile converts must adhere to Jewish laws.  The Galatians want to narrow the wideness of the gospel, while Paul wants to expand the reach of the gospel.  So angry and defiant is Paul that he practically shouts, “If I were still pleasing people, I would not be a servant of Christ.”[iv]  In other words, Paul has no interest in soothing feelings in Galatia.  He is only interested in correcting behavior and preserving the abundance of the gospel.[v]

And if Elijah and Paul were not harsh enough this morning, Jesus rounds us out with a scathing indictment of the faithful.  A centurion, a Roman solider, and sometimes enemy of the people of God, sends a message to Jesus.  Despite the fact that he is not Jewish, he sends word to Jesus twice – first, asking Jesus to heal his sick slave, and second, insisting that Jesus not make the journey, but only speak a word of healing from afar.  The text tells us that Jesus, who is very rarely reactive, is “amazed,” and criticizes the faithful of God by saying, “I tell you, not even in Israel have I found such faith.”[vi]  If we think about who is gathered around Jesus, we are not just talking about some delinquent followers.  Jesus says in front of disciples and everyone that none of them has had the same dedication and faith in Jesus as this outsider.  Jesus has no problem being brutally honest about the people’s lack of faith and trust in Jesus.

If you were hoping for a nice, affirming set of lessons today, a time set apart with that friend who always encourages and affirms you, you picked the wrong Sunday.  We might have guessed the brutal honesty was coming when we prayed our collect today.  The collect says, “O God, your never-failing providence sets in order all things both in heaven and earth: Put away from us, we entreat you, all hurtful things, and give us those things which are profitable for us…”[vii]  In other words, we prayed God would not be that comforting friend today – but would be the discomforting friend that we need.

Now you may be sitting here wondering what kind of discomfort I will be dishing out today.  Or you may be wondering on what issue I think we need work.  The good news is that I do not have such a charge today.  I suspect that you already know where you need discomfort.  Your discomfort may need to be from Elijah, who warns about putting idols before God – putting your trust and hope in places and things that will not satisfy.  Or maybe your discomfort needs to come from Paul, who warns about putting restrictions on the wideness of God’s mercy.  Or maybe your discomfort needs to come from Jesus, who can point to non-believers who seem to trust God more than you.  You alone know how the Spirit is speaking to your need for discomfort.

However, even though you alone know how the Spirit is speaking to your need for discomfort, you are not alone in needing that discomfort.  One of my favorite parts of our liturgy is the confession.  One, I find the confession immensely centering because every week, one phrase or part of the confession jumps out at me – whether something I have done or left undone is nagging me; whether I have sinned against God or my neighbor; or whether I have just strayed that week.  Even though we say the confession every week, the confession never ceases to unsettle me.  Two, I find the confession comforting because of all the voices that join me in the confession.  I love hearing young and old voices, male and female voices, and voices with every accent imaginable confessing the same failings that I confess.  The power of that communal act is always humbling and comforting.

Now I know I told you that you should not have come to church today if you were looking for comfort.  But the truth is, I find all the discomfort today wildly comforting.  Whether we are pushed by our discomforting witnesses in scripture, whether we are jolted by something in our communal confession, or whether we realize that we need to call our best discomforting friend immediately after church, I find the reminder that I am not the only one who needs discomfort comforting today.  I am comforted because I know after the discomfort comes, something akin to a fire is lit inside me.  The discomfort is usually just what I need to reinvigorate my walk with Christ and sharply focus on where God is calling me to be.  If that is not good news, I do not know what is.  Amen.

[i] 1 Kings 18.21.

[ii] Audrey West, “Commentary on Galatians 1:1-12,” May 29, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2882 on May 25, 2016.

[iii] Galatians 1.6.

[iv] Galatians 1.10.

[v] Dan Clendenin, “No Other Gospel,” May 22, 2016, as found at http://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/977-no-other-gospel on May 26, 2016.

[vi] Luke 7.9.

[vii] BCP, 229.

Sermon – Matthew 6.1-6, 16-21, AW, YC, February 10, 2016

Tags

Ash Wednesday, authenticity, comfort, disciplines, discomfort, Episcopal, Episcopalian, God, holy, hypocrisy, intention, Lent, liturgy, senses, Sermon

One of the dangers of being a faithful Episcopalian is getting lured in by the liturgy.  The liturgy is certainly what reeled me into the Episcopal Church.  Having been raised as a United Methodist, I had seen a variety of styles and orders of worship.  On any given Sunday, you never knew what text the preacher would use.  And since Eucharist only happened 2-4 times a year, liturgy was not synonymous with rhythm.  But not so in the Episcopal Church.  Once you figure out the kneeling, sitting, and standing patterns, the liturgy becomes gloriously expected.  You get so used to the patterns that your body almost does the movements without thinking.  You love being able to be anywhere in the country and know that the liturgy will be familiar and the lessons predetermined.  When seasonal changes, like Advent or Epiphany, happen, you expect and appreciate the subtle differences more.  Since most people I know do not really like change, the Episcopal Church is like a little slice of predictable heaven.

The trouble with that sense of comfort is we can miss when something really powerful happens.  Ash Wednesday is one of those kinds of days.  Growing up in the south, I never really had an experience of Ash Wednesday.  College was my first exposure to seeing others with ashes while being invited to don them myself.  I remember thinking how exposed having ashes on one’s forehead must be.  Ash Wednesday seemed like a big deal.  But, I am an Episcopalian now, and like many other things in liturgy, the shock of Ash Wednesday has softened.

That is why I love having a young child around.  The first time my oldest really understood what the ashes were all about she exclaimed, “Ew, what is that on your head?!?”  Try explaining to a three year old what being dust means and why I needed to remember I would return to dust.  Watch the child’s face as they process what mortality means.  Wait for the heavy feeling in your chest when they ask if they can have ashes too – knowing that you will have to say, “remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return” to her precious, innocent face.

Today the Church invites us into a holy Lent.  The Prayer Book says this is a time of prayer, fasting, and self-denial.  Matthew’s Gospel talks about the disciplines of giving alms, prayer, and fasting.  Some of us will take up these specific disciplines.  Others of us will commit to reading scripture or a devotional book, giving up chocolate, or playing Lent Madness.  The Church tells us these practices or disciplines are to help us walk with Jesus in repentance.  The challenge with taking on a spiritual discipline in Lent is making sure the practice is not rote – much like our participation in liturgies can be rote.  The Church is not inviting us into the practice of disciplines out of habit.  The Church is trying to help breathe life into our faith – and one of the ways that we do that is to do something out of the ordinary to shake up our comfortable, unchanging practices.

Matthew’s gospel is pretty strict about the way those disciplines happen.  Jesus says that we are to be private about our alms giving, prayer, and fasting so as not to seem like hypocrites, boasting about our giving, piety, or suffering.  But who among us has not slipped on the slippery slope of hypocrisy?  Those of us who give charitably often find ourselves claiming that giving on our taxes.  Those of us who have ever attended a prayer breakfast or have told a friend that we will pray for them surely were being a little showy about our prayers.  And let’s face it, I cannot imagine fasting without complaining at least a little bit.  The question then becomes, “How can a text that implores private acts of righteousness be read on the day one receives the imposition of ashes, a very visible and public act of piety?”[i]

But Jesus is not looking to trick us.  He is checking our intentions – our authenticity.  The trouble with anything rote, whether liturgies or disciplines, is that we risk losing why we are doing them in the first place.  When I am busy complaining about fasting, I do not have space in my thoughts to remember those who go without food daily.  When I am busy talking about my prayer life, I am filling up the silence through which God most likes to speak to me.  When I am weeding through giving materials trying to decide who to support financially, I lose sight of the gratitude from which my giving originates.  The issue is not really whether or not public and private acts are authentic or inauthentic.  The issue is being intentional about not only choosing our disciplines, but living into them.

I invite you today to use the tool of liturgy to awaken your intentionality this Lent.  Listen to the prayers and psalms today.  Notice the discomfort of kneeling – whether you kneel physically or kneel in your heart.  Listen to and feel the gritty ashes being spread on your forehead, allowing the solemnity of the words wash over you.  Taste the bread and the sting of wine on your tongue.  As you allow the liturgy to be fresh today, take time in prayer to consider in what ways God is inviting you into deeper relationship, and what discipline you can realistically take on to get you closer to God.  The liturgy today is not about sending us out with pious reminders to others about our faith.  The liturgy today is about jolting our senses into understanding our humanity, sinfulness, and mortality.  Today, the Church uses the Church’s most familiar tool to create just enough discomfort to help us turn our hearts and minds to God – the God whose arms are wide enough to spread on a cross and wide enough to embrace us all.  Amen.

[i] Lori Brandt Hale, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 22.

Homily – Isaiah 25.6-9, Cemetery Memorial Service, December 19, 2015

Tags

baby, banquet, celebrate, child, Christ, Christmas, comfort, death, feast, heaven, life, love, Sermon, shadow

One of the little secrets that they don’t tell you about in ministry is that this time of the year is filled with death.  While the rest of the world is running around singing about this being the most wonderful time of the year, priests are bracing themselves for a slew of funerals.  I remember my first year as an ordained person our parish having five or six funerals in December.  I mentioned the oddity to my fellow clergy and they gave me a knowing nod.  “Oh yeah, December always has lots of deaths,” they told me.

A month of concentrated deaths would be strange in and of itself.  But probably what is even more strange is the juxtaposition of death and life in December.  You see, every year we celebrate new birth – in fact one of the most important births of our Christian identity.  And yet every year, in the face of wondrous new birth is the overshadowing of death.  Last year at St. Margaret’s, one of our beloved parishioners died days before Christmas.  On the morning of Christmas Eve, we celebrated his death.  That afternoon we celebrated Christ’s birth.  Life and death seeped into each other, making separating the two realities impossible.

I imagine the reality of death clinging so closely to life is not new to most of you here.  We gather this evening every year to honor the reality of celebrating Christmas in the shadow of death.  We set time apart to honor how fresh the death of our loved ones is at this time of year – whether they died months or weeks ago, or whether they died thirty years ago.  The problem is that no matter when our loved one died, they left a mark on our collective experience of Christmas.  Maybe they cooked Christmas dinner every year.  Maybe we always visited their house and exchanged presents.  Maybe they always told loud, awful jokes or made the holidays a little more bearable.  Whatever their legacy on this time of year, there is some part of our heart that is missing without them here.  Sure, we make new Christmas memories without them.  Eventually, there will be new babies, cousins, and grandchildren who will never know those loved ones we knew.  But for us, those loved ones are never far this time of year, however briefly stealing away some of the joy that this time of year can bring.

I think that is what I love about our Old Testament lesson today.  Isaiah talks about the coming kingdom of God.  Isaiah says, “…the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.”  There is something about that image of a feast that gives me great comfort this time of year.  Maybe the image is comforting because this holiday is often about comfort food – recipes that give us a sense of nostalgia or make us feel safe just through their familiarity.  Maybe the image is comforting because we can imagine that raucous table with a large crowd gathered eating, drinking, laughing, and sharing in each other’s joy.  Or maybe the image is comforting because we can connect our earthly banquets with the heavenly banquet – imagining those sacred moments and places where we really feel like our loved one’s presence is palpable at our Christmas table – a mystical union between the two feasts.

I cannot promise you that Christmas will be easy this year.  In fact, I suspect that those of you whose loved ones passed away years and years ago already know that Christmas will always have a tinge of sadness and loss.  Death and new life will always be oddly intermingled this time of year.  But I also suspect that may be on purpose.  Even though death is inevitable and keeps coming at us, reminding us of our own mortality, we keep celebrating the birth of the Christ Child and the new life and promise of hope he brings.  Nothing quite warms the heart like warmth of a swaddled baby.  Nothing gives us greater hope and wonder than the miracle of new life.  Nothing brings us deeper joy than the innocence and purity of a newborn.  We know that any baby can bring that kind of joy.  But celebrating the Christ Child is about even more – celebrating the Christ Child is a celebration of all that he will bring – the banquet that his life inaugurates and the feast that he creates for us.  Christmas will not be the same without our loved ones.  But Christ promises to keep bringing us new life until we can join our loved ones in that heavenly banquet that never ends.  Amen.

Homily – Matthew 11.25-30, St. Francis, October 4, 2015

Tags

burden, comfort, crazy, discomfort, easy, give up, holy, homily, imitate, impossible, inspire, Jesus, life, light, missions, Pope Francis, saint, sanitized, St. Francis, uncomfortable, yoke

I once led a book group that read the book The Prison Angel.  The Prison Angel is the story of Mother Antonio, a woman of privilege from California who had a mid-life crisis, took on the role of a nun, went to the largest prison in Tijuana, Mexico, and began a ministry of transforming guards, inmates, and families connected to the prison.  Her work was amazing – the way that she was able to love everyone equally, the way that she was able to harness resources and get them where they needed to be, and the way that she was able to devote her life to this system – even living in her own prison cell for a while – were all examples of her awesome witness.  As we finished the book, I had hoped that people in our book group would be inspired, and might even consider their own contribution to a prison ministry.  Instead, the response was more like this:  Mother Antonio is truly amazing.  But let’s be honest.  I can’t be like her.  I’m not going to drop everything – my family and life – and become totally devoted to a ministry.  And just like that, I lost them.  No longer was Mother Antonio inspiring.  She was impossible.  And once she was impossible, no one felt compelled to do anything.  I definitely felt like I failed my mission of inspiration leading to action.

As I was preparing for today’s celebration of St. Francis, I ran across this quote:  “Of all the saints, Francis is the most popular and admired, but probably the least imitated.”[i]  You see, we have a sanitized version of Francis in our minds.  He was nice to animals and took care of the poor.  He devoted his life to Christ as a monk.  We even put up statues of Francis in our gardens and outside our churches.  When we think of Francis, we think of a gentle man gingerly allowing a bird to perch on his finger, and we smile.  We like our sanitized version of Francis because the real version is a little scary.  When Francis renounced his rather significant wealth, he stripped naked in front of his father and the bishop.  Francis didn’t just help the poor, he became poor, begging on the streets.  He worked with lepers – people no one wanted to touch, touching them with his bare hands and kissing them.  Barefoot, he preached in the streets about repentance.  He preached to the birds, and is rumored to have negotiated with a wolf.  If we met St. Francis today, most of us would not imitate or venerate him.  We would just see him as another homeless beggar with a serious case of mental illness.

That is the challenge for us when trying to live a holy life.  St. Francis is the obvious example today.  Though we love and admire St. Francis, few of are comfortable with his total identification with poverty, suffering, and care for our creation.  The same can be said of Jesus.  Though we profess that Jesus is our Lord and Savior, we regularly fail to live in the ways that Jesus taught – in fact, some of us have given up even trying.  Even looking toward a modern-day example of holy living trips us up.  When we watched Pope Francis come through last week, we marveled at his radical witness.  We loved what he had to say – except when he had something to say that made us uncomfortable or that we disagreed with.  When thinking about the radical life that is following Jesus – whether through the Pope, through St. Francis, or Jesus himself – most of us stumble and feel like giving up.

Luckily Jesus offers us a promise today.  Jesus says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  My yoke is easy and my burden is light.  When we look at St. Francis’ witness and we think about the poverty, the preaching, and the penitence, we get nervous.  We like our stuff, we like being comfortable, and we like being Christians without having to be too loud about it.  When we think about St. Francis, we think of a yoke – but not a light one – one that is heavy and onerous.  But Jesus harkens us back to his original words.  My yoke is easy and my burden is light.

One of the reasons I am a proponent of international missions is that they help you experience reality in a totally different way.  When we go on local missions, we can keep our smart phones, we have access to clean, accessible health care, and we can always find a McDonalds for a burger fix.  But when we are in a rural town in a third world country, things change.  We may not get to shower everyday, we may have to boil our water before drinking it, we will eat food that you are not so sure about, and we pray that we don’t get too sick while abroad.  And forget about a cell phone and internet access.  Most of us don’t even take a watch or jewelry to ensure they do not get lost.  Now that may sound like torture to most of you.  But here is what we learn when we are stripped of comforts and living and working in a foreign setting:  We learn to appreciate your massive wealth comparable to the poor in the third world; we learn what hospitality – real hospitality in the face of nothing – really feels like; we forget about email, phone calls, and even stop obsessively checking the time, because those things do not really matter that week; we hear birds and other creatures in a way that we never have before – maybe because of their proximity, or maybe because we normally distract ourselves with a hundred other things; and – now this is the crazy one – we talk about Jesus and no one is uncomfortable (well, except maybe us because we haven’t done that very much).  When stripped of everything familiar, we discover that Jesus’ burden really is easy and his yoke truly is light.  And sometimes we need to be stripped of the familiar so that when we are back in our comfort zone, we can more tangibly remember how easy that burden was and how light that yoke felt.

You may not be able to go on an international mission trip.  But each of you has some experience – a heartfelt expression of gratitude when you cared for the poor, a prayer with someone who was really hurting, or surprisingly easy conversation in a coffee shop about church and your faith.  Though Jesus, St. Francis, and even the Pope sometimes go to extreme measures, they all ultimately are trying to do the same thing.  To remind us that Jesus’ burden is easy and his yoke is light.  And then they all invite us to get comfortable with discomfort or even with the label of being crazy – and to go and do likewise.  Amen.

[i] Holy Men, Holy Women:  Celebrating the Saints (New York:  The Church Pension Fund, 2010), 622.