Sermon – Luke 1:39-55, A4, YC, December 19, 2021

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blessing, community, connection, Elizabeth, God, Holy Spirit, isolation, Mary, mirror, pregnant, prophecy, Sermon, The Visitation

A couple of years ago, I had the occasion to take a long walk with a mentor and friend.  I do not really remember what we talked about, except that our conversation was mostly about life, family, and vocation.  I remember she said something to me that was so profound, her words took my breath away and I stuttered in my steps.  But the funny thing was, she did not say anything new.  In fact, her words started with that classic line, “So what I hear you saying is…”  She simply reflected my own words back to me in a way I couldn’t hear them myself.  She held up a mirror to me and in that mirror I saw my truth in a way I could not have seen alone.

Although much of this day liturgically is about Mary, I find myself strangely drawn to Elizabeth this year.  We know a few things about Elizabeth.  She was a descendent of Aaron, which means her lineage is part of the priestly line in Judaism.  Her husband, Zechariah, is also a priest, but more of an ordinary village priest, not one of the priests based in Jerusalem.[i]  Elizabeth is a part of Aaron’s priestly line in her own right.  We also know when Elizabeth’s husband is told she will bear a child, he does not initially believe – and because of that is struck mute for the duration of Elizabeth’s pregnancy.  On the other hand, Elizabeth responds to her pregnancy with a profession of God’s favor for her.  And because Zechariah is mute, Elizabeth does the blessing and prophesying when Mary shows up.  As scholars Levine and Witherington tell us, “Elizabeth’s cry is both exultation and prophecy: ‘Blessed are you among women.’”[ii]

Sometimes I think we get lost in the reality of these two pregnancies and do not hear all of what is being said.  There have been countless artistic renderings of these two pregnant women.  And of course, the identity of who is in these wombs is important to the message of the Luke’s gospel.  But sometimes I think the presence of pregnant bellies is distraction to the other thing Elizabeth is preaching.  Pregnant bellies are at times a source of grief for those who long to carry a child but cannot; are at times a source of lost identity – because all people and artists see are the growing bellies and not the person carrying the child; and are at times a source of oppression and loss of power – especially for those, like Elizabeth who have been barren, and those like Mary who are pregnant way before societal expectations dictate. 

But here’s what we miss when our minds only see pregnant bellies.  As scholars point out, “Mary is blessed not simply because she is pregnant with an extraordinary child; Mary herself is blessed, and so she is more than simply a womb…Mary is blessed not simply because she conceived, but because she ‘believed’ – she trusted – that the ancient prophesies would be fulfilled.”[iii]  Elizabeth does what my mentor did so many years ago, and holds up a mirror to Mary.  Sure, Elizabeth confirms the words of the Angel Gabriel[iv], and prophesies Mary’s child will be, but she also looks deeply at Mary and says, “Look.  Look what you did.  You said yes.  You believed this tremendously impossible thing God told you and you said yes.  Blessed are you for your willingness to believe and say yes.”

What I love about The Visitation is the way we have access to Elizabeth’s here at Hickory Neck every Sunday.  I think one of the things we missed when we shut down churches during the pandemic was that reality – having access to an Elizabeth each week who somehow could see you, could reflect back what you shared in time after church over coffee or breakfast, or who had the ability to name faith in you – those times when you believed and trusted in God, even if in the moment, you had very little trust.  That is the gift of church every week – gathering with a group of people who you may not otherwise encounter in the world out there, getting to know their stories, and sharing the truth of God’s sacred activity in each other’s lives.  That is what Mary and Elizabeth give to each other: “…community and connection.”  As one scholar explains, “God removes their isolation and helps them to understand themselves more fully as part of something larger than their individual destinies.  Together they are known more fully, and begin to see more clearly, than they do as individuals.”[v]  Certainly we can experience faith alone – yes, even on the golf course occasionally.  And we can definitely experience church online, sharing our comments, prayers, and praises in the comments (something we do not even always even do in church).  But we also distinctly experience the incarnate God through other incarnate people – those people made in the image of God, whom the Holy Spirit uses to speak truth, and through whose bodies we witness truth, grace, and love.  May we all know Elizabeth’s this week as we walk toward the manger in awe and wonder and trust.  Amen.

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[i] Amy-Jill Levine and Ben Witherington, III, The Gospel of Luke: New Cambridge Bible Commentary (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2018), 26.

[ii] Levine and Witherington, 38.

[iii] Levine and Witherington, 38-39.

[iv] Stephen A. Cooper, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1  (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 93.

[v] Michael S. Bennett, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year C, Vol. 1  (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 94.

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Sermon – Mark 6:1-6, 16-21, Isaiah 58:1-12, AW, YB, February 17, 2021

Tags

Ash Wednesday, ashes, church, fasting, God, holy, invitation, Lent, mirror, pandemic, Sermon, spiritual practices, struggle

I have always thought the Ash Wednesday liturgy offers a strange contrast.  We engage in the very visible sign of having ashes spread across our foreheads.  And yet, our gospel lesson this day speaks very clearly of not showing your piety publicly.  But this year, the contrast of Ash Wednesday feels even more pointed.  Typically on this day, we talk about giving things up for Lent, fasting, and entering into a season of contemplation about not just our mortality, but the sinfulness that separates us from God.  But we have spent the last eleven months fasting – fasting from social gatherings, fasting from touch and uncovered faces, even fasting from receiving the sacred meal.  And for a large portion of those months, we have been in deep contemplation about the exponentially rising death all around us, the brokenness of our common life, the sin of oppression and racism.  The last thing I want to hear from the church today is how I need to give up more.

I think that is why I love the text from Isaiah this year so much.  God offers a mirror to God’s people.  On first glance, God’s people are certainly doing the things that are expected – in fact, the “things” that are often of Lent.  They are fasting and lying in sackcloth and ashes.  They are doing the work of penitence.  But the acts are not the problem – the motivation of the acts are the problem.  They are doing acts of contrition as sort of an exchange:  fasting so that God will give them favor; Sure, their behavior may end in the oppression of others, but they are doing the manual action called for in this moment. 

But God is having nothing of hollow spiritual practices.  If those practices are not leading to the loosening of the bonds of injustice, or the undoing of the thongs of the yoke, or the freeing of the oppressed, they are meaningless.  If the people of God are not sharing their bread with the hungry, bringing the homeless poor into their homes, covering the naked, and caring for their own kin, then fasting is little more than act in futility, an action done without reflection, intention, or love of neighbor. 

So what do the words of Isaiah have to do with living in month eleven of a pandemic?  I am going to say something that might be a little controversial, but here you go:  the church is not asking you to fast this Lent.  Now, in a few moments, I am going to say these very words, “I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the observance of a holy Lent, …by…fasting, and self-denial…”  But you have already fasted for a whole year.  You have already been in a season of self-denial.  The ashes you will impose on your head later are not a reminder that you are dust and to dust you shall return.  You know that reality all too well now.  Instead, we are going to take a cue from Isaiah tonight.  You have already done the manual acts of Lent.  Now your invitation is the “so that” part of the action.  Our work this Lent is to reflect upon what has been a most difficult year and to ponder together what this past year of fasting is inviting us into.  How has this season of fasting, this season of struggle, this season of brutality transformed our sense of purpose and identity – a people focused on God’s work loosening the bonds of injustice, freeing the oppressed, and sharing our bread?  How has the sobering nature of death, grittily rubbed onto our foreheads tonight, changing our resolve to lean into God, lean into this Christian community, lean into the work of sharing God’s love with those who do not know that love?

The rest of the invitation I will read in a moment says this, “I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance; by prayer…and by reading and meditating on God’s holy Word.”  You have done the rituals of fasting and self-denial long enough.  As we look forward to these next forty days together, our work is to spend time with God, scripture, and one another and answer the question, “So what?”  What are we going to do now?  What are we going to claim and what are we going to let go?  How is the grit of ash this year not the sensation of defeat, but of invitation.  I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the observance of a holy Lent.  Amen.

Sermon – Matthew 10.40-42, P8, YA, June 28, 2020

Tags

Bible, Christ, covenant, disciple, God, hospitality, Jesus, love, mirror, missionary discourse, pandemic, power, presence, Sermon, vulnerability

This summer, several parishioners are participating in our 90-Day Bible Reading Challenge.  In supporting each other in our reading, one of the patterns we have noticed is the break-neck pace of reading twelve pages a day means we do not have a lot of time for traditional Bible Study – looking at the original Hebrew or Greek, discerning the historical context of the book, studying the cultural norms of the community, or even delving into the literary devices of the book.  Instead we are drinking from the fire hose of Scripture – capturing the larger narrative God’s covenantal relationship with humankind, but not indulging in the intriguing details.

With a passage like the one we hear in today’s gospel from Matthew, we could easily do the same.  There are only three verses in the text, and they are somewhat repetitive in pattern.  A quick skim brings up an old adage we have learned by heart – welcome the stranger because you may be welcoming Christ himself.  Maybe your mind immediately leapt to a time you saw Christ in a stranger.  Maybe you began thinking about the ministry of hospitality, particularly how strong that ministry is at Hickory Neck.  Maybe you even started to wonder what you could do to be more hospitable, especially during this time of social distancing.

But here’s the thing:  when we slow down our reading, we realize Jesus does not say, “whoever welcomes the stranger welcomes me.”  Jesus says, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me…”  Often when we think of hospitality, we think of hospitality from the perspective of the host.  Whether we acknowledge the reality or not, we are people of power and privilege, and our notion of hospitality is rooted in how we can offer hospitality to others.[i]  There is nothing inherently wrong with this dynamic – in fact, our sense of obligation to offer hospitality is an answer to Jesus’ call to love neighbor.  But Jesus is not talking about offering hospitality to others from a position of power.  Instead, Jesus is inviting us to give up power and receive others’ hospitality.

If you remember, we have been in the midst of Jesus’ Missionary Discourse[ii] the last several weeks.  Jesus told the disciples to go out, without resources, to do the work of discipleship.  He warned them they would face persecution, and family members would turn against one another.  And today, as Jesus concludes his discourse, he tells them whoever welcomes them, welcomes Jesus.  So not only are the disciples to make themselves vulnerable to the hospitality of others, they will be mirroring Jesus to others.  In other words, in every moment, every interaction, every relationship, encounter, conversation, and conflict among the disciples –the disciples will be witnessing Jesus.[iii]

I do not know about you, but that is a lot of pressure.  Making oneself vulnerable is hard enough.  Making oneself vulnerable means opening up all our flaws, weaknesses, and doubts.  And now, Jesus is saying while we are vulnerable, our homes, our marriages, our workplaces, our extended families, even our friendships are windows into Christ for others.  As Debie Thomas asks, “When we know Jesus is visible in and through us at every moment…[will] we tread more lightly on the earth?  Speak less and listen more?  Reconsider our grudges and grievances?  Choose our words with greater care?  Examine our motivations more closely?”[iv]

There is a lot about this pandemic that has been absolutely awful – devastating, painful, and full of death.  But one of the things that has happened to Hickory Neck in this pandemic represents new life too.  Before we closed our buildings in March, we offered hospitality from our comfort zone – hospitality unparalleled once you walked in those doors – hospitality that made most of us join this church.  But once we moved everything online, the doors and walls of this place lowered – we went out, showing who we are and what we are about to a much broader audience.  Here in this exposed setting, we are carefully, thoughtfully, intentionally showing others what Jesus looks like.  The work is hard and scary, but the reward is great too.  In letting down our walls, we are helping people to see Christ – the same Christ who redeems us, gives us strength, and makes us whole.  But the work of discipleship is not just happening on livestream.  I see this work happening in you – as you call to check in on people in the parish you have not met before because you attend a different service, as you don a mask and attend a rally in support of our African-American brothers and sisters during this raw time, and as you have socially-distanced conversations with neighbors about the power of Christ in your life.  The promise Jesus made at the beginning of his Discourse is still lingering today.  Christ is with us always, even to the end of the age.  His promised presence will allow us to keep letting down walls and being Christ’s mirror in the world.  Our job is to take up the challenge we will hear in our dismissal today:  Go.  Receive God’s love and hospitality.  Serve the Lord as Christ’s mirror.  Amen.

[i] Debie Thomas, “Welcome the Prophet,” June 21, 2020, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay on June 26, 2020.

[ii] Eugene Eung-Chun Park, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year A, Volume 3 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2011), 189.

[iii] Thomas.

[iv] Thomas.