On Stories, Remembering, and Healing…

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darkness, dignity, God, heal, honor, human being, intimacy, kindness, light, love, people, power, pryaer, reclaim, remember, respect, September 11, share, story

Photo credit:  https://storycorps.org/discover/september-11th/

Today marks the eighteenth anniversary of September 11, 2001 – a fateful day in the United States.  Even eighteen years later, this is a day where we as a country remember – remember where we were that day, remember the people who were touched by tragedy that day, remember how a single day could transform a nation and the world.  This day hangs heavy in our consciousness each year, the weight never quite lifting even with the passage of time.

I think part of why this day is so heavy for us as a people is because of the people this day touched.  Certainly, we could look at the death toll, and recall the names of the almost 3,000 people who died that day, most without the opportunity to say goodbye to their loved ones.  But September 11’s reach went beyond those who died.  The ripple of that day is mind-blowing:  those who were physically injured, those who were bereaved, those who were supposed to be in those buildings and somehow life’s circumstances kept them away, those whose health continues to be poor from living nearby or helping with the cleanup efforts, those who walked for hours fleeing danger, those who made hard decisions that day – some leading to life and some leading to death.

Four years after that fateful day, NPR’s StoryCorps launched their September 11^th Initiative.  A program built around having people tell their stories, StoryCorps launched an effort to record the stories of that specific day – of the man who traded shifts that day and whose mentor died because he had volunteered to take his shift; of the man who consoled his wailing two-year old and had to wait four months before his wife’s body was finally identified; to the woman who sifted through bones and debris in a hanger months later, trying to help people find closure; to the airline employee who checked in the terrorists that day at the gate; the father who lost both sons, one a firefighter and one a police officer, in the line of duty that day.  Every story, every single one is gut-wrenching and tear-evoking.  And every one gives a tiny glimpse into the magnitude of the ripple effect this one day had on all of us.

This day, I invite you to honor September 11 with stories.  Talk to your neighbors, friends, and strangers about their experiences.  Listen to stories like the ones on StoryCorps.  Read whatever stories you can find.  When we engage in one another’s stories, we engage in honoring the dignity of every human being, something we pledge to do in our baptismal covenant.  We allow the depth of this day to do something to us.  And somewhere in that intimacy of story, we begin to hear an invitation – an invitation to honor life today.  Whether it is an act of kindness (maybe even the kindness of simply asking someone to tell their story), or whether it is a time of prayer to honor all that has been, or whether it is a commitment to reclaiming love so that hatred can never win in such a powerful way as it did that day.  May our stories help us connect to the cosmic story of a God who loves us and gives us light in the darkness.

Sermon – John 18.1-19.42, GF, YC, April 19, 2019

Tags

broken, community, cross, darkness, disciple, find, God, Good Friday, humanity, identity, incomplete, Jesus, lost, passion, prayer, Sermon, sin

When I was in college, I would occasionally find myself sitting in the back of the enormous Chapel.  Sometimes I do not even remember actively choosing to go inside the Chapel.  Somehow my body seemed to know I needed something before my brain did.  The cavernous, quiet building rarely had large crowds.  Or maybe my late-night study sessions meant I was there after everyone had left.  Regardless, I would find myself on a hard, wooden pew, just sitting there.  I am not sure I was there praying necessarily.  At least not in the traditional sense.  More often I was sitting there in desperation.  Sometimes I was at the end of a semester, completely overwhelmed and feeling incapable.  Other times, I was feeling a deep sense of loneliness, despite being surround by tons of friends and classmates.  Other times, I simply felt lost, not sure about my purpose or what in the world God was doing with my life – if God was even there at all.  But mostly, when I sat on those pews, surrounded by magnificent beauty and architecture, I felt a profound hole in my heart.  That Chapel was sometimes the only place I could go and be honest about my profoundly weak humanity.

I think worshiping on Good Friday is a little bit like that.  Unlike other times of worship, we do not usually come to this service looking for praise and joyful singing.  Instead, this day is a day where we willingly come to acknowledge and honor those parts of our lives where we feel a profound sense of brokenness, sinfulness, and incompleteness.  We read Scripture that speaks to our deepest pain and suffering.  We say prayers that address the fullness of need for ourselves and the world.  And we venerate the cross – staring at the object that brings into sharp focus our weakness and humanity, and our need for something bigger than ourselves.

On a day like today, I am grateful for John’s Passion Narrative.  All the Passion Narratives from the gospels tell a similar story – the last moments of Jesus’ time with the disciples, his trial and crucifixion, and his death.  And despite the fact that the story in all four gospels is heart-wrenching, something about John’s version digs deeper – shines a light into those dark places we prefer to keep hidden from the light of day.  But in John’s gospel, there is nowhere to hide.  We experience a deep sense of being bereft of our own sinfulness as the sins of those in our narrative mirror our own.  These are not just the common, everyday sins of life.  The sins of the characters today are the sins of denying our very own identity.

Often when we talk about Judas, we think of his failure as a thing he did to Jesus.  But Judas’ sin goes deeper than betrayal of Jesus.  Judas denies his very discipleship.  After all those years of following Jesus, trusting the salvific work of the Christ, believing and proclaiming Jesus’ Messiahship, Judas denies his discipleship by no longer following and instead trying to control the work of God.  You see, Judas follows Jesus because he believes Jesus is starting a political revolution – is becoming the conquering Messiah.  Jesus is not living into that identity as much as Judas wants, so Judas gives Jesus a push.[i]  But when Judas brings all of those soldiers to the intimate place where he discovered his identity as a disciple, we see how deep Judas’ sinfulness goes.  The garden had been a home for the disciples – where they had gathered regularly, in intimate community.  To bring those soldiers there – to the place that defined his own discipleship – is the marker not of an indiscretion, but of a complete denial of who he is.  In John’s gospel, the last appearance of Judas is not of remorse, or suicide, or judgment of Judas.  John simply says, Judas stands “with them.”  With them is not just a physical location; with them is a theological one.  By seeking to control Jesus, by walking away from relationship with Christ, and by standing against Jesus in the very place of intimate identity-making, Judas takes a new identity.  He denies his discipleship, and instead stands with them.[ii]  And as much as we might want to judge Judas, we all know that there have been times when we were fed up with God, and decided to take matters into our own hands.  The more we think we know better, the further we step away from following Christ, denying our own identity in Christ.  The more we seek control, the further we step away from our intimate relationship with Jesus, and instead stand with someone or something else.

Peter denies his identity in a slightly different way.  When we read John’s gospel, we can easily conflate John’s version with the versions from Matthew, Mark, and Luke.  In those gospels, Peter is asked whether he knows Jesus.  His response is he does not know the man.  But in John’s gospel, the question to Peter is different.  He is not asked if he knows Jesus, but whether he is Jesus’ disciple.  To say, “I am not,” is not just a denial of knowledge.  Peter is denying his very identity.  As Karoline Lewis asserts, “In the Gospel of John…Peter’s denial is not of Jesus but of his own discipleship.  …To deny discipleship is to deny one’s relationship with Jesus and the intimacy that makes Jesus and his followers virtually inseparable.  Peter does not deny Jesus, but denies being a disciple.”[iii]  Because we live in a time when we are rarely asked about our identity as people of God, we think of ourselves as immune to Peter’s temptation or somehow incapable of such identity denial.  And in some ways, we may be right:  our denial of identity is not usually as straightforward as Peter’s.  But that doesn’t mean we do not regularly reject our identity.  In small, everyday ways, we find ourselves making accommodations that fracture our intimacy with Christ – decisions that we can rationalize at the time, but when we look back realize have become of slow pattern of denying whose we really are.  And before long, we get so far from discipleship that no one even knows we are Christ’s disciple.

But the denials of identity are not just limited to Christ’s disciples.  Even the religious authorities lose themselves in their attempt to squash the Jesus movement.  The leaders of the faith community are so convinced that Jesus is wrong, they negotiate with a secular leader to get what they want.  And when Pilate, who knows what they want is wrong, pushes them to recognize they are wrong, the religious authorities say something that seems innocuous enough.  But saying, “We have no king but the emperor,” is the ultimate denial of their identity as a people of God.  The people of faith, who were once freed from a king over them, who journeyed forty years, claiming God as their king, who have an everlasting covenant with God, deny the covenant to get what they want.  By claiming the emperor, they deny their very identity.  The people of God, who are about to prepare the Passover feast – the feast that celebrates their release from Pharaoh, “embrace a latter-day Pharaoh whose overthrow the Passover is intended to celebrate.”[iv]  Although we like to demonize the chief priests, we too have pledged loyalties to things other than God.  Perhaps not as dramatically as the religious authorities, but we have all known those moments when a declaration slipped out of our mouths that we later come to realize was denial of everything we claim to be.

On this most holy of days, we can journey so far into the darkness of humanity, of the ways we deny our very own identity, that we can walk out of this beautiful historic chapel feeling lost – having received no encouragement for our bereft hearts.  But I do not think the point of Good Friday is to walk with us into the darkness without giving us a sliver of light to hold onto in these next hours.  Though our reading ends with the finality of Jesus in a tomb, where we are better left is at the foot of the cross.  At the foot of the cross is where we find identity again.  At the foot of the cross, we find a new community being formed.  Jesus gives his mother to the beloved disciple; and to the beloved disciple, he gives his mother.  In other words, Jesus creates a community of mutual care – a new family, a place of forming identity in Christ, even as Christ is departing.[v]  The very reason we gather in community on Good Friday is because we need this group gathered here – this group gathered at the foot of the cross – to bring us back from the denials of our identity, and help us reclaim whose we are.  Today is certainly a day for claiming how deep our own betrayal of God is, but today is also a day of claiming a community who can help us walk back.

I think that was what I was doing all those years ago in college as I sat on those cold, hard pews of the Chapel.  I knew I was lost, that my angst was not just the anxiety of tests and deadlines, but was a much deeper angst about identity.  And although that Chapel was mostly empty, that Chapel reminded me of all the times I had gathered in sacred spaces with the community of the faithful.  Even when the Chapel was empty, the Chapel was somehow a reminder of the mothers and brothers who gathered with me at the foot of the cross.  The only difference today is you do not have to imagine a community gathered with you at the cross.  We are right here with you.  We are struggling right along with you on this journey called discipleship.  Together, starting at the foot of the cross, we will find our way.  Amen.

[i] Jim Green Somerville, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),300, 302.

[ii] Karoline M. Lewis, John (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 218-219.

[iii] Lewis, 222.

[iv] C. Clifton Black, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009),303.

[v][v] Lewis, 229.

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.

Sermon – Matthew 4.12-23, Isaiah 9.1-4, Psalm 27.1, EP3, YA, January 22, 2017

Tags

darkness, geography, hope, Inauguration, injustice, Jesus, light, location, map, Martin Luther King, ministry, mission, Naphtali, oppression, Sermon, Women's March, Zebulun

Our family loves maps.  Of course, Scott and I grew up in a time when paper maps were the only kind of maps.  Since I moved around a lot and he traveled a lot, we both learned to pour over maps.  As a couple, we had road atlases for every major city in which we lived.  Looking over maps helps us understand where we are going, how different areas connect, and what the big picture is.

What you do not get from maps are the stories behind the lines.  When I lived and worked in Durham, NC, working among the hungry and poor, I soon learned more about the roads I had seen on the map.  You see, a highway cuts through Durham and was put there many years ago.  Before the highway came, there was a thriving African American community, with many small businesses.  The highway cut through the neighborhoods and businesses, dividing people from one another socially, displacing longtime community leaders, and devastating many small businesses.  The highway was essentially like tossing a small bomb into the neighborhood – without ever letting the neighborhood rebuild.  But you do not learn that kind of information from the thick blue line that conveniently cuts through town and gets you from point A to point B much faster.

Our gospel lesson today tries to give us that same kind of insight.  What sounds like a basic cartography lesson quickly becomes a socio-political lesson.  Matthew tells us, “When Jesus heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew to Galilee.  He left Nazareth and made his home in Capernaum by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali…”  Most of us hear all those town and territory names and tune out.  We keep racing forward, looking for the action in the story.  Now the map lovers among us might pull out one of those bibles with a map and pinpoint Galilee, Nazareth, and Capernaum.  We probably won’t find the territories of Zebulun and Naphtali on the same map, but we figure we at least have a mental picture of the setting.

In this case, skimming means we miss Matthew’s subtlety.  You see, we could certainly find Galilee, Nazareth, and Capernaum on a map relative to Jesus’ day.  But the reason we don’t see the territories of Zebulun and Naphtali is because that is the land of Abraham’s sons – over 700 years prior to the time Jesus lived.  The land of Zebulun and Naphtali represent a land that was once promised land, but for centuries has been a land of unfulfilled promise.[i]  The Assyrians were the first to conquer the land.  But they were followed by Babylon, the Persians, the Greeks, and eventually the Romans.  That kind of perpetual occupation and oppression does something to your psyche.  Generations upon generations have lived under the shadow of a dream deferred.  They have lived in darkness.

Long before Jesus, Isaiah prophesied that things would change.  We hear in Isaiah speaking that very promise today.  “There will be no gloom for those who were in anguish,” Isaiah says.  “In the former time he brought into contempt the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the latter time he will make glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations.  The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness–on them light has shined.”  To this place – this place where grandparent after grandparent promised their grandchildren that we would know a brighter future – to this place of darkness, Jesus goes to start his ministry.  What seems like a superfluous geographical information is actually of singular importance in understanding what Jesus is about.  The particularity of his ministry matters.  Where he goes as God made manifest says something about the kind of kingdom that is inbreaking.  His location – a land of longstanding darkness – will become a land of great light.  His location will be the place where the people of God can actually pray the psalm we prayed today, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?  The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid?”

This week has been a loaded week.  We started off by honoring the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., whose passionate pleas for justice for all inspired a nation.  Dr. King understood how much location mattered.  His march from Selma to Montgomery meant something to the people who lived in Alabama at the time.  His references to freedom ringing from the mountains of New York, the Alleghenies of Pennsylvania, the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado, the curvaceous slopes of California highlighted how different regions of our country experienced racism.[ii]  He understood the value of geography when he gave his “I have a dream” speech in front of the Lincoln Memorial – a president who presided at the time of the Civil War.  And his famous speech there inspired thousands of men and women to walk yesterday in the same location – because they knew that in order to talk about injustice, you go to the most famous place where speeches about injustice have been offered.  Even the inauguration this week in front of the Capitol Building in DC signified something – that no matter how we felt about this presidential election, the new president would do what every president has done – be sworn in just like all the others.  The location mattered.

I highlight all of this because I know many of us read these texts today and are feeling like we are in a place of darkness.  Some of us see our new President as bringing in a new era of light.  But others among us see the opposite – some of us here feel like we have welcomed in a new oppressor who will keep us in the darkness.  As I have prayed with you all this week – both in person, in conversation, and in my private prayers, I kept going back to the geographical lesson of Jesus and the beginning of his ministry.  If geography matters, what does that mean for us?  Where do we see the light dawning in our time?

No matter which candidate was yours last year, I keep remembering that no candidate would have been the bearer of the light.  Only Christ does that.  But that does not mean any of us are off the hook.  Democrats or Republicans, Southerners or Non-Southerners, Women or Men – God positions each of us in a particular geography with a particular mission to bring light to where God has planted us.  Whether you are thrilled or devastated by the state of our country’s leadership, God tells us today that our work is not done.[iii]

We often say about Hickory Neck that our mission is to keep burning our light on the hill.  This hill that we are planted on has a history too.  Over 200 years ago, the people who lived and witnessed to Jesus on this hill left.  They sided with the British and the British lost.  Talk about a devastated people!  But the light never went out.  Students came to this hill to learn and grow and play their part in this location’s narrative.  Soldiers and medics came to this hill to tend the sick, mend the wounded, and bury the dead during the Civil War.  When that war was over, students came back, to continue their learning and formation.  And, around 100 years ago, the people of God came back to this hill to start shining Christ’s light again.

Knowing that we have been planted on this hill in this time has given me hope.  No matter how divided we are as a country – no matter how divided we are within these very walls – God has asked us to be light on this hill.  That means that when our neighbors are freezing in the cold nights of winter, we are going to open our doors, cook some meals, pull some all-nighters, and witness Christ’s light and love.  That means when we start developing our vision for Hickory Neck, we are not looking for a vision for St. Swithins of anyplace, USA.[iv]  We are going to be looking at how we can make an impact on Toano, Upper James City County, Williamsburg, and Southern Virginia.  Whether we build that multigenerational day center or we find something else that matters to this particular geography, our location is part and parcel of our work to bring the light of Christ out into the world.

The darkness that many of us feel about our country is not likely to dissipate any time soon.  But that darkness does not eliminate our hope.  Our ancestors walked in the darkness for over seven centuries before the light of Christ came to them.  Our own country – from its treatment of native peoples to enslaved Africans – has been a land of darkness despite the many reminders of the light.  We can become overwhelmed in the vast story of history.  But our hope is in our geography – the current moment and place where God has placed us to beacons of hope and agents of change.  This space, with its many windows that pour in light, is meant to be a place that warms you by Christ’s light every week.  But this place is also a place that needs to shine its light off the hill – to be an agent for change, compassion, and care.   Our invitation this week is to drop our nets, and to take up our work being agents of light on this hill and beyond.  Amen.

[i] Karoline Lewis, “Mapping God’s Promises,” January 15, 2017, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4796 on January 18, 2017.

[ii] Lewis.

[iii] Fritz Wendt, “The Politics of Inauguration and Surrender—Matthew 4:12-23,” January 17, 2017, as found at http://www.politicaltheology.com/blog/the-politics-of-inauguration-and-surrender-matthew-412-23-fritz-wendt/ on January 18, 2017.

[iv] Lewis.

Sermon – Luke 23.33-43, P29, YC, November 20, 2016

Tags

Christ the King, cross, darkness, forgiveness, hope, Jesus, king, kingdom of God, kingdom of man, light, love, politics, Sermon, shine, thief, tired, weary

Today I have a confession.  I am tired.  After the election two weeks ago, and struggling to understand how vastly different the kingdom of God is from the kingdom of man, I found myself not emboldened, but just tired.  As our country and the world has tried to absorb what America’s decision means, as sides seem to dig in their heels – identifying all sorts of ways in which their side has been right, and as uncertainty, instead of peace, seem to rise, I find myself, quite simply, tired.  I was certainly given some opportunities for redemption.  Our Celebration of a New Ministry filled with me such joy that the evening felt like a redemptive group hug.  While reading the psalms appointed for evening prayer this week, I found several verses full of righteous indignation and a call against enemies.  The words felt cathartic, but later, left me feeling empty, as I know vengeance is not the answer.  Even at our Clergy Conference this week, we took some time to talk about how to navigate the results of the election as leaders of churches.  Though I appreciated the gift of that time from the Bishop, I could tell that most of us were filled with the same uncertainty that everyone else is feeling.  And, like a dutiful priest, I keep trying to stay tuned in to the news so that I am sure we are being relevant – but that, too, makes me tired.

As I turned to our gospel lesson for today, I was hoping for some bit of encouragement – some promise that everything would be okay.  Knowing today is Christ the King Sunday, the last Sunday in the liturgical year whose text should bring into focus the point of a year of journeying with Christ, I had hoped that there would be some sort of rallying text that would invigorate me and shake me out of my emotional and spiritual exhaustion.  But instead, on this day when we honor Christ our King, what is the image we are given?  A beaten, humiliated, ridiculed, discredited, shameful shell of a man, hanging on a cross, defeated in the approaching death.  We do not get Christ risen from the grave today – the ultimate Easter message.  No, today we get Good Friday – our hoped-for Messiah, seemingly defeated on the cross.  Of course, he dies with great dignity, forgiving sinners until the very end, welcoming the repentant even on their last breath, resisting every urge strike back or at least refute the charges against him.  He dies with dignity, but he dies nonetheless.

As we close out this liturgical year and prepare to begin a new year with the season of Advent, I have been thinking a lot about the other version of Christ we will soon be talking about – the Christ Child.  As I meditated on Christ the King, imagining his battered body, whose mother is not far away, I wondered if she too is thinking back to those early days with her infant.  I imagine every mother has some hopes and dreams for whom her child might become.  Maybe they have specific hopes of power and influence for their child.  Certainly, at the very least, they hope their child will be a decent, respectful human being.  But Mary could be tempted to dream much more for her child – shepherds, angels, and wise men told her to expect great things.  I wonder how she sits at that cross, devastated at what had come of her son’s journey.  Of course, her son never really had an overwhelmingly positive journey.  He was run out of towns; people were constantly trying to trick him into saying something incriminating; though those who were healed were often happy, more often, people were upset about Jesus’ healing ministry; and although they had that parade just a few days ago for her son, how quickly they had turned against him.  As she sits at the foot of that cross, I wonder if she is, at the root of her being, just plain tired.

I have often thought it is strange how the cross, and not the empty tomb is our primary Christian symbol.  That we use an instrument of death as our sign for victory is rather odd.  But today we do not just honor Christ’s death on the cross; we honor how he died on the cross.  Even in death Christ our King managed to love his neighbor – even the really bad neighbors.  Even in death, Christ managed to love God – inviting God to forgive even the most hateful behavior.  Even on the cross, Jesus never loses his focus.  Jesus never gets tired.

Just like the kingdom of God is different, so is the king of God.  The people of God never really had a king until they reached the Promised Land.  They saw the neighboring countries with their armies and their admirable kings, and they wanted one for themselves.  That was their first mistake.  God granted them a king to rule over them, but inevitably, the kings, like any humans, were flawed – some more than others.  Hence, there are four books in the Hebrew Scriptures about the kings who ruled and the judges who tried to correct their behavior.  Most of the kings were corrupted by power, money, and greed.  Many abused the people.  Even the most revered king, King David, was a bit of a mess.  But Jesus is not like foreign kings or the kings of Israel.  Jesus’ kingship is different.  He loves the poor and cares for the sick, he sees through the pretenses of the temple and calls for authenticity, he loves deeply and forgives infinitely.[i]  And he never tires of being this kind of king.

For most of us, looking to Jesus as an example of how to rally out of our fatigue and weariness may feel overwhelming to our tired selves.  Instead, I found looking at the repentant thief to be helpful.  You see, the thief was probably tired too.  Anyone who is a thief has been hustling long before he gets caught.  He may have even been caught several times before for more minor offenses.  His arrest this time is different.  There will be no escape.  He will hang on that cross until he dies.  With the cruelty of the cross, and the pain of his body, also shining forth is an overwhelming sense of fatigue.  He too is tired.  Tired of running, tired of hustling, tired of the life that leads one to become a thief.  But even in his deep fatigue, he does something extraordinary.  When the other thief taunts Jesus, the repentant thief lets the other thief have it.  Hanging in agony, he looks outside himself, and refuses to stand for the hypocrisy of the other thief.  He decries the injustice of Jesus’ sentence, he wisely points out his own, as well as the other’s, culpability in sin, and then, without shame looks right at Jesus and asks Jesus to remember him.

Even at our most weary, tired states, when we feel like there is no hope, or when death feels ever present, Jesus invites us to keep shining our light for all to see.[ii]  Our gospel this week is full of people doing just that:  taking their world of hurt, pain, sadness, sorrow, defeat, seeming hopelessness, and turning toward the light.[iii]  Mary and the other women eventually find their light despite their fatigue.  The thief hanging in humiliation and death finds his light.  And Jesus, defeated in the eyes of all but the thief today, keeps shining his light until the bitter end.  Christ our King invites us to do likewise.  Of all people, Jesus understood being tired.  His cry out to God in prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane is a prayer of a tired man.  But Jesus stood up that night, all the way to the cross on Calvary and refused to let fatigue be an excuse for a world without love, hope, and forgiveness.  Our king may not look like other kings.  His story may be strange and full of contradictions.  But our king has the power to pull you out of darkness and drag you into the light.  But along the way, he is going to need you to shine your light too.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Christ the King C:  What Kind of King Do You Want?” November 14, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/11/christ-the-king-c-what-kind-of-king-do-you-want/ on November 16, 2016.

[ii] Caroline Lewis, “Who and What is Your King?” November 13, 2016, as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=4754 on November 17, 2016.

[iii] Patrick J. Willson, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 337.

Homily – John 11.21-27, Cemetery Memorial Service, March 19, 2016

Tags

cemetery, darkness, death, Easter, eternal life, grief, homily, if only, Jesus, joy, Lazarus, light, Martha, memorial, resurrection, spring

“Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.”  These are the words Martha says to Jesus in our gospel lesson today.  The weight of that phrase, “if only,” is heavy.  We all know that weight.  If only he hadn’t caught pneumonia.  If only she hadn’t taken the car out that day. If only we had known about the cancer earlier.  If only they were here now.  We know the sickening power of “if onlys.”

One of my favorite movies is a movie called Sliding Doors.  The movie follows a woman who is fired from her job.  As she makes her way home she has seconds to catch a train.  The movie divides into two at that point.  In one storyline she catches the train home only to find her boyfriend cheating on her at home.  In the other storyline she misses the train and is none the wiser about her boyfriend’s affair.  The two stories unfold in parallel, letting her life unfold from that one moment of a missed or caught train.  Her story is the ultimate “if only” story.

Martha knows the feeling of “if only.”  She knows that if only Jesus had been there, he would have healed Lazarus.  She also knows that if only Jesus had not taken so long, he probably could have made the trip in time.  That phrase, “if only,” hangs in the air for Martha.  But Jesus does not let Martha linger in the past, dreaming about what might have been.  Instead, he points Martha to the future – reminding her that her brother will rise again.  Martha already knows this.  Resurrection life was standard Jewish teaching in their day.  By Martha’s quick response to Jesus, we know that his reminding her about the future of resurrection doesn’t offer Martha much comfort.  But then Jesus does a funny thing.  He twists time all around, telling Martha that “the future is suddenly brought forwards into the present.”[i]

When Jesus says to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life,” he is not just talking about a doctrine.  He is not just talking about a future fact.  The resurrection is a person, standing here and now in front of Martha.  Jesus invites Martha to exchange her “if only,” for an “if Jesus…”  As one scholar explains, the “if” changes:  “If Jesus is who she is coming to believe he is…If Jesus is the Messiah, the one who was promised by the prophets, the one who was to come into the world…If [Jesus] is God’s own son, the one in whom the living God is strangely and newly present…if [Jesus] is resurrection-in-person, life-come-to-life…”[ii]  You see, when Jesus changes Martha’s mourning to a pondering about what resurrection means, Jesus pulls her out of the past, with an eye on the future, that bursts into the now.

The last time we gathered, we did so in the darkening days of winter.  We watched Christmas approach, and the grief of “if only,” was heavy upon us.  But today, out tone shifts.  Spring is trying to emerge, the days are gifting us with more light, and Easter is approaching.  We have journeyed through a season of darkness.  The Church now invites us to journey toward the light.  The way that we make that transition is not by mourning the “if onlys,” but cultivating the joy of the possibility of “if Jesus.”

Isn’t that how we ever truly face death, though?  That is the eternal gift of our faith in Jesus Christ.  We are promised eternal life through the Savior who came among us, who taught us, loved us, died for us, and rose again.  And through his existence, resurrection is no longer a future longing, but a promise for the here and now.  Our loved ones are celebrating in the resurrection life, because as Jesus says, everyone who believes in Jesus Christ, even though they die, will live and everyone who lives and believes in him will never die.[iii]

As we approach Holy Week and Easter next weekend, I invite you to journey with Christ through the last bits of darkness, holding fast to the promise of the light of Easter – when we shout our joy to the world for the Savior who makes resurrection life possible in the here and now.  The church will journey with us as we loosen our grips on the “if onlys” of life and we attempt to embrace the “if Jesus” ponderings of life.  Today we recognize the ways that the “if onlys” try to haunt us.  But today we also lean on the church for support to hold fast to the “if Jesus” part of our loved ones’ stories.  When we hold on to the power of the future made present, we are able to rejoice this Easter with fullness and joy.  Amen.

[i] N.T. Wright, John for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 6.

[ii] Wright, 7.

[iii] John 11.25-26

Sermon – Luke 21.25-36, A1, YC, November 29, 2015

Tags

alert, armor, Christ Child, darkness, fear, hope, Jesus, light, on guard, second coming, Sermon, waiting

Many years ago, when my husband and I were driving from our honeymoon in the Outer Banks back home to Delaware, we decided to take the scenic route.  At the time, the idea of a scenic drive sounded romantic.  We were excited to take the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel.  And of course, as newlyweds, we were just excited to have more time together.  But by hour ten, I thought I was going to lose my mind.  I devolved into a whiny mess who could not keep still and who huffed and puffed in frustration.  I kept shifting around and fidgeting in my seat, and I am pretty sure I groaned at some point, “Are we there yet?!?”  Any notion of a romantic journey was lost – all I wanted was to get home immediately.

Truthfully, I feel similarly about Advent.  As a priest well-trained in preaching from the lectionary, I know I am supposed to be appreciative of the intentional ways in which the lectionary shapes, prepares, and teaches us.  But as soon as Advent starts, I get overly excited.  I think about the Advent candles, the purple vestments, and the greenery.  And because I know what is waiting for us on December 24^th, I turn into that car-trapped honeymooner, complaining, “Are we there yet?!?”  Since I know a baby is coming, all I want to think about is Mary’s pregnancy, her relationship with Joseph, and the long journey to Bethlehem.  I am not saying I need to celebrate baby Jesus right away, but I at least would like to throw a baby shower or see Mary’s baby bump.

But that is not how Advent is presented to us in the beginning of Advent.  Instead of talking about the first coming of the Christ child, we talk about the second coming of Christ.  Instead of giddy, romantic stories about lovers making it work with an unexpected pregnancy, we get dark, foreboding tales of earthly disorder and destruction.  Instead of happy expectation, we get somber warnings to prepare ourselves and to stand guard.  Normally, I do not mind these texts at the beginning of Advent.  Theologically, I understand the concept of framing the first coming of Christ within the second coming.[i]  I understand that in order to appreciate Christ’s birth I need to remember what his birth means many years later.  I understand the need for a warning about being on guard for the second coming – a reminder that I do not get to enjoy all the fun stuff of Christ’s birth without realizing the significance of Christ’s death and return as well.  But emotionally, I am tired of being on guard.  I am tired of earthly destruction.  I am tired of feeling like the end is upon us.

That is what is so hard about Advent this year.  We are already on guard this Advent.  With terrorism striking worldwide, with gun violence in our own country, and with debates about welcoming refugees, we are already “alert at all times,” as Jesus demands.  I know people who are avoiding shopping in Manhattan this year because they are afraid of potential threats.  There are rumors of out-of-state school field trips getting canceled due to fear of danger. And some states have shut down their borders to refugees because of suspicions of terrorists in refugee disguise.  We know all too well the reality of living in fear, guardedness, and preparation for the darkness of this world.  And quite frankly, when we come to church, especially in this season of preparing for the Christ Child, the last thing we want to do is dwell on the darkness.  We want a little bit of light from Christ too.

Last weekend, the final movie in The Hunger Games series premiered.  For those of you unfamiliar with the series, the movie features a dystopian future after a failed revolution.  As punishment for revolting against the Capitol, the Capitol designs what is called The Hunger Games – a battle to the death in which two children from each of twelve districts faces one another in an arena.  Not unlike ancient practices in Rome, and yet uncannily familiar to modern times, the residents of the Capitol watch the games with a detached sense of enjoyment as they cheer for their favorites.  In the first film, President Snow talks to the head of the Games about why they have the games and a winner in the first place.  “Hope:” he explains, “It is the only thing stronger than fear.”  He goes on to say, “A little hope is effective.  A lot of hope is dangerous.”  You see, the President wants to keep people oppressed.  He knows that the people need to fear him – but he balances that fear with a tiny bit of hope so that they do not revolt again:  if they can believe that there is hope for a slightly better life while keeping the status quo, then they will strive to stay in line.  But the hope most be managed so that the hope does not liberate people from submission to the Capitol.

We could easily live lives of fear when hearing Jesus’ words today about the Second Coming.  We could worry about natural disasters, about violence, and about destruction.  We could hear Jesus’ words about being on guard, being alert at all times, and standing up to raise our heads, and be worried about the burden of constant vigilance.  But Jesus is not trying to scare us into preparation.  Jesus does not want us to live in fear.[ii]  Quite the opposite, Jesus wants to give us a big dose of hope today.  Unlike President Snow, Jesus does not manipulate us by only giving us a small amount of hope.  Though today’s text can feel full of gloom, Jesus, in his weird Jesus way, is actually trying to give a large dose of hope today.  Instead of asking us to cower in fearful anticipation, he is inviting us to stand tall, raise our heads in certainty, and be people of sober, joyful expectation.

In our collect today, we prayed these words, “…give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light…”[iii]  Many of us may question whether we can put on an armor of light in such a despairing world.  Perhaps we worry about sounding like Pollyannas or being insensitive to the suffering of the world and our communities.  But putting on the armor of light is not putting on the armor of denial or dismissiveness.  Putting on the armor of light is an act of seeing and experiencing the deep groaning of our time and proclaiming that God works as an agent of light despite what feels like overwhelming darkness.  By putting on our armor of light, we are acknowledging that “God in Christ is coming because God loves us – because God wants to redeem us.”[iv]  Putting on the armor of light means that despite all that is falling apart in our lives, our communities, and the world around us, we claim hope over despair.

Now some of us may think that putting on armor is preparing us for battle – that we are going to be issued lightsabers like the Jedi fighters of Star Wars.  But the armor of light is a bit different.  The armor of light requires us to stand tall as beacons of light in the world – much like the lighthouses that line our shores on Long Island.  Now, I do not mean putting on that armor is a passive act.  In fact, as N.T. Wright explains, our armor is not for an “exciting battle, with adrenalin flowing and banners flying, but the steady tread, of prayer and hope and scripture and sacrament and witness, day by day and week by week.”[v]  Knowing that we are slowly, steadily treading toward Jesus’ return, we need that armor of light more than ever:  to protect us from allowing fear to overcoming us, and to remind ourselves of how we are grounded in liberating hope.

And just in case you are not convinced that you can survive a long, steady tread, the community of faith gathers here every week to witness and wear that armor of light with you.  We are like those freedom fighters from the Civil Rights movement, who steadily marched – from Selma to Montgomery, through the streets of Washington, D.C., and anywhere else where fear was reigning.  Their power was in their numbers, their fortitude, and their hope.  They wore the same armor that we don today.  Yes, we will get to celebrate the birth of the Christ Child soon enough.  But before he comes, when he comes, and after he comes, we will still need to stand up, raise our heads, and be agents of light and hope.  The world needs our light – and so do we.  Amen.

[i] Mariam J. Kamell, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 21.

[ii] David Lose, “Advent 1 C: Stand Up and Raise Your Heads!” November 23, 2015, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2015/11/advent-1-c-stand-up-and-raise-your-heads/ on November 25, 2015.

[iii] BCP, 211.

[iv] Kathy Beach-Verhey, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 25.

[v] N. T. Wright, Luke for Everyone (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 260.

Journeying in the darkness…

Tags

abundance, church, darkness, grief, light, loss, mourning, pregnancy

October is Pregnancy Loss Awareness Month.  In some ways, it seems like a strange month to choose.  In October, we are often focused on the harvest.  We have harvest-themed door wreaths and table decorations.  We enjoy a taste of the harvest ourselves – picking apples and pumpkins.  This is a time we celebrate abundance, and yet this is also the month when we honor when abundance is taken away.

As a child, I knew very little about pregnancy loss.  I had an aunt who sometimes referred to infant she lost by name, but no one besides her talked about it much, and the subject was so hushed and confusing that I never asked many questions.  As a chaplain, I experienced my first pregnancy loss with a patient.  A whole new world of darkness invaded what had developed in my mind as a world of joy.  I was at the age that my friends were starting to have babies.  But no one had ever talked to me about the dark side of pregnancy.  The darkness still felt very “other.”

Finally, a dear friend – one with whom I had shared many confidences – lost her pregnancy.  We lived far away, but I had just seen her pregnant belly at a reunion of friends for the weekend.  We had laughed and shared dreams about the child.  It had been a weekend of light.  And suddenly, that weekend was washed away with darkness.  We all rallied, sending flowers, meals, and cards.  We prayed and we cried.  And we listened.  My friend was very good about being vocal and honest about her pain.  We journeyed with her through the darkness.

During our mourning period, I shared with a few coworkers about my grief.  Slowly, the stories poured out.  Of pregnancies lost, of an infant loss, and even of the grief of trying to get pregnant.  No longer could I go on pretended that the world of pregnancy and babies was all roses and sunshine.  There is a darkness, a fear, and an uncertainty that haunts every pregnancy.  Most of the time those fears are unrealized, but unfortunately, not always.  And sometimes that darkness crashes down on those who never even realized the darkness was lurking.

We don’t talk about pregnancy loss much in church.  We have a liturgy for blessing a pregnancy.  We have a liturgy for giving thanks for a healthy birth.  And we have a liturgy for an infant baptism.  But the liturgies for infant loss are scattered and hard to find.  They are modified versions of other liturgies, often unauthorized by a liturgical committee.  They are like the darkened corner room of the maternity ward where they try to hide away the mom who has to deliver her stillborn.

Today, I want you to know that I am willing to talk about pregnancy and infant loss.  As a priest in the Church, I am willing to journey with you through the darkness – even if that darkness has been lingering for twenty years or more.  Or if you are trying to get pregnant, or even if you are pregnant and are afraid of the darkness – I am here.  You are not alone.  I will stand in the darkness with you – for however long you need.  And for those of you who are just now becoming aware of this issue and want to be supportive, I recommend this video.  You will find great resources on the website, as well as a link to an amazing book of devotions.  Join me in being the Church – a Church willing to sit in the darkness until we can find the light again together.

Sermon – John 3.14-21, L4, YB, March 15, 2015

Tags

beloved, darkness, Divergent, God, insider, Jesus, John 3.16, judgment, light, outsider, repent, scripture, turn

Today we get one of the most beloved passages of Scripture.  Most everyone knows the line, “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”  But even for those of us who do not know the words by heart, we have seen the marker “John 3.16” all over – at sporting events, on road overpasses, on tattoos, and on Tim Tebow’s face.  Even Episcopalians, who can rarely quote scripture citations, know this one.

What is funny about the popularity of this scripture verse is that this particular verse is one of the more complicated verses in scripture.  On the surface, the verse sounds full of promise:  God so loved; God so loved the world; God gave; So that believers should not perish; Everlasting life.  All those words sound wonderful.  They make God sound loving and generous.  They make life seem full of promise.  Why would you not want to parade John 3.16 around in celebration?

John 3.16 sounds wonderful until you really start to dissect the verse.  John 3.16 makes God sound loving, generous, and caring.  Until you read that one pesky clause, “everyone who believes.”  So God will love, be generous to, and give everlasting life to anyone in the world – as long as they believe.  But what about those who do not believe?  We all know lots of people who do not believe in Jesus Christ.  They are our neighbors, friends, family members, and classmates [colleagues].  Do we really believe God does not love them too?  All we have to do is read John 3.18 to learn that “those who do not believe are condemned already, because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God.”

Now I do not know about you, but although this scripture lesson is known worldwide, and is beloved by many, I have never really felt comfortable with the implications of this passage.  I think two things either happen when we really start to look at this passage.  One, by recognizing that we are the “believers” of this passage, we both feel a sense of pride and acceptance and a sense of pity for the non-believers.  We feel bad for the non-believers, but we do not really know how to console them.  So we secretly just feel grateful and blessed, and wipe our hands clean of the non-believers.  They will have to fend for themselves.

The other way that many of us approach this text is that we sweep the verse under the rug.  We know a lot of other verses about God, and those verses tell us of a God whose love is much bigger.  We might imagine that there is hope for all the faiths of the world, and even for those without faith.  We prefer to focus on the part that says, “God so loved the world,” knowing the vast diversity of that world, preferring to imagine that our God is not a judgmental one, but a loving one.  And even if we concede that there might need to be some form of judgment, we will leave that judgment up to God.  We will let the business of who is in and who is out be God’s business, and we will just go on loving everyone anyway.

Either of those ways of thinking – the one where we pity the non-believers or the one where we brush aside the text – ignores the fact that those approaches come from the assumption that we are the insiders in this situation.  As Christians, we know that we believe in Jesus Christ.  So we must be the ones that John is talking about – the ones that God loves and saves, and to whom God gives eternal life.  But the problem with that underlying assumption is that the assumption puts us in a place of comfort, when, in fact, I think John 3.16 is supposed to put us in a place of discomfort.

In John 3.19-20, Jesus says, “…This is the judgment, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil.  For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed.”  Instead of sitting on our comfortable “believer” cushion, I think what this passage is really inviting us to do is to recognize how we are in fact the people in the darkness.  We have been talking a lot in this Lent about our sinfulness – our separation from God and neighbor.  Our Lenten disciplines are meant to be ways for us to contemplate our sinfulness, to repent, and return to the Lord.  None of us is spared from being sinful.  We have all fallen victim to pride, envy, and hatred.  We have all had malicious thoughts and done hurtful things.  We have all forgotten about God, making our lives about our own wants and desires.  And I am sure many of us have had something in our lives that we have wanted to hide in darkness.  None of us feel entirely comfortable exposed, being bathed in light.  Like that makeup mirror that is just a little too bright, not many of us are ready to be seen under the bright light.

There is a book and movie series out called “Divergent.”  It is a dystopian, futuristic series that captures what happens when the world destroys itself and the society that is rebuilt to prevent such destruction from happening again.  Though the premise is a bit complicated, one of the pieces about the series I find fascinating is the presentation of one group who believes that the truth is the answer to solving the world’s problems.  So all the members of that particular group must take what is called a “truth serum.”  When they take the serum, they must then be asked a slew of questions before all the members of the group, including extremely personal and private questions.  The idea is that if all your secrets are exposed, there is nothing left to hide behind.  Everyone is on equal footing and no one can hide their true selves.

I imagine the world in that group from the Divergent series as being like the one that Jesus is talking about today.  We are people who would avoid a truth serum – who would avoid the light – because we do not want all of ourselves exposed.  There are some things – those really dark, embarrassing, or shameful things about our lives – that we do not want the world to know.  We like the dark, if for no other reason than we can hide those ugly parts of ourselves there.  In fact, we like keeping a little bit of darkness in our lives.  And I imagine most of us would quite quickly decline a truth serum.

If we can admit that truth – that part of us that prefers there be just a little bit of darkness for us to hide in occasionally – then we might be able to see why John 3.16 is so brilliant.  If we can be humble about our own darkness and our own sinfulness, and approach God in that way, then Jesus’ words are much more meaningful.  For those of us who have a bit of darkness in us, God so loved us that God gave up God’s only Son so that we might have eternal life.  In this way, John 3.16 is refreshing.  When we realize that we are the ones in darkness, John 3.16 does not make us feel self-righteous, pitying others.[i]  Instead, John 3.16 is a harbinger of light.  In fact, John 3.16 calls us into the light with the promise of love, forgiveness, and grace.  Once we get ourselves out of the “insider’s circle” this passage becomes much more redemptive and much more full of hope.  And perhaps that is the point.  Not to make us relieved because we are on the inside looking out, but to make us relieved because we are on the outside looking in – and being beckoned in by our Lord and Savior.  If we can come to see this passage in this light, then I say go ahead and get that tattoo, embroider that wall hanging, and even make that poster for the big game.  Perhaps your artwork will remind you to keep turning from the darkness and turning into the light.  Amen.

[i] This idea shaped by the conclusions made by Paul C. Shupe, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 120.

Forever empty?

Tags

darkness, discipline, Episcopal, God, happiness, journey, Lent, light, Louis C.K., redemption, sadness, sin, technology

Photo credit: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2013/09/23/louis-ck-texting-driving_n_3974759.html

I was talking to a parent recently about the challenges of raising children.  She reminded me of an awesome interview by Louis C.K. with Conan O’Brien.  The interview itself is funny and, as fair warning, quite crass (do not watch it with impressionable ears nearby – the link can be found here).  But what struck me about the interview is what I would label as pretty powerful theology by Louis C.K.  In his interview, he argues that we use technology to fill our time so that we can avoid the reality that there are parts of life that are tremendously sad and times when we feel utterly alone.  He further argues that by filling up that dark space and not allowing ourselves to fully experience that deep sadness, we never get to true happiness.

I was struck this week about how appropriate Louis C.K.’s words are for the Lenten experience.  I have a couple of parishioners who really dislike Lent and find it horribly depressing.  In some ways I agree with them.  Lent is somewhat depressing, and for some odd reason, that is what I like about Lent.  I never could fully explain that reality until I heard this interview.  What Louis C.K. points out is that sometimes we really need to go to those dark places.  Otherwise, we can never really find the true, deeply abiding happy places too.

In the Episcopal Church, The Catechism in the back of our Book of Common Prayer says this about sin:

Q:  What is sin?
A:  Sin is the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God, thus distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation.
Q:  How does sin have power over us?
A:  Sin has power over us because we lose our liberty when our relationship with God is distorted.
Q:  What is redemption?
A:  Redemption is the act of God which sets us free from the power of evil, sin, and death.
(BCP 848-849)

Lent gives us the opportunity to really examine our own sinfulness – the ways in which we have distorted our relationship with God, other people, and all creation.  Many of my friends have given up some form of technology for Lent – by not checking Facebook, taking Sabbaths from TV or the internet, or putting down their cell phones at certain points of the day.  My guess is that their discipline will create room for them to contemplate their sinfulness, or as Louis C.K. might say, their “forever empty.”  My prayer for them is that their practice leads to an ability to find their way back to God, who redeems us and helps us find that true happiness.  I am curious about how you are journeying into your own “forever empty” this Lent, and I look forward to hearing how that journey leads to the light.