Sermon – Acts 1.15-17, 21-26, E7, YB, May 16, 2021

Tags

apostles, bishop, discernment, disciples, election, Episcopal, God, goodness, grace, Holy Spirit, Jesus, prayer, Sermon, trust, will

I have sometimes daydreamed about the experience of liturgical freedom:  picking and choosing the scripture for a given Sunday (particularly when I need to address a specific issue), praying an extemporaneous prayer on a Sunday to address a certain topic in the church, or drafting our own liturgical experience to address a particular need.  However, as crazy as the idea may sound, I more often find freedom within our Episcopal constraints than within the endless possibilities of what could be. 

This past week was a classic example.  Last Sunday, totally unaware of the announcement I would be making on Tuesday, Bob preached about the invitation of the Resurrection being an invitation into discernment – discernment about what each of us needs to do to bring about the kingdom here on earth.  On Tuesday night, our regularly scheduled Discover Class topic, which was scheduled months ago, was focused on the structure and leadership model of the Episcopal Church, including who bishops are and how they are elected.  Then today, we get this lesson from the Acts of the Apostles in which Peter and the other apostles are attempting to replace the twelfth spot Judas left open through his death.  All that daydreaming about constructing our spiritual experiences went out the window this week when I remembered the Holy Spirit does a much better job at constructing those experiences than I ever could!

To say that this portion of the Acts of the Apostles is a divine gift is not necessarily because we happen to be talking about a bishop’s election this week just as the apostles are talking about an election of sorts.  In fact, what the apostles are doing is the opposite of an election.  No one asks Matthias or Justus to go through an interview process or offer their vision of leadership for the next decade.  Instead, their criteria are pretty simple.  First, the replacement should be someone who knows Jesus personally.  Second, they want to honor their ancestral roots in the twelve tribes of Israel – eleven apostles will not suffice.[i]  Third, their decision is rooted in prayer.  And finally, their decision is based on trust in the will of God.  Nowadays, we might think the casting of lots is a little too random and could lead to a poor appointment of leadership – I mean when was the last time we selected a Rector, Warden, or Committee Chair by flipping a coin?  But according to New Testament scholar Kathy Grieb, the casting of lots is “an ancient biblical practice for determining God’s will…”[ii]

Hearing about all the coincidences in our last week, from talking about discernment, to the structure of the Episcopal Church, to the selection of the last apostle, may be intriguing or even amusing, but may also leave you asking, “So, what?  What does all of this have to do with me or my experience of Hickory Neck, or even more broadly, with Jesus?”  As I have reflected on these coincidences – or as Carl Jung referred to them as instances of “synchronicity” or “meaningful coincidence”[iii] – I see an invitation for all of us from Peter.  First is an invitation to recall our identity.  We are a community whose historic identity has been about weathering change – whether it was the identity crisis created by the Revolutionary War, the replacement of a faith community by schools and hospitals for over a century, to reclaiming and expanding our land to become a church again, to surviving a global pandemic.  The possibility of a change in clergy – a very small possibility at that – does not alter the fact that we are a community rooted in Jesus’ love, shining our light on this Holy Hill for almost three centuries.  Second is an invitation into prayer:  prayer for the Hickory Neck Community, prayer for your Rector, and prayer for the Diocese of Iowa and the other candidates.  Our hurt, our frustration, our fear, and our joy can be left at the feet of Christ in prayer.  When given the space, prayer can do much more than we can imagine.  And finally, our invitation this week is to trust in God.  We may not always like what God does – I am pretty sure the apostles would much rather have not been trying to figure out a leadership model in Jesus’ absence.  But we do know that God is faithful, and, in time, God leads us to goodness and grace.  I do not know where the next couple of months will lead us.  But I do know if we can stay rooted in our identity, in prayer, and in our faith in God, we will come out stronger disciples for Jesus, strengthened to take on whatever “meaningful coincidences” the Holy Spirit throws our way.  Amen.

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[i] Noel Leo Erskine, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 528.

[ii] A. Katherine Grieb, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 531.

[iii] Carl G. Jung, Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle (Princeton:  Princeton University Press, 2012), 44, as cited at https://artsofthought.com/2020/05/30/carl-jung-synchronicity/ on May 14, 2021.

Sermon – Matthew 25.31-46, P29, YA, November 22, 2020

Tags

Christ the King, crisis, election, God, Good News, Jesus, mend, pain, pandemic, peace, Sermon, Thanksgiving, weary

Once upon a time, “there was a cobbler who lived alone in his shop with one window that looked out on the street.  His wife and children had all died and he asked God, “Holy One why have you so long delayed your coming?  I have almost given up hope in seeing you.  Please come to my humble shop this day and show me your face.”

Outside on the street the cold winter brought snow.  Through his window he saw a beggar who shivered in the cold.  The cobbler invited the beggar into the shop to warm him and offer a meager meal from his shrinking larder.  The beggar thanked him and left.

As the day passed, a few customers came with repairs they needed for their shoes and harnesses.  A young boy sought shelter from the cold and snow.  The child’s feet were wrapped in old dirty rags and stuffed with paper.  Into the shop he invited the boy.  After making him some warm milk and a sandwich from the little food he had he went to his closet and found a pair of shoes that [had] belonged to his son.  He fit the shoes to the boy.  Grateful, the boy left with a promise to return to visit him.

It was approaching dusk and the cobbler despaired of a visit from the Lord.  A woman with her young babe appeared in front of the window.  She was dressed in a thin piece of cloth and she looked as if she might freeze to death.  The cobbler invited her into his shop.  Wary of the old man, she hesitated at the door, but feeling the warmth within she stepped across the threshold.  The cobbler made her some tea and went to his closet to find a heavy woolen cloak that [had] belonged to his wife.  Giving her the cloak the woman thanked him and after he shared the rest of his larder with her, she left with the child.

The sun descended and left the cobbler bereft.  “Why didn’t you come and visit me today,” the cobbler asked?  There was a voice that spoke to him in his humble shop:  “But I did come to you.  When you invited in the beggar, the boy, and the mother and her child, I was there with you.  In each of their faces you looked into my eyes.”[i]

I don’t know about you, but the last eight months have been exhausting.  Every week I look at the lessons and newspaper and hope for some good news – some glimpse of the face of Jesus.  But every week, the news somehow seems worse.  This week has been no different, with suffering hitting us at both the macro and micro levels.  Our country is in an existential crisis about the Presidential election.  Although many commentators seem to think things will work out, at question is the very foundation of democracy – elections where the votes of the people matter and where the peaceful, respectful exchange of power can happen.  We have managed to successfully do this for over two hundred years, and somehow, this year we cannot seem to hold to our founding principles.  Meanwhile, on the micro level, we are approaching a national holiday of Thanksgiving – a holiday characterized by the gathering of peoples around a table, not unlike our own Eucharistic feast.  And yet, flights are being cancelled, car keys are being put down, and painful calls of cancellation are being made.  Once again, this pandemic is crushing our rituals, forcing us to stay apart from one another.

So, when I picked up the Biblical texts for today, remembering this is Christ the King Sunday, I could not have been more relieved.  I am ready for the shepherd of Ezekiel who seeks out the lost, binds up the wounded, and feeds us on the good pasture – all while destroying the fat sheep and feeding them justice!  I am ready for the Psalmist’s invitation to bow down before the Lord our Maker – the king above all gods, the one in whose hands are the caverns of the earth, the heights of the hills, the sea, and the dry lands!  I want to hear the beauty of the song, King of Glory, King of Peace.  I want a god who will take all of this away – the strife, fighting, suffering, weariness, and make everything better.  I want to see Christ the King!

But nothing is ever easy with Jesus.  When we call out for Jesus, Jesus tells us in the gospel today that he is already here – here with us when we feed the hungry, sate the thirsty, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, and visit the sick and imprisoned.  To our wearied selves, who just want a victorious king to fix things, our king reminds us today that relief is not found in power grabs and punishments.  As the founder of The Catholic Worker, Peter Maurin, once explained, the social policy Jesus gives us for the renewal of the world is works of mercy.[ii] 

Our lives right now are upended.  Even doing the literal work of the cobbler from that story may not seem possible in these times of social distancing.  But the good news we hear today is peace will not come from powerful, political overpowering.  Peace and relief in these times will come from loving the vulnerable, tending the weak, serving those suffering more deeply than we can imagine.  Like the cobbler in his grief, we may not be able to see those in need in this pandemic.  But they are there, with us, every day.  And it is there, we will see the face of Jesus.  There, God will soothe our pain.  There, the Holy Spirit will mend our weariness.  There is our peace.  Thanks be to God. 

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[i] Leo Tolstoy, “Martin the Cobbler,” as retold by Bob Stuhlmann in “Goat Cheese And Starfish: For November 23, 2014,” posted on November 18, 2014, as found at http://storiesfromapriestlylife.wordpress.com/2014/11/18/goat-cheese-and-starfish-for-november-232014/ on November 20, 2020.

[ii] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew:  Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 212.

Sermon – Leviticus 19.1-2, 15-18, Matthew 22.34-46, P25, YA, October 25, 2020

Tags

Bible, election, faith, generosity, giving, God, image of God, Jesus, Leviticus, love, neighbor, pandemic, relationship with God, Sermon

This summer when we were doing our 90-Day Bible Challenge, many of our readers dreaded reading Leviticus.  We read all the fun stories of Genesis and Exodus, and then for chapter after chapter of Leviticus we had to read about how to make sacrifices, what numerical formula to use for different kinds of worship of God, the differences between burnt offerings, grain offerings, fellowship offerings, sin offerings, guilt offerings.  All the momentum of reading came to a screeching halt.  In fact, a seminarian once said of Leviticus, “I never realized I could fall asleep on a treadmill until I did so while trying to read Leviticus.”[i]

For the most part, our wariness of Leviticus is warranted.  But the reading we get from Leviticus today is from the chapter that likely helps us understand why all the other monotony is so important.  You see Leviticus focuses on how to be in right relationship with God.  All those repetitive instructions are meant to do what our reading today finally gets to:  to tell us we can be holy because God is holy.  All those instructions about worship are meant to enrich our relationship with God – to help us see what being holy before the Holy One looks like.  But this particular chapter does not just focus on that vertical relationship with God.  Chapter nineteen of Leviticus introduces something new – our horizontal relationship with one another.  You shall love your neighbor as yourself.  This too is what holiness looks like.

Of course, this should sound familiar.  In our gospel lesson today, when Jesus is asked what commandment is the greatest, Jesus pulls from his Jewish roots and the lessons of Hebrew Scriptures.  “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind,” a text straight out of Deuteronomy, and, he says, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself,” a text straight out the Leviticus text we read today.  As people of faith, we balance the vertical and the horizontal – one cannot be true, full, or authentic to one without the other. 

That concept is so simple, our eyes can begin to glaze over like all readers of Leviticus.  Love God, and love neighbor – got it!  Simple enough.  But there is nothing simple about this summary of the law and prophets.  All we need to do is look around us and see how hard these commands are.  Seven months into a pandemic, with cases rising again, our nation in political upheaval around issues of racial injustice, and a national election that has us so divided we cannot even conceive of loving anyone who advocates for the “other” candidate – whichever the other one is for you.  With each passing month of this pandemic, coming to God in reverence and praise sometimes feels impossible because all we feel is anger, frustration, and fatigue towards God – not holiness.  And forget about loving our neighbors – unless, of course, we mean loving our neighbors who agree with us, who are willing to bash the other side with us, who have done enough discernment to know our political position is the holy one.  As each day gets us closer to this election, Leviticus’ words about not slandering others, not seeking vengeance or bearing grudges, makes loving all our neighbors seem impossible.

So what do we do?  With all these feelings of impossible holiness, do we give up or stop trying?  In facing these feelings, Barbara Brown Taylor says, “Made in the image of God, human beings share in God’s holiness.  God has placed within them what they need to do God’s will.  God has furthermore placed them in communities of support, giving them teachings to guide them in their life together.  Wherever sinfulness comes from and whatever drives [sinfulness], [sinfulness] is less fundamental to human nature than holiness.  People can be sinful, but the Lord their God is not sinful.  People can be holy, for the Lord their God is holy.”[ii]   All the things that feel impossible now – loving God fully (despite our misgivings) and loving our neighbors fully (the ones we actually love and the ones we love to hate) is possible because we are made in the image of God – we share in God’s holiness.

I think that is why I am so grateful we are in stewardship season right now.  As we gather financial commitment cards today, we are claiming something about the resources God has given us.  We are taking our resources and investing them in our vertical relationship with God and our horizontal relationship with one another and our neighbors beyond these walls.  We commit to giving not because we are capable of generosity alone – we give because our God and this community inspire faith-filled generosity.  We look at a world that seems impossibly flawed and messy and say, “Yes.  I am holy because the Lord my God is holy.  My giving is a sign of my sharing in God’s holiness.”  Giving may not feel easy in this time of upheaval, in this time of economic turmoil, but giving is our way of saying, “I cannot do this alone, but with this community I am committing to faith-filled generosity.  I trust Hickory Neck will walk with me as I claim my holiness.”  Even though we are scattered, even though some of us are visiting this campus today, either for a quick drive-thru or a full service, and some of us cannot be here until a vaccine is available, we celebrate the holiness of one another today, the holiness of our God, and the holiness of our neighbors – all our neighbors.  Only in seeing that holiness can we be liberated to live lives of faith-filled generosity.  Amen.

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[i] Kathryn M. Schifferdecker, “Commentary on Leviticus 19:1-2, 15-18,” October 25, 2020, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=4626 on October 22, 2020.

[ii] Barbara Brown Taylor, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Volume 4 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 195, 197.

Sermon Luke 21.5-19, Isaiah 65.17-25, P28, YC, November 13, 2016

Tags

church, disagree, diversity, election, Episcopal Church, ethics, God, Jesus, kingdom of God, kingdom of man, love, Messiah, politics, Sermon, vote

One of the things you will learn about me as we grow together is that I generally avoid politics in the pulpit.  I avoid talking about politics because one of the blessings of the Episcopal Church is that we represent a wide range of political viewpoints.   Though some would like to categorize our church as liberal because of some of our national Church decisions, our membership is diverse.  Most of the time our diversity is a gift.  Our diversity means that we cannot become an echo chamber, always preaching to the proverbial choir.  We will have differences of opinion, we will argue and debate about how scripture is applied in modern life, and we will be forced to agree to disagree when we come to the table each week.  We are one of the rare denominations who walk that fine line well, and that ability is one of the things I love about the Episcopal Church.

The curse of our diversity means that we will rarely be on the same page about an issue on any given Sunday.  That reality is most glaringly obvious on a Sunday like this one:  the first Sunday after one of the most contentious elections in modern history.  As I step into this pulpit today, I am aware that there are people in this room who feel like we made a good decision on Tuesday – a decisive vote to do business differently on a national level.  I am aware that there are people in this room who are gravely disappointed by the decision we made on Tuesday.  They feel a range of emotions, including sadness, disappointment, hurt, anger, fear, and threat.  I am also aware that there are people in this room who do not put too much credence in what happened Tuesday.  They may have voted, but they did not feel like there were any good options, and so they were resigned to be dissatisfied with whatever the outcome would be.

The trouble with our scripture lessons from Luke and Isaiah today is that they tempt us to conflate what has happened in our political sphere this week with the kingdom of God.  Teaching at the Temple, Jesus predicts the destruction of the Temple.  When asked when this will take place and what the signs will be, Jesus’ answer is dire.  He warns of false prophets; wars and insurrections; nations rising up against each other; earthquakes, famines, and plagues; betrayals by family and friends; and personal arrests and persecutions.  Conversely, Isaiah prophesies of the coming kingdom:  where there will be no weeping or distress; people will live into old age; people will stay on their land and their fruits will prosper; and the wolf and the lamb will feed together.  We could look at these two worlds – the world of destruction and judgment and the world of the peaceful kingdom and easily say, “Well because my candidate won or lost, we will be dealing with either the day of doom or the day of the peaceful kingdom.”  The scripture today tantalizingly tempts us to look at these last five days and say with either dread or joy, “The kingdom of God has come near.”  But I would argue that that kind of conflating is not only false, but also ascribes too much power to humans.

Eight years ago, I voted for Barak Obama.  I remember feeling like he could bring us into a new era.  He talked about hope, and I felt filled with a sense of hope and renewal.  He made a lot of promises, many of which felt in line with what I would call gospel living.  When he took office, I remember holding on to that sense of hope.  I should not have been surprised years later when I became disappointed with some of Obama’s decisions.  My idyllic sense of hope began to deflate, and I remember several people talking about how disappointed they were – as if Obama was a false prophet or failed messiah.  As soon as that rhetoric surfaced, I realized the fatal flaw of my vote of confidence in Obama.  I had placed Obama in the role of Messiah – someone who would bring about the reign of God.  Suddenly, I realized how unfair, and quite frankly, unchristian, that expectation was.  Obama would never be the Messiah I wanted because I already had a Messiah.  No president could ever represent Christ effectively, because we only have one Messiah.  Not until I had that realization was I able to see politics a little differently.  Though I strongly encourage us all to be involved in the political life of our country, and I also strongly encourage us to use our Christian ethics as a moral compass in electing officials, I am also keenly aware that no political servant can ever be a messiah, because every political servant is a flawed human, just like you and me.  Likewise, I am also ever more aware that Jesus was not a Democrat or a Republican, because political parties are made up of flawed human beings with flawed abilities to fully represent the gospel of Jesus Christ.

So where does that leave us?  Are we supposed to step back from political activism if the political system is inherently flawed?  Scholars have debated this issue for centuries.  In their book Resident Aliens, Stanley Hauerwas and Will Willimon argued that Christians should be in the world, but not of the world.  They argued that, “The Confessing church does not take as its primary aim the transformation of the world through the political route of the State.  Instead, [the Church] seeks to transform the world by creating a counterculture of people who live under the reign of Jesus.  In this counterculture ‘people are faithful to their promises, love their enemies, tell the truth, honor the poor, suffer for righteousness, and thereby testify to the amazing community-creating power of God.  The confessing church has no interest in withdrawing from the world, but it is not surprised when its witness evokes hostility from the world’ (46).  In doing so this counterculture church becomes the people of the cross, demonstrating God’s love for the world.  The most ‘effective’ thing the church can do is to become the ‘actual creation of a living, breathing, visible community of faith’ (46) in a hostile world.”[i]

Here is what I know:  the kingdom of man is not like the kingdom of God.  I say that not as an excuse to hide in a bubble, but as a salve for our wounded spirits when we see how far apart the kingdom of man can be from the kingdom of God.  We could leave church today with our hands thrown up in the air, feeling like the two are different and there is nothing we can do to change it.  But that is not what Hauerwas, Willimon, or even Jesus want from us today.  In Jesus’ prediction of doom and personal persecution, Jesus also says something simple and almost comical.  He says, “This will give you an opportunity to testify.”[ii]  Our political system is not perfect.  We are not a perfect country.  We hurt each other and we suffer at the hand of one another.  But that lack of perfection and the presence of hurt is no excuse to not work on bringing about the kingdom of God here on earth.  The prophecy of Isaiah is not some pie-in-the-sky dream about what happens when we die.  The coming of Jesus meant the inbreaking of the kingdom here on earth.  In Christ’s absence, our work is turning this kingdom of man into the kingdom of God.  The vision from Isaiah is just that:  a vision for us to align our steps, and to do our work.  The vision of Isaiah is not a Republican vision or a Democrat vision.  The vision of Isaiah is the vision of God:  of taking “the original creation that the Divine called good,” and “transforming that creation into something new.”[iii]

After this contentious election, I would love to tell you that everything will be okay – that God will magically make things right.  But Jesus tells us today that he needs us to do our work.  When Jesus tells those gathered that they will have the opportunity to testify, he also tells them, “make up your minds not to prepare your defense in advance; for I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict.”[iv]  Things will be bad before the kingdom of God reigns over the kingdom of man.  Our political systems are not capable or perhaps even interested in bringing about the reign of God.  That work is ours to do.  But Jesus promises that he will be with us, giving us the words as we work, empowering us to right the ills of this world, strengthening us for work of kingdom making.  And you are in the right place this morning to prepare yourself for that work.  Today and every Sunday we offer you the chance to cry out to God, to confess your own complicity with sin, to learn and be formed into a disciple of Christ, to be strengthened with the holy meal, and then to get back out there in the work of bringing about the kingdom of God.  If you need to linger today a little longer at the altar rail, with your anger or your grief at what happened this week, by all means do it.  If you are emboldened by what happened this week, then take that sense of victory and turn it into kingdom work.  But before you leave today, remember that each of us, in all our diverse opinions and experiences are needed to testify and help each other testify.  We need each other and our Messiah, the Christ.  He will give us the words when the time comes so that we can create a world where the lion and the lamb feast together.  Amen.

[i] Steven Kopp, “Book Summary: Resident Aliens by Stanley Hauerwas,” August 21, 2015, as found at https://slasherpastor.wordpress.com/2015/08/21/book-summary-resident-aliens-by-stanley-hauerwas/ on November 11, 2016.  The page numbers are page citations from Hauerwas and Willimon’s book.

[ii] Luke 21.13.

[iii] Mary Eleanor Johns, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 290.

[iv] Luke 21.14-15.

On Saints, Elections, and God…

Tags

altar, church, election, God, liturgy, messiness, saints, worship

This past Sunday, I got to try on one of Hickory Neck’s traditions.  For the past several years, every All Saints Sunday, the congregation has been invited to tie a ribbon on the altar rail in honor of saints who have gone before.  To be honest, before our liturgies started, I was not sure how the liturgical action would go.  I had imagined all sorts of reasons it might be awkward:  I didn’t think our early, reserved worshipers would be that interested; I worried that the ribbons would be messy, making communion at the rail difficult; I wondered if the symbolism would work in our space.  Happily, I was wrong on all accounts.

Instead, the liturgical symbolism was potent.  As I watched countless people kneel at the rail, tying on the ribbons, many with tears streaming down their faces, I realized how easy it is for me to forget the pain of grief that people struggle with every day.  When we see a well-dressed person at church on Sunday, we forget that there is a unique, sometimes painful story underneath appearances.  As I looked at ribbons draped on the altar rail, I imagined the bodies of the saints, draped on the entrance of the heavenly banquet, having given their lives to love and witness.  As my mind struggled with the messiness of the rail, my heart could see the messiness of life, clinging to the very altar where we kneel not just for solace and pardon, but for strength and renewal.  The liturgical action created a beautiful moment that was overwhelmingly powerful.

Today, I woke up to the news of election returns. Being a pastor of a diverse congregation, I know there are hearts that are relieved, hearts that are satisfied, and hearts that are saddened, fearful, and disappointed.  As I process that reality today, I am reminded of those ribbons, dripping from the altar of church.  I am reminded of the saints that have gone before, who have waded through their own times of conflict.  I am reminded of the fact that on Sunday, each worshiper will be bringing a story to the altar that I will never know fully.  I am reminded of the fact that our church offers a rail where we all kneel or stand, in all of life’s messiness, longing for something bigger and with greater meaning than we can give each other in our limited humanity.

As I got ready for the day this morning, my two-year old sat in the floor of our bedroom with some books.  I was still processing that image of All Saints Day when I heard her singing from one of her books.  “He’s got my brothers and my sisters in his hands…he’s got the whole world in his hands.”  Her sweet voice brought me to tears as I realized the deep wisdom in her, perhaps unintended, words.  In this messiness of life, there will be days that are really complicated, confusing, and hard.  But as a person of faith, I also trust that the Lord our God is holding us in God’s hands, tending not just to me, but to my brothers and my sisters.  For today, that is all I can ask for.

Photo credit:  He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands, Kadir Nelson.  Photo found at http://www.walkingbytheway.com/blog/picture-books-for-transracial-adoptive-families/