On Vaccines and the Cross…

Tags

Coronavirus, cross, dignity, freedom, Jesus, joy, love, neighbor, pandemic, respect, sacrifice, vaccine

Last week I got my first vaccine shot.  Although I am relatively young and healthy, our commonwealth updated the 1B category to include clergy.  So, when my email came to setup an appointment, I was giddy with excitement.  A flurry of joyful texts went out to friends, I had a permanent smile for the day, and there might have been some dancing.  The day of the vaccine was not much different.  Long lines usually bother me, but I have never smiled so much while just waiting.  Had we not still been in a pandemic, I might have hugged every volunteer and staffer who processed me through the various stages.  And though I have had hundreds of shots in my lifetime, I have never so eagerly proffered my arm for a shot. 

But it was not until I got in my car that I lost it.  Tears burst out of me as the emotions from a year of pandemic spilled out.  Not until that moment did I realize how much I had been holding in – trying to be strong for my family, my church, and even myself.  I still have over a month to go before I get my second shot and work my way through the waiting period, but that one little prick of a needle was the first real sign of hope for me.  I may finally get to see my family, after a year and a half of their absence.  I may finally be able to offer hospitality in my home to others without a sense of panic about safety.  I may finally feel a sense of freedom that has been absent for so long and whose value I never fully appreciated.  The tears that were streaming were the release of a year’s worth of weight on my shoulders.

Of course, even with the overwhelming joy of that day, I know our work is still not yet done.  But somehow the gift of that vaccine shifted the weight of that continued work.  Now my mask-wearing and social distancing is not so much out of fear or self-preservation.  Now my mask-wearing and social distancing can be a witness of Christ’s love for others.  From the beginning, I have said our safe practices were an act of loving our neighbor as ourselves and respecting the dignity of every human being.  But now those acts will not just be an added bonus to self-protection – they will be an act of agency, of choosing to care for others when the selfish thing to do might be to value newly regained freedom over all else. 

As we prepare for Holy Week, I am aware of the symbol we will be turning toward next week.  We will be walking toward the cross until the day of resurrection on Easter.  We will watch, and pray, and sing, and grieve as our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ witnesses the ultimate form of sacrificial love.  In this season of COVID, the cross is our invitation to love like Jesus taught us.  I look forward to making that walk with you this year in new and profound ways.

Photo credit: https://signsofthetimes.org.au/2020/04/the-power-of-the-cross/

Sermon – Mark 9.2-9, TRNS, YB, February 14, 2021

Tags

Calvary, disciples, Epiphany, God, Good News, Jesus, joy, Lent, Messiah, mountain, pandemic, Sermon, Son of God, tension, Transfiguration

I do not know about you, but lately, I have found myself at a weird emotional place with this pandemic.  Eleven months ago, the pandemic got so bad, our church buildings closed and our experience as church as we know was forever altered.  Then the rollercoaster began.  Cases went up and down.  Schools were in and mostly out.  Masks were optional, then required, and now even recommended to be doubled.  And then there is the death toll.  We went from a couple of thousand a week to lately as much as 25,000 a week.  The introduction of the vaccine feels like the great white hope.  And yet, just this week I learned of a dear family friend who died a rapid death from the virus.  And we know there will be more death before there is life again.

I think that is why I am struggling this year to find the Transfiguration to be a source of joy.  As I read the familiar words this week, I wanted to be mesmerized – by the dazzling white of Jesus’ clothes, the appearance of none other than the law and the prophets:  Moses and Elijah.   Even God speaks words of revelation to the disciples.  Despite all the wonder and awe on this last of epiphanies in the season of Epiphany, I find myself unable to rally in this epiphanic moment.

The good news is the tension I have been feeling this week might not just be a case of my own emotional journey through this pandemic.  The tension we feel today is intentional on Mark’s part.  If you can remember all the way back in Advent, when we read the very first words of Mark, we read, “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God,” Mark tells us right away who Jesus is:  Jesus is the Christ, and Jesus is the Son of God.[i]  First, Mark tells us Jesus is the Christ:  the Messiah, the person the people of God had been awaiting, the victorious redeemer of the people, the mighty restorer of the kingdom of God.  Since that day in December when we heard this brief introduction by Mark, we have been celebrating the Messiah who was born.  Even today, as Jesus’ clothes turn dazzling white, and Elijah and Moses appear, we are filled with anticipation:  this is what we have been waiting for – Jesus the Messiah!!

And yet, somehow in the birth stories, and the epiphanies, and the dramatic healing stories, we forget the other half of Mark’s introduction:  The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.  You see, just as Jesus is the Messiah, the Christ, Jesus is equally something else:  the Son of God.  Now the Son of God is not a title of honor so much as a reminder of what will happen to Jesus.  The Son of God is destined to lay down his life for the people of God.  Jesus is the suffering servant we hear about in Isaiah – the one who makes the ultimate sacrifice so that new life might come.

So what does any of this have to do with the Transfiguration?  Pretty much everything.  You see, in this victorious Messiah-like last epiphany moment before we head into Lent, the temptation is for us to linger on the mountain, to stay with the Jesus who makes us feel good, who makes us feel powerful, who makes us feel victorious, who dazzles us with shiny clothes.  That euphoric feeling is not unlike the feelings stirred up by the hope of vaccines – a hope so strong that some governors in our country have lifted pandemic restrictions all together – no more masks, no more distancing, no more waiting.

But as we begin Lent this week, we descend this mountain and walk our way to another mountain – the mountain of Calvary that reminds us of the other truth of Jesus:  that Jesus is the Son of God, sent to redeem us through the darkness of the cross.[ii]   Even on the mountain of Transfiguration, God reminds us of this truth.  God does not shout to the disciples, “Jesus is the Messiah!!”  Instead, God whispers the gentle reminder, “This is my Son, the beloved.”  Even God knows we will want to linger on the goodness of who Jesus is – the brilliance of a Messiah.  But as Mark tells us from the beginning:  Jesus is both the Christ and the Son of God.

This week we will begin the long journey of Lent.  We will reflect on our relationship with Jesus, our failings and faults, and our gifts and goodness.  The work will feel hard and tedious at times, especially clouded by this unrelenting pandemic, and we may prefer to hold on to the Messiah on today’s mountain.  But as we walk from today’s mountain to Good Friday’s mountain, we also hold in tension with Jesus the Christ, Jesus the Son of God.  In our weakness, we find a savior who is also weak.  In our dark days, we find a savior mired in darkness.  In our despairing, we find a savior lost in despair too.  Jesus’ identity as the Son of God gives us as much comfort as Jesus’ identity as the mighty Messiah.  When we hold all of who Jesus is in our hearts, we can be more tender with all of who we are. 

I am grateful to walk the Lenten walk with you.  I am grateful to hear about your struggles and victories, your darkness and light.  I am grateful to be surrounded by a community of people – whether virtually or in person – working through valley of two mountains so that we can come through the redemption of the resurrection.  Today’s Transfiguration Sunday offers us sustenance for the valley, fuel for the work, fire for the renewal.  This is the beginning of the good news of Jesus the Christ, the son of God.  Amen.

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[i] This understanding of Jesus’ identity was presented by Thomas P. Long at a lecture on February 9, 2018.

[ii] The idea of framing Lent between two mountains come from Rolf Jacobson, in the Sermon Brainwave podcast, “#768: Transfiguration of Our Lord (B) – February 14, 2021,” February 7, 2021 as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/768-transfiguration-of-our-lord-b-feb-14-2021 on February 10, 2021.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YB, December 24, 2020

Tags

anxiety, beautiful, Bonhoeffer, Christ, Christ Child, Christmas, different, discomfort, displacement, Eucharist, familiar, feast, God, Jesus, joy, magnificence, real

This year, Christmas is unlike any other we have experienced.  For starters, we are gathered in homes around the globe, perhaps in pjs, on couches, or even bundled up in our beds, instead of being here together, crammed into seats where we may not normally sit, sitting next to friends and strangers, dressed in our Christmas finery.  Instead of gathering with large groups of extended family and friends, or traveling great distances, many of us are home alone, only able to see beloved faces on screens or hear familiar voices on phones.  Meals may be much smaller, gift exchanging more subdued (if happening at all), and singing is happening in isolation, not in the warmth of this space, where the sound fills not just the room but also our hearts.  Operating in the background of all of this is anxiety – fear for the health of ourselves and our loved ones, concern about financial stability, and dread about how much longer this pandemic may press down upon us.  Christmas this year is an experience in displacement, discomfort, and dissatisfaction.

And yet, here we are – gathered virtually, hearing the achingly familiar Christmas story, singing the soothing, familiar songs, and eventually participating in the ritual of the Eucharistic feast – even if we receive the feast spiritually.  Although this is not at all how I hoped to spend this Christmas, both for us as a community, or even personally with my own family, as I hear the Christmas story again this year, something is different.  The displacement of Mary and Joseph, the strain of a long journey, the collective discomfort of being herded against their will, and the anxiety of giving birth with none of the creature comforts of home or health feels strikingly familiar and contemporary.  The shock of angels is more palpable when we imagine shepherds going about the daily tasks needed for survival, the sheer ordinariness of working the night shift, and the miraculous happening among the least.  Even the experience of intimate conversation between strangers forced together by life is familiar, as we recall the recent conversations we have had with neighbors who, perhaps until this year, we have only spoken to superficially.  And Lord knows we have been doing a lot of pondering in our hearts these days.  Somehow the rawness of these days cracks open this overly familiar story in ways I could have never expected.

This Christmas, as I was preparing for tonight, I stumbled on a letter from Dietrich Bonhoeffer to his parents.  Bonhoeffer was a pastor, theologian, and political activist in World War II Germany.  When word of his anti-Nazi activism spread, he was imprisoned for a year and a half.  Sitting in that jail cell as Christmas approached, Bonhoeffer wrote to his parents, “In times like these we learn as never before what it means to possess a past and a spiritual heritage untrammeled by the changes and chances of the present.  A spiritual heritage reaching back for centuries is a wonderful support and comfort in face of all temporary stresses and strains.”  He goes on to say, “I daresay [Christmas] will have more meaning and will be observed with greater sincerity here in this prison than in places where all that survives of the feast is its name.  That misery, suffering, poverty, loneliness, helplessness and guilt look very different to the eyes of God from what they do to man, that God should come down to the very place which men usually abhor, that Christ was born in a stable because there was no room for him in the inn – these are things which a prisoner can understand better than anyone else.  For a prisoner, the Christmas story is glad tidings in a very real sense.”[i]

We may not have wanted any of this:  the discomfort, the dislocation, the anxiety, the suffering, the total upendedness of these days, especially during a holiday that is supposed to be reserved for joy and jubilation.  But perhaps the good news for us this Christmas is we get to know the Christmas story in a different way – not in the shiny, pretty way we normally tell the story, but in the raw, gritty, real way we tell the story tonight.  We hear, smell, and feel the ordinariness of the room with the holy family:  the “sweat; blood; makeshift blankets and diapers; the raw, immediate joy that comes with new life.”  But we also hear the unfathomable news of angels through shepherds intruding into that space, beautifully weaving the ordinary and extraordinary.[ii]  I know this is not the Christmas any of us wanted.  But perhaps in this terrible, awful, beautiful Christmas, we can more profoundly understand the terrible, awful, beautiful thing that happens in the Christ Child this year.  And whether we sing with jubilation with angels and shepherds, or ponder these things in our hearts with Mary, perhaps we see the Christ Child in his magnificence for the first time.  Amen.

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[i] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letter to his parents, December 17, 1943, as found in A Christmas Sourcebook, Mary Ann Simcoe, ed. (Chicago:  Liturgy Training Publications, 1984), 11.

[ii] Cynthia RL. Rigby, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 116, 118.

Sermon – Isaiah 9.2-7, Blue Christmas, December 21, 2020

Tags

Blue Christmas, Christ Child, Christmas, church, darkness, God, joy, light, mourn, night, painful, pandemic, Sermon, strength, suffering

Blue Christmas is a service we offer every year.  This service is not always mainstream.  For many, Christmas is a season of uncomplicated joy.  But for others, Christmas can be a painful experience:  we mourn the memories of those who are no longer with us, the darkness of shorter days weighs on our mental health, or the unbounded exuberance of others creates a chasm between their happiness and our loneliness, sorrow, or pain.  And that does not account for the grief we may be experiencing otherwise – broken relationships, dissatisfaction with or lost employment, an unexpected medical diagnosis, or a dream unfulfilled.  And because Christmas cheer is all around us, we feel even more isolated in our sadness – as if we are alone in our feelings.  Only in services like these do we feel seen.

That is the experience of a “normal” Christmas.  This year, we have added nine months of a pandemic, a tumultuous political year, and civil unrest.  Suddenly, those of us who struggle with finding joy this Christmas find ourselves in a rising majority, not the minority.  I watched this year as hundreds of people decorated for Christmas in mid-November, in an effort to demand the experience of joy from a year that has been short on joy.  I can see the desperate need of a suffering people to find light somewhere, anywhere, during this holiday season.

Fortunately for us, the church is not silent on this experience.  The text we heard from Isaiah earlier says, “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. You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as people exult when dividing plunder. For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian.”  The prophet says all of this light and joy is possible for one reason:  “For a child has been born for us, a son given to us.”  Scripture tonight honors that there are seasons of darkness.  There are times when we live in deep darkness, devoid of joy.  There are times when burdens feel like weights on our shoulders, where oppressors keep us in positions of suffering.  Sometimes those times of darkness happen around holidays, and sometimes the memory of those dark moments invade our holidays.  To that experience, the prophet says, God brings us light.  God lifts burdens, God helps us recall joy, God strengthens us.  And perhaps, most importantly, God gives us the Christ Child – the only true source of light that can lighten the darkness.

I have always loved that the Christ Child was born in literal darkness.  The delivery of the Christ Child at night reminds us that even in the rustic setting of being outcast, joy comes to Mary and Joseph.  The delivery of the Christ Child at night reminds us that even in the mundane, lonely, and exhausting work of tending sheep through the night, unbounded joy can break forth in the form of angels with heavenly news.  The delivery of the Christ Child at night reminds us that even in the darkness of night, whispered conversations between strangers can bring joy to kindle and ponder in our hearts.

Tonight, by the manager, God sees your darkness, your suffering, your hurt.  The removal of that darkness, suffering, and hurt may not be possible in these next few days.  But in that darkness, God promises you the tiniest sliver of light.  Whether you find that light by seeing you are not alone in the darkness tonight, whether you find that light through the stories of others, or whether you find that light gazing on the miracle of the Christ Child, the light, however faint, is there, waiting for you, warming you ever so slightly, and starting the long, hard work of lifting your heavy burden.  And until you are ready to receive that light, the Church sits with you in the darkness tonight.  Amen.

On Things Ludicrous and Holy…

Tags

best, Christmas, church, division, humble, indignation, joy, light, love, pandemic, praise, resurrection, separation

Photo credit: https://loe.org/shows/segments.html?programID=18-P13-00051&segmentID=1

My children are preparing for their winter socially distanced holiday recital, and we have been flooded with a flurry of details, items to purchase, things to organize.  One of the flyers that came this week was for a t-shirt they could buy promoting the recital and the cause that will benefit from the proceeds.  The shirt says, “Best Christmas Ever.”

I was glad my children were not around when I saw the flyer because my immediate response was to scoff – out loud, in my house, looking at a piece of paper with indignation.  Best Christmas Ever?!?  Had the dance studio lost their minds?  What about this Christmas could possibly be the “best”?  Families are separated, some of whom have not seen each other in over a year.  The Coronavirus is rapidly spreading, with the death toll in the United States now over 300,000.  And despite a transition in political power, we remain as divided as ever, struggling to find peace among our brothers and sisters. 

After recovering from self-righteous indignation, I began to think about the approaching Christmas season, and what the Church, and I as her priest, have invited people to do.  We are still inviting our parishioners, friends, and neighbors to join the Holy Family on Christmas Eve and sing songs of praise and thanksgiving.  Although we honor grief and suffering at our Blue Christmas service on December 21, we are still making a claim for hope, for light, and for love.  Even with our church buildings closed again, we are still encouraging the church to gather in their cars for a drive-thru, or by their hearths with their devices to join with the shepherds as we go to see this thing that has come to pass.  Perhaps to an outsider, the work of the Church this next week seems as ludicrous as claiming this Christmas is the Best Christmas Ever.

This week, I find myself humbled.  I know the Church is going to ask a lot of you over this next week.  You may not feel like singing carols, or hearing the familiar story, or watching candles flicker as we pray.  And that’s okay.  But, if it is alright with you, we are going to keep doing it anyway.  The Church has always been full of resurrection people.  We cannot help ourselves once we know the Risen Lord.  And so, when the Christ Child comes next week, we will keep holding on to light, to joy, and to love.  We will keep holding on to the promise that Christ is with us always, even to the end of the age.  We will keep shining the light of the Christ Child, reflecting his light to all.  And we will keep believing and trusting for you until you can come to the place where you can believe and trust yourself.  You do not need to rush.  We will keep holding the light until you are ready to take it up yourself.

Sermon – John 1.6-8, 19-28, A3, YB, December 13, 2020

Tags

Advent, baptism, community, Gaudete Sunday, Jesus, John, John the Baptist, joy, light, Sermon, witness

Yesterday the Edwards family gathered outside the Chapel to baptize eight-month-old Bryson.  When Bryson’s family asked me if Bryson could be baptized this weekend in a small family gathering, I had to think for a moment.  Advent is not one of the normal seasons for baptisms.  But then I remembered two things.  One, this Sunday is Gaudete Sunday – the Sunday in Advent marked for joy, and often marked by shades of pink and rose.  What could be more joyful than a baptism?  Two, I glanced at our lessons and saw John the Baptist was in our Gospel lessons.  Who better to feature in our lessons on a baptism weekend than John the Baptist?!?

Of course, I only needed a few minutes of sermon preparation this past week to realize I had missed something critical about our lessons this Sunday.  Last week, we had John the Baptizer featured in Mark’s gospel.  But this Sunday, when John appears in John’s Gospel, he is not labeled as John the Baptizer, but John the Witness.[i]  John’s role in the Gospel of John does not rest as centrally in his role of baptizer, but more centrally in testifying to the identity of Jesus Christ.  As Lamar Williamson says, “John’s role is to recognize the true light when [the light] appears, and to call attention to [the light] so that others may recognize [the light] and believe – that is, recognize, trust in, and commit themselves to the light.”[ii]  There went my perfectly arranged baptism weekend!  “John the Witness” does not really have quite the same je ne sais quoi as “John the Baptist.” 

So, I started thinking about what we are doing when we baptize people into the community of faith.  Baptism certainly is a rite of initiation into the body of Christ.  Upon baptism, one may receive communion and participate fully in the body.  We make promises on behalf of the baptized, we renew our most fundamental promises on our own lives through the Baptismal Covenant, and we open up a life’s journey of faith, hope, and joy in Jesus. 

But at the end of the day, the thing we are really doing in baptism is witnessing.  We are witnessing to the baptized, and their family, what are the things of ultimate importance to us as Christians.  We are witnessing a commitment to our community – the full responsibility we are willing to take on in the faith journey of the baptized, from infancy to adulthood.  And we are witnessing to the broader community:  that even in the midst of a pandemic (in which Bryson has spent his entire life), even in the midst of divisiveness and unrest, even in the midst of economic uncertainty, we are witnesses to new life, new hope, new joy.

Like John the Witness today, in baptism, we point the way to Jesus.  When Bryson, or our friends, ask the big questions, we will point them toward Jesus.  When Bryson, or our families, question faith and express doubt, we will witness to them about our own faith and doubt stories.  When Bryson, or our community, cannot claim joy or are simply numb to the overwhelming suffering of these days, we will share with them as Steve Garnaas-Holmes says, that “Christ does not come to make us happy, but to stand with us in the pain of life until joy like a seed rises.  All is swallowed up in joy.”[iii]  That is what Gaudete Sunday, a baptism weekend, and John the Witness invite us to do this week:  to be witnesses of joy, not looking at ourselves to be the light, but looking toward the one who is light – the only one who can solidify joy in the darkness of Advent.  Amen.

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[i] Karoline M. Lewis, John (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2014), 27

[ii] Lamar Williamson Jr., Preaching the Gospel of John (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 4, as cited by Gary W. Charles, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Volume 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 71.

[iii] Steve Garnaas-Holmes, “Rejoice Always,” December 10, 2020, as found at https://www.unfoldinglight.net/reflections/b4fws8bsnsjklfkw3ws8823kke9a7t on December 10, 202.

On Rituals, Church, and Candy…

Tags

children, church, community, connection, creativity, grace, Halloween, incarnational, innocence, Jesus, joy, neighbor, normalcy, pandemic, ritual, safety, trick-or-treat

Photo Credit: https://www.hauntedwisconsin.com/things-to-do/kids-family/trick-or-treat/

Last weekend, I took my younger daughter trick-or-treating.  We spent a long time as parents debating whether we should take our children.  We read scientific articles, talked to other parents, and spent time in long conversations.  Ultimately, we decided to go ahead, making sure we donned our masks, only traveled as a family, and sanitized our hands frequently between houses.  We also talked to our child about how although she may want to greet friends with warm hugs, that night was a night for verbal greetings instead of physical.  Our child did not argue with the restrictions and was simply happy to be going at all.

We embarked at the designated time not knowing what to expect – whether other families with children would be out safely, whether homeowners would respect social distancing and mask wearing, or whether the entire evening would need to be abandoned.  Much to my surprise, the evening went better than I could have hoped.  The number of trick-or-treaters was cut in half, and people mostly respected safe distancing.  Homes distributing candy were also at about fifty percent, and many of those who distributed exhibited tons of creativity:  from baskets of candy lowered from outdoor balconies, to candy “kabobs” planted in yards, to zipline delivery mechanisms, to clotheslines of candy. Many homeowners bagged candy to reduce touching and many seemed to have read the best practices about how to hand out candy.  I was blown away by our neighbors’ thoughtfulness, creativity, and grace.

But what struck me the most was a truth emerging from the whole evening.  If you had asked me or any of my neighbors before Halloween why we were participating in the ritual of trick-or-treating, we probably all would have said we were doing it for the kids:  to give them some sort of normalcy in this crazy, abnormal time.  But as I tucked my child in that night, and thought about all our experiences, I realized a deeper truth.  I think all of us adults participated in the ritual not just because the children needed it; we participated because we needed it.  We needed just one thing to be semi-normal in this super stressful, topsy-turvy world.  And we took our precautions and stretched our creativity, but we participated in a ritual that reminded us of joy, innocence, and community.

In many ways, that is what we are trying to do every week in churches too.  The very essence of Church is incarnational – from how we gather (in large groups), how we worship (using our all our senses, including touch), how we participate in ritual (often kneeling shoulder to shoulder, receiving communion from common dishes, and laying on of hands), to how we interact (from children’s programming and play to Coffee Hours).  With this pandemic, our incarnational essence just is not possible in the same way.  And so, we are worshiping online, we are offering socially distant worship services, and we are gathering on Zoom for pretty much everything – from formation, to fellowship, to learning, and even play.  I know Church right now is not the same, but if Halloween offers any lessons, perhaps it is that participating in the ritual – even an amended and altered ritual – is important for our spiritual, emotional, and physical health.  If you have taken a break from the ritual of Church because it just is not the same (and you are right, it is not), please know that Hickory Neck is here to help you reclaim some of that ritual.  It may be awkward or push your technological abilities.  But I promise, even those unusual connections might just offer the ritual you need to stay healthy and whole!

The Pilgrim’s Way…Day 6

Tags

Canterbury, Cathedral, disappointment, evensong, experience, God, joy, perfect, pilgrimage, plans, Savior, space, trust

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

Sixteen pilgrims from Hickory Neck Church traveled to England for 8 days of pilgrimage.  Our focus was on choral music, hearing Evensong or Choral Mass at a Cathedral, Minster, or college everyday.  This is the sixth entry, initially posted on our church Facebook page.  For those of you who do not follow us on Facebook, I am repeating the journey’s daily entries here.  Enjoy!

Canterbury

When spending over a year planning a pilgrimage for your parish, poring over plans, making amendments to itineraries, and crafting the best spiritual experience you can, you imagine, “There! I have created the perfect pilgrimage experience.” But as soon as you say the words, “I have created,” you have lost. Pilgrimages are not about what I create or even what I plan. Pilgrimages are certainly about working hard – before, during, and after. But pilgrimages are also about making space and then letting God take over.

I was acutely aware of that today. All day I had been internally groaning because we were not going to hear the boys and the men singing at Evensong at Canterbury Cathedral. Instead it would just be the gentlemen. I had really wanted our pilgrims to hear the full sound with the boys, and knowing they would be absent felt like a huge disappointment. But as soon as the men opened their mouths, I was transported to another time – a time when Benedictine monks chanted prayers day after day, hour after hour. The simplicity and beauty of their sound made the enormity of fourteen hundred years of Evensongs unfurl before me, like the wafting of incense before my face, lingering in my hair. Suddenly a multitude of heavenly hosts surrounded me – pilgrims, monks, priests, common Christians, seekers, nonbelievers, the sick, the oppressed – all longing for something, all aching for God. And tonight I remembered, in addition to them, God is right here: always has been and always will be, no matter what plans I have made.

Tonight it is my hope that you can find it in yourself to trust a little less in your own hands and a lot more in the loving embrace of your Savior’s hands. I can’t wait to hear about your disappointment and your overwhelming joy!

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

Sermon – Matthew 3.13-17, E1, YA, January 12, 2020

Tags

Annual Meeting, bold, consent, courage, experimentation, fun, gifts, God, humility, Jesus, John, joy, playfulness, resistance, Sermon, trust

This sermon was delivered on the occasion of our Annual Meeting at Hickory Neck Episcopal Church.  

As I have been preparing for our Annual Meeting, I have been thinking how grateful I am to have John as our companion today as we look back at a year of ministry and look forward toward what is to come.  In general John is not my favorite character in scripture.  He always seems a bit extreme – sort of like that overly enthusiastic street corner preacher to whom you carefully give a wide berth and with whom you avoid eye contact for fear of having to explain how your understanding of Jesus is a bit different from theirs.  But today, I find resonance with John.

When Jesus asks John to baptize him, John’s immediate response is to resist.  John’s response is the classic, “But that’s not how we’ve always done it,” response.  This year, Hickory Neck had countless opportunities to respond like John.  When our Sunday School program elected to repurpose an unused classroom that had become storage because our Godly Play program had grown so much, we could have resisted the change and associated work involved.  When our Curate suggested we try out Ashes-to-Go on Ash Wednesday, we could have easily come up with myriad reasons why our property was not suited for such a program.  When our Praise Band decided to take a break from worship leadership and try Jam Sessions as a way to cultivate praise music in our community, we could have easily resisted their discernment and their creativity.  When the Kensington School offered to take over the children’s station at our Fall Festival, we could have easily gotten in the way or resisted their leadership.  When our Outreach Committee suggested we take on a week of the Winter Shelter by ourselves, separating from our long-time two-week sharing pattern with St. Martin’s, we could have resisted the change because we have never done Winter Shelter that way.  The opportunities to respond with John-like resistance have been overwhelmingly present over the last year.

Fortunately for us, Hickory Neck is a community who, like John works through innate human and communal tendencies toward resistance to change, and instead, embraces consent.  When John initially resists Jesus, Jesus comes back to John with an invitation to trust him.  John and Jesus engage in an open relationship of dialogue.  And, Matthew tells us, quite simply, “Then John consented.”  Matthew’s simplicity can belie how tremendous John’s consent is.  John’s consenting means letting go of control, letting go of the comfort of familiarity, letting go of the confidence that you are right and the other is wrong.  Those three little words, “Then he consented,” reveal John’s trust, John’s courage, and John’s humility.  John’s consent is not passive or weak.  John’s consent is bold!

That is what I have seen in Hickory Neck in this last year of ministry.  We have been bold!  When your Vestry formed this time last year, they took on a year-long process of visioning and strategic planning.  You will learn more about that process in the coming months, but I can tell you the Vestry has exhibited a lot of trust, courage, and humility as they looked at who we are and where we are going.  Hickory Neck has been bold in other areas too.  When our Parish Life team decided to resurrect the Shrove Tuesday Talent Show, I was uncertain how the Talent Show would go.  But we spent the night laughing, playing, and glorifying God in bold ways.  When the Kensington School invited us to teach Godly Play as an elective class, I was almost certain we would not have anyone sign up.  But out of 70 students, about a third of whom are ineligible due to age, we have over 20 students who regularly come to listen for God.  When our Musician decided to organize Evensongs, helping us prepare for a pilgrimage in England, I wondered whether many people would come to hear the traditional musical offering.  But when over 100 people, half of whom were visitors, attended, we saw how we are a community who can celebrate all kinds of music.  Or when we decided to totally transform this space for Flip Flop Mass, even the staff were not sure what we were doing.  But the joy and delight on worshippers faces afterwards taught us we had found something unique, meaningful, and fun.  Hickory Neck has been embracing bold responses to God all year long!

Part of our willingness to be bold this past year has been rooted in Hickory Neck’s identity and values.  As our Vestry articulated our values this year, one of those values was curiosity – an embracing of experimentation, playfulness, and joy.  That value, which is not common among churches, I assure you, creates in us an inherent ability to do what John does – to consent to Jesus, to the movement of the Spirit in what might be happening next.  That is why I am confident 2020 holds the promise of many more expressions of boldness.  After a successful year of offering a Godly Play class at the Kensington School here in Toano, the director has asked us to offer a Godly Play class at their Williamsburg location – a location that has around 250 kids as compared to the 70 kids here.  We will need to find about four more teachers to enable such an undertaking, but such boldness could mean sharing the good news not only with our immediate Upper James City County families, but families throughout our region.  As we face the departure of our curate later this month, a full-time clergy position that cannot be financially replaced due to pledging, we could choose fear, resistance, or despondency.  Instead, our Personnel Committee, Vestry, and Staff have been creatively trying to figure out a new staffing structure – a way to think about ministry differently, employing the gifts of the entire community to achieve something different, but equally life-giving that can facilitate the achievement of the strategic priorities our Vestry has articulated.  When our dream of bringing more childcare to our community was realized, a group of parishioners realized that not everyone could afford that childcare.  Instead of feeling frustrated or stymied, a group came together to form a Scholarship Committee to figure out how to make childcare accessible to our neighbors.  That group has boldly discerned the need to create a 501(c)3 nonprofit organization that can raise funds – and not just for children in our community needing care, but eventually, even for seniors needing help with care.  The process may take a while to coalesce, but the Committee is demonstrating to all of us how to live more boldly this year.

The reason John is able to consent comes out of his trust in Christ Jesus.  We know from Matthew’s Gospel that John is not always consistent in his trust.  Chapters later, as he sits in a jail cell, his trust in Jesus waivers.  But here today, at the banks of the River Jordan, John talks to Jesus about his misgivings, John articulates why he believes he knows what is best, and John takes into consideration the wisdom of another way from Jesus.  John chooses the boldness of the unknown path of Christ over the confidence of how things have always been.  John chooses the wisdom of the Spirit over his own long-accumulated wisdom.  John chooses to trust God is doing something new, and consents to going along for the ride.

The same is true for Hickory Neck.  Any of the boldness we are hoping to embrace this year is rooted in who we are:  a community anchored in deep, daily prayer, in meaningful, diverse worship, in varied forms of study and theological reflection, in life-giving, meaningful relationships with one another and the wider community, in the giving of care and support to those who need that care.  All of those activities, those things that shape who Hickory Neck is, create a foundation for us to have a deep enough relationship with Christ that when the Spirit invites us into something new, something seemingly out of our reach, something unlike the way we have done things, we have no problem looking into the eyes of Jesus, and consenting.  Now, being bold is not easy.  To be bold means we acknowledge we are leaving our comfort zones and a sense of security.  But when I look around our community – when I look at each of you and the gifts you bring to Hickory Neck and the ways God is working good through you, the idea of being bold with you isn’t so scary.  In fact, being bold is kind of exciting, invigorating, and fun.  I cannot wait to have more fun with you this coming year, and I am so grateful we have each other live into this new year of ministry.  God has great things in store for us, and I feel privileged to be able to stand with you as we consent to the movement of the Spirit together.  Amen.

Sermon – Matthew 11.2-11, A3, YA, December 15, 2019

Tags

active, Advent, Christmas, church, darkness, God, Jesus, John the Baptist, joy, light, Messiah, repentance, Sermon, sober

Advent is one of the stranger seasons of the Church, in which the experience of churchgoers seems completely out of alignment with the secular world.  The secular world put on bells weeks ago, has been playing songs about holly, jolly Christmases, and in general is so excited about Christmas presents, vacations, and fun that there is a little room for anything but joy.  Meanwhile, those sitting in church in these weeks have heard about preparing our lives and hearts for the return of the Lord, about repenting and making a way for our God, of quietly, soberly, and humbly waiting for what is to come.  But on this third Sunday of Advent, those two worlds collide:  the saccharine-filled, tap-dancing, over-caffeinated secular world of pre-Christmas and the quiet, methodical, prayerful world of Advent both turn us to joy.  This third Sunday of Advent, called Gaudete or Rose Sunday, we light a pink candle, and we proclaim a mini-sabbath from our somberness and lean into joy.  The church seems to be telling us, “Okay, take one day to smile, to linger on how cute baby Jesus must have been, and how exciting things must have been at the manger.  This time of year might just be the hap-happiest season of all!”

Given the Church’s permission to lean into to joy this week, we might anticipate a gospel reading that is also full of joy – maybe Mary and Elizabeth sharing their pregnant joys or angels delivering good tidings of great joy.  Instead, we get John the Baptist, sitting in a cold jail cell, asking an unthinkable question to Jesus, “Are you the one to come, or are we to wait for another?”  Now John has never really been a character who has embodied joy.  He lived the life of an ascetic, he preached about people’s sinfulness and their need to repent, he drove people to be baptized, in their hope to get right with God.  But John has been certain about Jesus in the past.  Earlier in Matthew, John says, “One who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals.”[i]  In John’s Gospel, John the Baptizer says, “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!”[ii] and “He must increase, but I must decrease.”[iii]  In Luke’s Gospel, John’s surety about Jesus happens before he is even born, as he leaps in his mother Elizabeth’s womb.[iv]  So what has happened to John?  Why can he not just get on the joy train with us today?

Well, a couple of things have indeed changed.  John is no longer free to roam around as he pleases, he is no longer surrounded by growing crowds who are mesmerized by his words, and his own disciples seem lost without him.  John is sitting in a cold, hard jail cell, his life hanging in the balance, and Jesus, the guy he was so sure about, is not exactly playing along.  He is not acting like he is supposed to, and in that dark, damp place, John is left wondering, “Was I wrong?  Is Jesus not The One?  If he is the Messiah, surely I would not be here, suffering without Jesus taking decisive, bold action.”  And John is right to question.  Wonderful things are happening through Jesus, blessings of which the prophet Isaiah had foretold.  But according to scholars, there are no distinctive documents that depicted the Messiah behaving in the way Jesus does.[v]  If Jesus is the Messiah, John’s doubts are not unfounded.

Truth be told, as much as we would like a joyful sabbath from our quiet, sober, season of repentance, we understand John’s plight.  We have all had those moments of darkness where we too have asked God, “Are you the one who is to come?”  That question is a question we have all asked at one point or another.  In the midst of chronic pain, as a romantic relationship is falling apart, as a pink slip is delivered, as loneliness overwhelms us, we have asked Jesus, “Are you the one who is to come?” because we too have been disappointed by God.  We too have expected God to be with us in a specific way, to make things right in the ways we imagined, or to fix the world and show the world that God is indeed present.  Hickory Neck acknowledges that very reality this coming weekend in our Blue Christmas service – a service where we boldly confess that Christmas is not a joyful season for all – and that is okay.  We understand the darkness that can live on the margins of the light.

Although we may all understand John’s plight in some way, although we have all had those deep, painful moments of questioning, we may find ourselves wondering, why we chose this specific text on the day that is supposed to be about joy.  Surely we did not don our rose-colored bow-tie, pink dress, or rose sweater for nothing!  Fortunately, we do get joy from this text from Matthew too – albeit not necessarily in the ways we may want.  When John asks, “Are you the one who is come?” I suspect he wanted a simple, “Yes, of course!  Do not fret!”  But Jesus does not usually do direct.  Instead, Jesus says, “Look around you, John.  What do you see?”  And for those of us not there, Jesus reminds us:  the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.  The Good News John is looking for may not look familiar, but there is good news.  Jesus’ version of Messiahship is not familiar, but his Messiahship is good.

One of the most powerful, and sometimes annoying, questions my spiritual director asks me when talking about my life and ministry is, “Where are you seeing God?”  The question is the same question I have asked many of you too.  Where in the midst of struggle, suffering, or pain are you seeing God?  The question is annoying because sometimes we just want to sit in our suffering – sit in our cold jail cells – with our questions and not look to joy.  But that is what looking for God does.  When we recall the people around us who bring us meals or baked goods, just because, we begin to see the loving care surrounding us.  When we remember the conversation with a good friend when she sees a profound truth that brings us comfort and peace, we begin to hear the comforting words of Jesus.  When we reassess the blessing happening around us – our everyday needs being met, the appearance of an encouraging bloom or bird’s song, or an unexpected act of kindness – we begin to see that maybe, just maybe, there is joy bubbling up all around us.

This Gaudete Sunday may not bring us the kind of joy that makes us feel like this is the most wonderful time of the year.  But today’s gospel does bring the kind of joy that matters – the deep, abiding joy that come from realizing God is active in our lives, making a way for goodness, healing, and grace.  Today’s gospel reminds us our questions and doubts are okay, and are answered by examples of blessing all around us.  Today’s gospel takes our frustrations about how life should be, and shows us the abundance in what is.  Jesus offers us today the kind of joy that eases those lines of stress between our furrowed brows, that softens the tension in the middle of our chests, and unclenches the teeth, shoulders, and hands that have been hardened for so long.  Jesus offers us the kind of joy that is a deep breath of release, a refreshing gulp of cool water, an all-encompassing hug of compassion.  Our invitation today is to receive Christ’s joy with assurance, and then share his joy beyond these walls.  Amen.

[i] Mt. 3.11

[ii] Jn. 1.29

[iii] Jn. 3.30

[iv] Lk. 1.41

[v] William R. Herzog, II, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 71.