Sermon – Mark 9.30-37, P20, YB, September 19, 2021

Tags

creative, design thinking, faith, fear, Five Whys, God, innovation, innovative, Jesus, Messiah, Peter, problem, relationship, Savior, seekers, Sermon, solving, stuck, thinking, truth, why

This spring I took a class on Design Thinking.  Technically speaking, “Design thinking is a non-linear, iterative process that teams use to understand users, challenge assumptions, redefine problems and create innovative solutions to prototype and test.”[i]  In layman’s terms, design thinking is a non-traditional way of getting to innovative idea.  Within design thinking are several methods to help people get out of their traditional ways of thinking.  One of my favorites is The Five Whys Method.  You start with a problem, and you ask why the problem is happening.  Then you look at the first “why?” and ask the question again.  Why is that answer happening.  And on and on until you get to the root of the issue[ii] – almost like peeling layers off an onion.  At first, the Five Whys feel a little silly.  But the more you play with the method, the faster you realize the problem you are looking at is not the actual problem.  And when you finally hit the right answer, you may be surprised by how uncomfortably honest the answer is.

 In our gospel lesson today, the disciples clearly have never heard of the Five Whys Method.  In fact, when Jesus, privately teaching the disciples, tells them he will be betrayed, killed, and will rise again on the third day, the disciples say nothing.  The text tells us they do not understand Jesus, and they are “afraid to ask him.”  They are afraid to ask why.  They are afraid to go beyond that first layer of the onion because they do not even like the layer in front of them.  We talked last week about how Peter tried to discourage Jesus from this same fate:  because a Messiah is not supposed to suffer and die – a Messiah is supposed to free them from oppressive power.[iii] 

We can understand their fear.  When taking that class on design thinking I practiced the method using a challenge we were facing at Hickory Neck.  To be honest, I do not even remember the actual presenting problem.  But what I do remember was getting the answer to the third why.  When I answered why to that third question, the answer took my breath away.  I was mortified and ashamed:  surely that was not the answer to the problem.  As I stood stunned at the words that had just come out of my mouth, and after some awkward silence, my partner asked me again, “Okay.  But why?”  As I shook off my paralysis and answered the fourth why, I started getting some more honest clarity.  By the time I got to the fifth why, I was sold on the method.  The method helped me name the thing I could not name just staring at presenting problem.

After the conversation with the disciples, Jesus introduces a child into the teaching with the disciples.  Scholars have many theories about the introduction.  Thousands of years ago, children were not regarded with honor.  As Sharon Ringe explains, “A child did not contribute much if anything to the economic value of a household or community, and a child could not do anything to enhance one’s position in the struggles for prestige or influence.  One would obtain no benefit from according to a child the hospitality or rituals of honor or respect that one might offer to someone of higher status…”[iv]  Most scholars agree Jesus does not introduce children because they are cute and to be loved (even if they are!).  But I wonder if Jesus, having known a few children, knew that children are particularly adept at asking, “why?”  Any of you who has known a preschooler has known the incessant way they can ask the question, “why?”  And as children age, the question does not stop:  the question just gets increasingly uncomfortable.  I think Jesus knew the disciples were stuck on their own conceptions of the Messiah and their role in the divine narrative, and Jesus wanted them to start probing why that narrative mattered to them.  Jesus wanted them to start peeling back the narratives, but saw they were afraid of truth.

That is our invitation today.  Our gospel scene is an invitation for us into deeper, more honest, more probing relationship with Jesus.  Instead of taking our relationship with Jesus at face value, instead of being afraid of hard questions, instead of being afraid of scary answers, our invitation today is to engage in our faith in the same way we engage in innovative thinking:  to keep asking the whys over and over again.  The good news is we have a community of seekers who can ask those whys with us and hold us in the uncomfortable answers until we get clarity.  The good news is we have tools to help overcome our fear and silence, and kids in our community who will keep us honest.  The good news is we have a Savior who is willing to engage with us in a brutally honest, yet radically salvific relationship.  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

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[i] Teo Yu Siang, “Design Thinking,” Interaction Design Foundation, as found at https://www.interaction-design.org/literature/topics/design-thinking on September 18, 2021.

[ii] iSixSigma-Editorial, “Determine the Root Cause: 5 Whys,” as found at https://www.isixsigma.com/tools-templates/cause-effect/determine-root-cause-5-whys/ on September 18, 2021. 

[iii] N.T. Wright, Mark for Everyone (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 122.

[iv] Sharon H. Ringe, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 97.

Sermon – Mark 7.1-8, 14-15, 21-23, P17, YB, August 29, 2021

Tags

actions, church, community, disciples, faith, identity, Jesus, membership, ritual, Sermon, words

My mom and stepdad have been longtime members of what many of us would call a megachurch – a very large United Methodist Church in Alabama. Having worshiped with them many times, the church truly is “mega”:  multiple services of varying styles, a professional band, a TV production company, a large youth center, an indoor playground, a coffee shop, a gym with fitness classes, and a big campus.  But the thing that impresses me most about their church is their clear sense of identity.  When my family started attending regularly, two people came to visit them in their home, and they had a very frank conversation about expectations for membership.  At that meeting my mom and her husband were asked to commit to at least one ministry each, were asked about what kind of education they wanted to join, and they were asked to tithe – to make a commitment to give 10% of their earnings to the church, as is the Biblical tradition. 

I remember when my mom told me this story having a visceral reaction:  that would have felt WAY to “pressure-y” for most Episcopalians.  But as time has passed, I have come to admire their church’s clarity.  The Episcopal Church does a poor job of defining membership.  Our commitment to professing “All are welcome!” seems to translate into no defining characteristics of membership.  In fact, as a priest, one of the questions I dread the most is “How do I join your church?”  That should be a very easy question, and yet when I talk to new members, the answer has to be two-fold:  the technical answer (as long as you attend three services a year and are a financial contributor, you’re considered a member – the answer from the wider Episcopal Church which I loathe!), and the more practical answer we have crafted here at Hickory Neck:  you fill out a form, you commit to supporting the church financially, you commit to feeding yourself (through study, prayer, regular worship), and you commit to feeding others (through giving your time to the church and to the wider community on behalf of the church). 

Our gospel lesson today seems to be wading through a similar debate.  The Pharisees and scribes are totally perplexed by how some of Jesus’ disciples are not washing their hands before eating – a totally valid concern in these days of COVID!  But handwashing was not just about hygiene.  The ritual washing of hands was about identity, or “membership” as we understand it today.  The Jews of this time are in an “oppressed minority, living in an occupied land.”  Their question is asked with the backdrop of colonialism, cultural and religious diversity, and competing claims on identity.[i]    Their question is both simple and complex:  why aren’t the disciples living like members of our community? 

For many a reader of this text, all sorts of erroneous conclusions have been drawn – primarily the antisemitic understanding that the laws of the Jews are superseded by laws of Jesus.[ii]  But that is not what is happening in this text.  Jesus does not have any issue with ritual cleansing:  he of all people understands the consequences of following God.  But Jesus is saying something more nuanced about identity and membership.  Jesus is saying that no matter how we traditionally mark ourselves as “other,” even if something is “the way we’ve always done it,” what is more important is how we live our faith.  So, if we are doing all the right things:  washing our hands the right way, bowing at all the right times, crossing ourselves when we’re supposed to, saying “Amen” during the sermon – or avoiding saying “Amen” during the sermon – none of that matters if our insides are defiled.  As Jesus quotes from Isaiah, “This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me…”[iii] 

Today’s invitation is to ponder what membership in this body of faith means.  Are we honoring Jesus with our lips, but our hearts are far from Jesus?  Are we following the external “rules” but fostering evil intentions in our heart?  Our work this week is making sure that when we go out into the world to love and serve the Lord, we love and serve the Lord in ways that show people Christ through our words and actions; that when we wash our hands, we do not wash them simply to keep ourselves safe, but to keep our neighbors safe; and that when we talk about how much we love this church on the hill, we do so in a way that does not show mask our individual struggles with avarice, deceit, slander, pride, and folly.  Telling the world you are a proud member of Hickory Neck Episcopal Church is just fine; but our invitation is to be clear with others that, as that old tune says, “He’s still working on me,” is also a part of membership in the body of Christ.  Amen. 

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[i] Debie Thomas, “True Religion,” August 22, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2944 on August 27, 2201.

[ii] Idea suggested by Matt Skinner on the Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#799: 14th Sunday after Pentecost (Ord. 22B) – Aug. 29, 2021,” August 22, 2021, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/799-14th-sunday-after-pentecost-ord-22b-aug-29-2021 on August 25, 2021.

[iii] Mark 7.6b.

Sermon – Job 38.1-11, Mark 4.35-41, P7, YB, June 20, 2021

Tags

baptism, discipleship, faith, God, honest, Jesus, Job, journey, real, Sermon, suffering, support

One of the disadvantages of being flexible about baptism dates is we follow the Revised Common Lectionary – assigned readings for each Sunday.  Sometimes the lessons work out, but today’s lessons are a little strange when we think about what baptizing little Nelly means.  We enter the book of Job today toward the end, when after almost forty chapters of lamenting to God about Job’s suffering, God finally answers Job.  And God’s answer is one of indignation –anger that Job would dare question God’s sovereignty and power.  Meanwhile, in the gospel lesson, we have this odd interaction, where Jesus clearly performs a miracle, but then scolds the disciples for lacking faith.

The lessons from Job and Mark can be read with the lens of shame.  Often when I teach about Job, I use Job as a model for what having an authentic relationship with God means – to bear one’s hurts and pain honestly to God is part of being faithful.  But the response of Yahweh today is a response of putting Job in his place, lest he think intimacy with the Lord means equality with the Lord.  Meanwhile, amid a violent storm, the disciples are terrified and cry out to Jesus.  And although Jesus cares for their needs, he also scolds the disciples for their lack of faith.  As the ambassador of love, this version of Jesus can make us uncomfortable – Jesus seems harsh, unforgiving, and judgmental.

So are these lessons a bust for a day like today?  I do not really think so.  One of the things we do in the baptism service is promise to raise Nelly in the life of faith.  We commit to forming her in a faith community, to teaching her about the love and life of Jesus, and to equipping her to own her faith as she matures.  She cannot make these commitments for herself, and so we – her family, her godparents, and her church community – promise to help her until she can choose her faith for herself. 

Given that reality, Job suddenly seems like the perfect lesson for today.  When I think to the Nelly who will experience all the pressures and anxieties of adolescence, the Nelly who will face all the doubts and questions of young adulthood, and the Nelly who will walk through grief and loss in her later adulthood, I want her to know about Job and his journey with God.  I want her to know she has an ancestor who lost everything, whose friends and family judged him, and who saw no hope for a long time.  I also want her to know that she can be honest and real with God, and that God will be honest and real with her – even when she needs to hear things she does not want to hear.  And I want her to know there is redemption promised – something we all learn later in Job’s story.

And if we are going to raise Nelly up in the life of faith, I also want her to know about the very real relationship between the disciples and Jesus.  The story we read today takes place before the disciples fully know who Jesus is.  Their confusion and fear are totally normal, even if Jesus is encouraging them to have more faith.  I love this text for today because the story gives Nelly permission to not have all the answers, to know she will have moments of question and doubt, and to understand that even if she has moments where she has no faith or is afraid, Jesus will calm the waters around her anyway. 

Today’s lessons are a blessing for Nelly and for all of us gathered here.  Although we might like to think today is about perfect pictures and white dresses, what today is really about is taking the first step in helping Nelly begin her own faith journey.  Our scripture lessons remind us that the journey will be full of lows and highs, of pain and joy, of doubt and faithfulness.  Our scripture lessons remind us that what we initiate today is a deep, intimate relationship with God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – one that is honest and real.  And our scripture lessons remind us we are not alone – we have a community of faith to support us, help us grow, and encourage us forward.  I cannot think of a better gift for Nelly – but I especially cannot think of a better gift for all of us!  Thanks be to God!  Amen.

On Barriers and Saying Yes…

Tags

abundance, baptism, connection, curiosity, discipleship, evangelism, faith, God, godparents, grace, Holy Spirit, Jesus, limits, liturgy, longing, sacred

Photo credit: https://aleteia.org/2020/03/30/how-laypeople-can-baptize-in-an-emergency/

On Sunday, we heard the story of the Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch.[i]  At one point in the story, the eunuch says, “What is to prevent me from being baptized?”  The question is simultaneously wonderful – how amazing to hear someone so inspired by the witness of Jesus that they want to baptized right away – and anxiety-making.  Episcopalians are very clear about our identity and our liturgical ways of doing things.  So certain is our identity, that I could imagine an Episcopalian responding to the eunuch, “Well, we need to sign you up for baptism class, and then find out when the next best baptismal feast day is on the liturgical calendar.  Once we get everything lined up, we’d be thrilled to schedule your baptism!”  Somehow, that response from Philip would not have made for such an enticing story about the power of evangelism and discipleship.

The eunuch’s words were ringing in my ears when I received a similar request recently.  One of our young parishioners lost her godfather to an unexpected death during COVID.  We were all devastated and grieved together.  But a few weeks ago, the family contacted me with a request.  They had already talked as a family about how her godfather would always be her godfather, even from heaven.  But they also wanted to appoint a new earthly godfather who could help their daughter grow in the life of faith.  And so, their question was, “Is there a way you can do that liturgically by Zoom?”

One answer could have been no; we do not have such a liturgy in our Prayer Book.  But the request was so pure and Spirit-led that I knew even a Prayer Book would not want to limit such grace and abundance.  And so, in consultation with some fellow clergy and liturgical resources, including the Book of Common Prayer, we cobbled together a beautiful liturgy.  We prayed for the godfather who had passed and the ways in which he would always be with us.  The godchild formally asked the godfather if he would be willing to be her earthly godfather.  We asked the normal questions we ask in a baptismal liturgy of the godfather, and then we all reaffirmed our Baptismal Covenant and prayed over the new “family” we had created – all via Zoom.  And although we were not in our beloved chapel, we created a profound, intimately sacred space together, where the Holy Spirit blessed us as a community.

When I think about those questions, “What is to prevent me from being baptized?” and “Can we designate a new godparent?” these are questions of curiosity and longing.  These are questions inspired by those seeking Christ and wanting a deeper connection to God.  If this pandemic has taught us anything, we have learned the ways in which the Holy Spirit is unbounded and can act – whether in a building, alongside a road, or online.  This week, I invite you to ponder what limits you have placed around your own connection to God – what barriers or rules have hindered your connection to the sacred.  How might you begin lessening your grip to allow room for encounters with the sacred?

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[i] Acts 8.26-40

Sermon – Job 14.1-14, HS, YB, April 3, 2021

Tags

Christian, church, community, disciples, drama, faith, Holy Saturday, hope, Jesus, Job, liturgy, pandemic, preparation, quiet, redemption, Savior, Sermon, silence, sorrow

Up until last year, I had not remembered that there was a liturgy in our Prayer Book for Holy Saturday.  I had always thought it was Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Vigil on Saturday night (which is basically just Easter), and then Easter Sunday.  But when the pandemic hit last year, we realized doing a virtual Easter Vigil just would not work – there is so much reading, singing, doing things by candlelight, and the drama of being huddled together that we had to let the Liturgy wait until we could gather again.  So instead, we turned to this tiny liturgy, whose entire content is listed on one page of the Book of Prayer Book.

Still in a pandemic a year later, I found myself curious about this liturgy we are entering once again.  The truth is, the earliest accounts of Holy Week observances had no liturgies for Holy Saturday, with the exception of private use of the daily office.[i]  Instead, this day has simply been known as the “quietest day of the Christian year.”[ii]  That the church has not always gathered on Holy Saturday and that Christians might see this day as a day of quiet makes a lot of sense.  The Church says so much this week – from our waving of palms last Sunday, to our gathering around the upper room table to wash feet and share bread, to devastating betrayals of Jesus, to the vivid walk toward the cross, to the finality of the closed tomb.  We almost need a day of quiet to let the drama sink in and wrap our heads around what this week means.

But I suspect if your life is anything like mine or most Americans, we are not sitting quietly in our homes from 3:00 pm on Friday until Easter morning.  Instead, we are filling the time with preparations – tending to all the things we did not do while we were attending church this week:  dying eggs, entertaining children, stuffing Easter baskets, prepping Easter day meals, cleaning the house, or just having fun.  There is nothing inherently wrong about those things, but this year, of all years, I am grateful for a Holy Saturday liturgy.  With this last year of suffering through a pandemic and reflecting on our broken humanity’s inability to eliminate racism or mend civil discourse, even with the rise of vaccines, I find our country is in a Holy Saturday kind of time.  We have been through a tumultuous experience and are not yet healed. 

That is why I like having Job as a companion today.  Job’s words are stark.  As Job sits in the ashes of his sorrows, having lost his children, his livelihood, and his support system, he describes the brutality of life.  He talks about how trees have hope – even when cut down, they can sprout again, and new life can be born out of death.  But not so with humans, he argues.  No, when their bodies lay in the ground, there is nothing but death.  Job captures the essence of this day.  There is a similar finality at the door of Jesus’ tomb this day.  All the hopes and dreams, all the joys and blessings, all the promises of new life are sealed away in a tomb.  And after such a violent death and the threat for those who followed Jesus, there is no wonder why the Church has considered this a quiet day.  Unlike the quiet waiting of Advent, when the church is brimming with expectation and bustling around in preparation for Christ’s birth, today is a day of silence devoid of restorative peacefulness.  As one scholar says, “The waiting of Advent is like having warm bread in the oven.  By contrast, the air of Holy Saturday smells more like stale smoke, as though something essential was burned the day before.”[iii]  As our lives are not yet pandemic free, and as threats of spikes in cases emerge, we know that kind of waiting all too well.

And yet, in the very last verse of today’s reading, the despondent Job says something totally counter to everything else he has said.  “If mortals die, will they live again?” Job asks.  For someone who has boldly proclaimed the finality of human death, his question is a question that only a person of faith can ask – a question that reveals the tiniest bit of hope still left in Job.  Job communicates in this question a truth we people of faith hold dear:  no matter how bad the suffering, no matter how prevalent the experience of dread and doom, no matter how deep the failures of humanity seem to run, there is always hope.  The disciples and community surrounding Jesus Christ do not know that hope yet.  But as followers of Christ 2000 years later, we now stake our entire identity on the risen savior. 

So yes, receive the gift of stale smoke this day.  Sit in ashes with Job and mourn all in your life that feels dead.  Take time in this busyness of life for some uneasy silence.  Name all those who have been lost due to disease and violence.  But keep asking the questions.  Hold on to the hope, however infinitesimally small that God can indeed redeem us – us as individuals, us as country, us as Church.  Holding the two in tension is difficult – we want to rush to Easter and forget all that has happened.  But letting the power of all that has happened speak to us today will allow us to know the astounding power of resurrection much more deeply tomorrow.  Job, Jesus, and this faith community here will pull up a chair and sit with you by the ashes until we can reap with tears of joy tomorrow.  Amen.

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[i] William Joseph Danaher, Jr., “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 310.

[ii] Christina Braudaway-Bauman, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 2 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 312.

[iii] Braudaway-Bauman, 312

Sermon – Jeremiah 31.31-34, L5, YB, March 21, 2021

Tags

abundant, comfort, covenant, exile, faith, God, hope, Jeremiah, Jesus, Lent, love, lovingkindness, pandemic, ruin, Sermon

I do not know about you, but I entered Lent this year already done.  We talked about this reality five weeks ago, back on Ash Wednesday, when I told you that it was okay if you did not give up something this Lent – because we have already given up so much in the last year.  We have already fasted what feels like twenty Lents during this pandemic.  And then this week happened.  We started out with the words of the Vatican, declaring that although our LGBTQ brothers and sisters were still to be loved and welcomed in Church, their “sinfulness” would not be blessed within the covenant of marriage by the Roman Catholic Church.  I cannot tell you the pain and suffering those words created this week for so many who live in faithful, loving relationships and marriages.  Then, just a few days ago, a man in Atlanta murdered people of Asian descent, sparking off conversations about the rise of hate crimes against Asian Americans since this pandemic began.  Our own Sacred Ground circle, the group studying the institution of racism in our country – not just towards blacks, but towards indigenous Americans, Latinos, and Asians – just finished its ten weeks of work; and yet within the same week we are talking about racism yet again.  And then this week, as administered vaccines slowly rise in James City County, I see people becoming lax about masking and social distancing, some folks in public spaces barely covering their faces.  Even the test positivity rate – the one whose decrease has allowed us to enact regathering plans – is creeping slowly toward the numbers that will shut us back down again. 

That is why I found myself gravitating to Jeremiah this week.  Part of the attraction is the good news of the text, but a larger part of my attraction is empathizing with the Israelites.  Jeremiah writes in a time of desperation for the people of God. The Babylonians have razed the temple and carried King Zedekiah off in chains.  Effectively, the Babylonians have “destroyed the twin symbols of God’s covenantal fidelity.”[i]  Sometimes we talk about the exile so much that I think we forget the heart-wrenching experience of exile.  Being taken from homes and forced to live in a foreign land is certainly awful enough.  But the things that were taken – the land of promise, the temple for God’s dwelling, the king offered for comfort to God’s people – are all taken, leaving not just lives in ruin, but faith in question. 

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

That is where I find hope this week.  Despite how broken we may feel because of this pandemic, despite how our nation seems incapable of not harming one another due to the color of our skin, despite the ways we seek to limit God’s love and abundance, God is relentless with God’s lovingkindness.  In Jeremiah’s text, when the Israelites have hit rock bottom, God turns not to vengeance or even a notion of just desserts.  God picks up the covenant of love, not relying on our hard work to be faithful, but declaring how God will simply put God’s law within us, will write God’s law of love on our hearts, will be our God and we will be God’s people.  In essence, nothing we can do will drive God from us.  And that, my friends, is good news indeed.  God sees us in all our fullness – light and shadow alike – and loves us anyway.  In this continued time of strain and strife, in this long night of COVID, God gives us good news.  As one scholar affirms, “God will bring newness out of destruction.  God will bring hope where there is no hope.  God will bring life out of death.  God will make a way where there is no way.”[iii]  Thanks be to God!

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

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

[iii] Floyd, 124.

On Being Tended in the Wilderness…

Tags

angels, change, community, faith, gathering, Jesus, pandemic, senses, tending, transformation, wilderness

Photo credit: https://www.markmallett.com/blog/the-desert-path/

This Sunday our church will regather in our building for the second time during this pandemic.  We will be masked, socially distanced, and observing all kinds of safety regulations.  In many ways it will not be the same.  The crowd will be much smaller than normal, we will not be able to hug or slide into a seat next to a dear friend (or soon-to-be friend).  We will not be able to sing, or kneel at the altar, or linger for conversation and coffee. 

But we will be back in a space so sacred that simply sitting in the chairs will bring a flood of memories and emotions.  We will be with people who have suffered through a long, hard year, just like us, and who are just as overwhelmed with gratitude as we are.  We will engage all the senses in worship:  hearing the word and music, seeing familiar and new sights, touching chairs we have not sat in for months, smelling the spring air floating across the room, and tasting the distinctive taste of a communion wafer. 

Five weeks ago, when we read the story of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness at the beginning of Lent, I am not sure we fully understood Jesus’ experience.  We certainly have a whole new appreciation for the literal experience of wilderness – the deprivation, separation, and desperation.  But I am not sure we have ever fully understood what it means to be tended by angels and to reenter society.  For me, I always thought of Jesus having gone through an ordeal, but essentially leaving the wilderness the same, albeit a bit stronger, person.  But having just marked the one-year anniversary of this pandemic, I am now keenly aware that no one who enters the wilderness ever exits the wilderness the same person. 

Similarly, though I am thrilled to see some of my people on Sunday, and I am honored to offer angelic-like care after a year of suffering, I know that when we finally exit this pandemic, we will be changed community.  We will be a community with an increased capacity for empathy and justice.  We will be community who is not just open to experimentation and creativity, but who demands the kind of nimbleness that will always keep us open to the movement of the Spirit.  We will be a community who is less married to our buildings and more married to creating sacred spaces wherever we find them – online, in homes, in the community just outside our property.  We will be a community who knows all the goodness we have found inside this church community does not belong inside our community, but outside in the world with those who need it.  As we gather in this hybrid time, we are not returning to who we were.  We are pausing in the wilderness to be tended by the angels.  And then, slowly but surely, we will walk unknown paths together, a stronger, nimbler, more faithful community.   

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 – Matthew 22.1-14, Isaiah 25.1-9, Psalm 23, P23, YA, October 11, 2020

Tags

discipleship, faith, feast, financial giving, garment, generosity, God, heavenly banquet, identity, Jesus, membership, Sermon, stewardship

The text we heard today from Isaiah is one of my favorites.  The text is commonly read at funerals because the text depicts the sumptuous heavenly feast:  a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.  The vivid, lavish image of the heavenly banquet is enough to calm our anxieties about our loved ones, but is also a comfort to us as we ponder our own mortality, and the feast that awaits us with our God.  Of course, feasts are a part of our faith vernacular from our Jewish roots.[i]  When we receive communion, we talk about the meal as being a foretaste of the heavenly banquet.  For many of us, not receiving communion these last seven months have been particularly difficult because the act of feasting on Christ’s body and blood is a weekly ritual that offers us promise, encouragement, and joy.

But as I read our others texts today, I began to realize that perhaps our rosy image of the heavenly banquet is not quite complete.  In our beloved twenty-third Psalm today, one also read at funerals, there is a tiny unsettling line in an otherwise soothing psalm.  The psalm says, “You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me,” or in our the much more familiar King James Version, “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”  Somehow that sumptuous feast becomes a little less satisfying knowing we have to share the feast with those who trouble us.  I can think of a lot of people right now that I have no desire to feast with in the life to come. 

And we cannot forget the wedding feast in our lesson from Matthew today.  As much as we like the allegory of all being welcomed at the king’s feast, where both “good and bad”[ii] are welcomed at God’s table, we are totally thrown by the king’s rejection of the man without proper clothing.  Our immediate reaction is condemnation:  surely if the king, if God, is inviting all in, something as superficial as what we wear should not lead to being cast out.  I mean, this is Hickory Neck after all – where bowties and jeans are equally welcome!  But before we get too bent out of shape, we need to realize Matthew is not talking about a literal wedding robe.  Matthew is talking about wearing the “baptismal garment of Christ, clothing oneself with the compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience of one who belongs in the kingdom.”[iii]  You see, although the welcome is broad, as Thomas Long explains, “being a part of the Christian community should make a discernible difference in who we are and how we live…there should be a sense of awe and responsiveness about belonging to the church, belonging to the community of Christ, being a child of the kingdom of heaven.”[iv]

As a priest within the Episcopal Church, I talk to newcomers of all kinds of backgrounds.  The most common question I get from this varied group is, “How do I become a member of the church?”  This is a reasonable question, and in other traditions the answers are very simple.  But the Episcopal Church has a terrible track record with this sort of thing.  Technically, membership in our church means attending church at least three times a year.  Yep.  That is the only definition we have in writing.  I would argue our denominational lack of clarity around membership leads to a lack of investment and true belonging.  In a desire to make everyone feel welcome or create a rosy sense of belonging, we water down what being a person of faith really is.  In fact, Long argues, “to come into the church in response to the gracious, altogether unmerited invitation of Christ and then not conform one’s life to that mercy is to demonstrate spiritual narcissism so profound that one cannot tell the difference between the wedding feast of the Lamb of God and happy hour in a bus station bar.”[v]

Now I know that sounds harsh, much like Matthew’s story sounds harsh.  But as I have been thinking about the rosy feast of Isaiah this week, I realized I needed the feast of the twenty-third Psalm and Matthew too.  I need to remember that not only am I, in all my imperfections welcomed to the table, so are my enemies.  And not only are God’s arms widely open to me, God also expects something of me – for my life to have some recognizable response to the grace of God, for others to know we are Christians by our love, by our wedding garments of compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.

That is why at Hickory Neck, we try to be a bit clearer about membership – or more aptly, about discipleship.  Our newcomers learn quickly that being here means a few things:  being a member at Hickory Neck means coming to worship, to the feast, regularly enough to be fed and shaped in the life of faith; participating in formation and outreach to continue to grow, learn, and serve; to support the mission of the church with our time, our talent, and our treasure.  We do all of this because the welcome we receive here at Hickory Neck is not hollow – the sense of belonging we feel here is not simply for stuffing ourselves.  That is why our stewardship team invited us this month into a reflection about faith-filled generosity – not inviting us to give financially just because we should.  We are invited to financial generosity toward Hickory Neck because we have been generously, unconditionally welcomed to the feast, and we want to embrace the garment of Christ as a response to that generosity.  This week, as you reflect on the commitment cards and time and talent forms you received by mail, I invite you to reflect on your own experiences with the feast of God – the times when this table has been a lifeline, when Christ’s welcome has been a salve, and when the garment of Christ has been an honor rather than a burden.  I look forward to hearing your stories of faith-filled generosity at the feast this week!  Amen.

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[i] Susan Grove Eastman, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 167.

[ii] Matthew 22.10

[iii] Thomas G. Long, Matthew (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 1997), 247.

[iv] Long, 247.

[v] Long, 248.

Sermon – Matthew 15.10-28, P15, YA, August 16, 2020

Tags

abundance, boundary, Canaanite woman, Elijah, faith, humble, loud, love, mercy, persistence, quiet, scarcity, Sermon, story, talking

If you joined us last Sunday, or saw the archived video of church, you know we talked about how Elijah spent a lot of time talking at God instead of listening to God.  In the cave, wind, earthquake, and fire passed by, but only in the sound of sheer silence could Elijah hear God.  What’s funny is today’s Gospel seems to say the complete opposite.  Instead of the Canaanite woman needing to be silent to hear God, her persistent talking to Jesus is what seems to be the instruction of the gospel.  So, either Holy Scripture has completely lost her mind, your preacher is highly confused (or did not look ahead), or something else is going on here.

Taking a closer look at the texts might help.  You see, when Elijah keeps talking and talking, Elijah has turned in on himself, is wallowing in fear, and cannot see out of his desperation.  And instead of looking to God for relief, he gets caught up in blaming others, self-pity, and an inflated sense of ego.  The Canaanite woman is completely different.  She is an outsider on every level – she’s from Tyre and Sidon – regions who are oppressing the Israelites; historically, she a Canaanite, the land Joshua conquered with the Israelites; she is a Gentile, who does not worship God and is not a part of God’s redemptive plan; she is not only a woman, but also an unnamed woman, with lower social status, whose daughter is unclean and tormented by a demon; and she is not just talking to a man in public, but shouting and making a scene.  Despite all the things that societally should keep her from pursuing Jesus, and despite the ways Jesus ignores her and insults her, she will not stop talking until she gets a blessing.  And in this instance, Jesus rewards her persistent talking.

So what is happening?  Why is Elijah’s persistence shut down, and the Canaanite woman’s persistence encouraged?  Here is the real difference between Elijah and the Canaanite woman.  Elijah looks at his life and sees scarcity.  The Canaanite woman looks at her life and sees abundance.  Now, we would need about an hour to talk about the dialogue between Jesus and the Canaanite woman, because I have a lot to say about Jesus’ behavior.  But since we are limited today, I want to shift our focus on the woman.  You see, despite the fact Jesus ignores her, and despite the fact Jesus seems to think Israelite election means Gentiles are excluded from his attention, this woman sees abundance in Israel’s election for all.  “While mercy may begin with Israel, she knows [that mercy] cannot end there, because of the very nature of Israel’s God.  [That mercy] overflows to others in the house – even to the ‘the dogs’.”[i]  And so she keeps talking, violates boundaries set up because of ethnicity, heritage, religion, gender, and demon possession.[ii]  Unlike last week when Jesus says Peter is of little faith, this woman’s persistence leads Jesus to say, “Great is your faith!”  Elijah and the Canaanite woman both are looking at a bleak situation.  But whereas Elijah sees scarcity, the Canaanite sees abundance – and she is willing to talk, to verbally engage God until God allows justice and unrestrained abundance.

So, which is the way?  Are we to be silent and humble before our God, or are we to keep coming at God until God’s mercy overflows?  The answer is, “it’s complicated.” Truthfully, the differences between Elijah and the Canaanite woman say more about the individuals than they say about God.  What happens to each character is the same:  when Elijah is able to stand in the sheer silence of God, Elijah slowly sees the abundance God has already provided for Elijah;  when the Canaanite woman persists with Jesus, the abundance she identifies is provided for her.  Either way, the answer is the same – God’s love and mercy is overflowing, obliterates manmade boundaries of ethnicity, faith, gender, and power, and can transform the world.

Our invitation this week is to ponder our own place in God’s story.  Maybe we are Elijahs who are going to need some TLC and some humbled silence to experience God’s abundance.  Maybe we are Canaanite women who need to shout from the mountaintop for justice and grace to experience God’s abundance.  Or maybe we will experience God’s abundance another way – through the stranger, the innocence of a child, or an intentional relationship with someone many may see as an enemy.  But the invitation is not just to consider where you are in God’s story.  The invitation is to acknowledge where you are in God’s story, and consider what you will do when you finally come to terms with God’s abundant mercy and love all around you.  That is where your story begins.  Amen.

[i] Iwan Russell-Jones, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 360.

[ii] Jae Won Lee, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol. 3 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 361.