Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2021

Tags

appearance, Christmas, Christmas Eve, church, connection, earth, Good News, heaven, Jesus, Joseph, light, love, Mary, miracle, neighbors, ordinary, Sermon

Church on Christmas Eve is always a funny thing.  For years, I scoured the stores for matching dresses for our girls.  I served in churches where people would sport tuxedos and fur coats for the night’s services.  Family pictures were regularly taken by the Christmas tree – either at home or at church.  Quite frankly, I was a little relieved when I became a priest and never had to worry about a new outfit because no one would see the outfit under my vestments anyway.  And then the pandemic hit.  Last year, we had to watch Christmas from home – maybe in matching pajamas, but more likely just in a pair of jeans or sweats.  A year later, we are all out of the habit of dressing for public, and, if you are here at Hickory Neck, you know jeans are just as acceptable as that fancy dress or jacket in the back of your closet or that some of you are fabulously sporting tonight. 

I am not really sure where the notion of dressing up for Christmas came from, except maybe an older tradition of always dressing up for church.  But nothing about our Christmas story screams high fashion.  Mary and Joseph are traveling to Bethlehem under order of the oppressive government and are likely in traveling clothes, dirty and weary from the road.  Mary also gives birth this night, so her body is likely sweaty and soiled.  Meanwhile, her child is not in a matching layette, but in bands of cloth.  Both are likely an exhausted mess.  And the shepherds who later come visit are likely not to fresh-smelling themselves, probably in their most utilitarian clothing for tending to sheep in the dark cold of night.

And yet, in these most basic settings, the privilege of the miraculous happens.  Mary births not just an ordinary baby, but the Christ Child – the Messiah – as Isaiah says, the “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”  Meanwhile, not only does an angel appear in the blinding glory of God, but also a whole multitude of the heavenly host shows up.  All to ordinary people, dressed in ordinary garb, going about doing ordinary things.  But as scholar Sarah Henrich says, “Heaven and earth meet in obscure places, not in the halls of power.”[i] 

This week I read about such a meeting of the heavenly and earthly in the Washington Post.  In November 2020, Kim Morton was sitting at home with her daughter watching a movie in Baltimore County, Maryland, when her neighbor sent her text telling her to look outside.  Her neighbor, Matt Riggs, had hung a string of Christmas lights all the way across the street from his house to hers, as he explained, to brighten Kim’s world and to show her that they were always connected, despite the isolation the pandemic had created.  Kim had been struggling with anxiety and depression, had lost a loved one, had a lot of work stress, and had started experiencing panic attacks.  Matt knew her pain himself, and so decided they both needed a reminder that they are not alone in their pain. 

But here’s the funny thing about Matt and Kim’s story.  The neighbors saw what Matt did, and they wanted in too.  Neighbors across the street from one another started talking and said, “Let’s do it too!”  Slowly, but surely, neighbors started reaching out to one another with expressions of connection, love, and quite literally, light.  By the time Christmas arrived, 75% of the neighbors had joined in with strings of light crossing the entire drive.  And this year, in November 2021, the whole neighborhood held a house-to-house light hanging party.  Kim, the initial recipient of the lights said, “It made me look up, literally and figuratively, above all the things that were dragging me down.  It was light, pushing back the darkness.”[ii]

Matt and Kim’s story did not happen in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, or even New York City.  Their story happened in a little neighborhood, outside of Baltimore, that no one had heard of until the Washington Post came along.  And although Matt and Kim never mention Jesus, the truth is that heaven and earth met in an obscure place, shining connection, love, and light.  This Christmas, the ordinary, earthy setting of Bethlehem and the shepherd fields are reminders – reminders that we can have all the fancy bow ties and heels we want, but more often, we will see and experience the sacred in the ordinary moments where Jesus shows up and offers us love.  The birth of the Christ Child tonight is a reminder that we, like ordinary shepherds can be used to be sharers of the Good News in tiny, ordinary ways – ways that show Christ’s love and light, and in ways that help us experience sacred connection with our neighbors.  Amen.

---

[i] Sarah Henrich, “Commentary on Luke 2:1-14 [15-20],” December 24, 2021, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/christmas-eve-nativity-of-our-lord/commentary-on-luke-21-14-15-20-20 on December 22, 2021. 

[ii] Sydney Page, “A man strung Christmas lights from his home to his neighbor’s to support her. The whole community followed,” Washington Post, December 21, 2021.

Sermon – Matthew 24.36-44, Isaiah 2.1-5, Psalm 122, Romans 13.11-14, A1, YA, December 1, 2019

Tags

Advent, attention, attuned, bury, cope, dramatic, Jesus, keep watch, light, ordinary, parenting, promise, scary, second coming, Sermon

One of the cooler things about my grandmother was a unique skill she had.  She could hold her fingers just so, making a perfect circle between her middle finger and thumb, place the circle in her mouth, and create a whistle so loud it could be heard across a large campus or a packed room, full of people.  The sound was as loud as any instrument you could produce, and the tone was so distinct, you knew right away my grandmother trying to get your attention.  I always thought the gift was super cool, longing to master the gift myself.  But my dad, on the other hand, hated that sound.  Having grown up with my grandmother, he associated the sound with being in trouble.  And he was not alone.  My grandmother’s whistle was so loud and so distinct, the entire neighborhood knew the sound – and also knew the Andrews kids must be in trouble.  Other kids would tell my dad, “You better hurry!”  My grandmother did not need to raise her voice, or call out for her children.  One loud whistle, and the kids knew the whistle meant drop everything you were doing and come immediately.

Today’s gospel lesson has the same kind of impact.  Matthew’s gospel talks of the second coming, a return so shocking people will be caught unawares, with neighbors, family, and friends suddenly disappearing, or swept away unexpectedly, like the people outside of Noah’s ark.  The images are so vivid and alarming, whole book and film series have been created depicting what this dramatic second coming will be like.  Countless street corner preachers have used these images to drive people to Jesus out of fear.  Unfortunately for Jesus, these preachers, books, and films have been so dramatically fantastical, that Jesus’ words have lost their sense of realism.  We hear these words now and either roll our eyes is disbelief, brush them off in discomfort, or walk away in disdain.

Now, I am not suggesting you start watching or reading the Left Behind series, and I acknowledge the two-thousand-year delay in this second coming can leave us a bit skeptical.  But I do think there is an invitation today to step into the parts of the images that are disorienting or even unsettling.  Most of the images Jesus uses today are of people doing their everyday activities:  eating, drinking, working in the fields, preparing daily meals.  These are the activities of life:  reading the paper, driving the kids to school or practice, studying for a test, tending our gardens, preparing dinner.  The space Jesus is talking about is the space in life that can become so routine we can almost do them without thinking.  In fact, sometimes, the routine is so powerful we become absorbed in the routine – not just out of habit, but also because of desire.  Burying our heads in the sand of the ordinary is one of the ways we cope with the world around us.  When the world seems overwhelming or hard, we bury ourselves in routine, leaving little space in our minds, hearts, and spirits for much else.

The problem with burying our heads in the ordinary is that we start missing things.  We pass by the children boarding a school bus from a local motel without thinking.  We ignore how much desolation, deception, and destruction is all around us by avoiding the news.  We stop noticing that elder in church whose health is starting to isolate them from the community.  And we have every reason to bury ourselves – the chaos and need in the world can be thoroughly overwhelming at times.  We all know there are much more unhealthy coping mechanisms, so burying our heads in the ordinary seems pretty tame in comparison.  My family will be the first to tell you that when mommy starts randomly deep cleaning a part of the house, something big has gone awry.

But here’s the thing:  Jesus is not telling us to avoid the ordinary.  Jesus knows as much as anyone we need food to eat – everyday.  What Jesus is asking us to do is keep a part of ourselves out of the ordinary.  Jesus wants our ears to be attuned for his distinctive whistle – the whistle that can grab our attention whether we are in the middle of a conversation, are knee deep in a project, or are binge-watching the latest Netflix release.  But the reasons Jesus wants us to have our ears attuned for his whistle may not be as nefarious as they seem.  In turning to our other three lessons today, we begin to see the light.  Isaiah tells in the days to come, the Lord will be doing some mighty things – beating swords into ploughshares, and spears into pruning-hooks.  Nation will not lift up sword against nation, nor shall they learn war any more.  Isaiah’s message of peace is a message of joy and action.  Isaiah whistles to us, “O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!”[i]

The psalmist’s whistle is similar.  “Let us go to the house of the Lord,” she says.  Out of the ordinary, and into the house of God, we hear a new prayer for us.  “May they prosper who love you.  Peace be within your walls and quietness within your towers.  For my brethren and companions’ sake, I pray for your prosperity.  Because of the house of the Lord our God, I will seek to do you good.”[ii]  Can you imagine missing such a beautiful blessing because we were working through our shopping list during mass or afraid of what we would find in the Lord’s house?

Paul whistles to us too.  “Wake up,” Paul says in Romans.  “The night is far gone, the day is near.  Let us then lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armor of light; let us live honorably as in the day…”[iii] Paul’s call for attention is a call to goodness, an invitation into a community of light – in clothing ourselves with that light.

If Jesus’s images felt threatening or scary, enough to drive our heads into the ordinary, the rest of our lessons tell us why we should, in fact, pull our heads out, and keep watch this Advent.  When we do, we hear some stunningly wonderful news – news of peace and harmony, news of blessing and soothing, news of light in a world of darkness.  Perhaps Jesus’ whistle was a bit more like my grandmothers – the whistle that let you and everyone around know you were in trouble.  But the rest of the lectionary today tells us the whistle is a gift – an invitation to turn into the light.

One of the things I loved about WMBGkind, the kindness movement happening in our community, was that the movement opened a real window into the light.  After reading the Last Word in The Virginia Gazette for several years, I had begun to bury my own head – reading the whole paper and then stopping short on the last page so I did not have to read the vitriol in our community.  But once I started paying attention to acts of kindness in our community, my perspective shifted.  I skimmed the Last Word to find the thank you notes – the notes of thanks for big and tiny acts of kindness.  I started to notice photos of countless churches, organizations, and businesses giving back to the community.  I started noticing neighbors holding doors for one another, kids picking up litter, and strangers giving up their time to help someone else.

I have seen the same sense of light here at Hickory Neck too.  As we talked about shining our light this year during Stewardship season, I saw parishioners trying out new ministries.  I watched parishioners increase pledges and talk excitedly about what a difference we could make in our community.  I have watched as longtimers offer lovingkindness to newcomers, as newcomers give of their time to welcome others, and as parishioners and clergy share laughter, love, and levity.  When I listen to the whistle of scripture, I hear light, I hear promise, and I hear invitation.

As a mother of five children, I know we often teased my grandmother for her ominous whistle.  My guess is her whistle was a necessary tool in her parenting toolbelt.  But I found myself wondering this week what might have happened if she had used the same whistle to deliver other news:  hugs and words of affirmation; a quiet whisper in their ear saying, “I just wanted you to know that I love you.”  Instead of the whistle being an ominous sound, the whistle could have been a song of promise.  That’s what today’s lessons offer to us:  a song of promise.  Sure, they may be jarring to the ear at first.  But when we really listen, we hear their promise in the depths of our souls – in places we bury when we bury ourselves in the ordinary.  Our invitation this Advent is to pay attention.  Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.  Amen.

[i] Isaiah 2.5

[ii] Psalm 122.6-9

[iii] Romans 13.12-13a

Sermon – Luke 5.1-11, Isaiah 6.1-8, EP5, YC, February 10, 2019

Tags

call narrative, calling, dramatic, fear, fish, God, Jesus, ordinary, Peter, resist, Sermon, servant, Simon, yes

Stories of God calling individuals into a new mission, or “call narratives,” as we label them, are some of our most beloved stories from scripture.  They are all pretty dramatic:  God speaking to Moses from a burning bush, God having Jonah thrown overboard and swallowed by a fish, God sending an angel to Mary, or today, a seraph placing a burning hot coal on Isaiah’s lips.  At first, almost everyone one of the characters resists – with protests about how they are not good public speakers, how they do not agree with God’s mission, how the thing God is proposing is biologically impossible, or how they are so full of sin, they could not possibly do whatever God has proposed.  And yet, after much arguing with God, each individual usually agrees – and often says the words we hear in Isaiah today, “hineni,” or “Here I am;” send me.  The whole process is very dramatic and awe-inspiring.  We love to hear and reread these stories and we love to see individuals rise to the occasion.

But here’s the problem with call narratives.  The stories are so dramatic and the responses are so confident and selfless, that we cannot see ourselves in them.  Those are stories that happen to those people.  We are not Moseses, Isaiahs, Marys, or Jonahs (ok, maybe we are a little like Jonah, but even his story is a bit extreme!).  We can certainly relate to the resistance each servant offers to God, but the call is a bit harder for us to imagine.  God doesn’t come to us in dramatic ways, and we definitely do not feel like God is doing something dramatic in us to change the world.  The last time we checked, we were not being asked to lead a people out of slavery from a dictator, use our bodies for immaculate conception, or even go around proclaiming judgement to the world.  Those sorts of dramatic things are things other people do; not us.

I think that is why I like Luke’s version of Simon Peter’s call narrative.  This pericope, as Bob taught us last week, or this piece of scripture might be the story we need to help us see call narratives are not just about those people.  The way we get there though, is not jumping right to overflowing boats, full of fish.  The way we get there is looking at all the seemingly innocuous parts of the story.

The first small detail of the story that can sneak past us is how Jesus starts teaching.  The text says, “while Jesus was standing beside the lake of Gennesaret, and the crowd was pressing in on him … He got into one of the boats.”  Jesus does not ask permission of Simon to get in his boat.  Jesus does not negotiate the terms of using Simon’s boat for a period of time.  Jesus literally just gets on the boat. He does not seem to care that Simon and his crew have had a total failure of a night of fishing, and are probably both exhausted and frustrated.  Jesus just gets on the boat with a word to Simon.  As scholar David Lose argues, what we learn about in this brazen action is “sometimes God doesn’t ask our permission to get involved in our life, to encounter us with grace, God just goes ahead and does it.”[i]

Then something even more odd happens.  When Jesus finally does get around to asking Simon to push the boat out a bit so he can teach, Simon just does what Jesus asks.  We have no idea why.  Perhaps he simply responds because he knows this is just the way Jesus is.  We know that Simon Peter already had an encounter with Jesus at this point in Luke’s gospel, when Jesus healed his mother-in-law.  Maybe Simon was so grateful for that healing that he pushed the boat out to sea out of a sense of gratitude or obligation.  Or maybe Simon Peter was just that kind of guy – the kind of guy who even when he is bone tired and frustrated would still lend you a helping hand.[ii]  Regardless, his immediate and silent acquiescence tells us something.

Then another funny thing happens.  The text tells us when Jesus is done teaching, Jesus speaks to Peter.  That half sentence almost seems like a throw-away transition.  But even in this transition, we see something special.  What we see in this transition is even “when he’s all done teaching, Jesus isn’t actually all done.  In fact, that he’s just getting started.  Because God’s like that, always up to more than we imagine.”[iii]

Then comes Jesus’ request – to put the nets back out again.  Now, remember that Simon Peter and his crew have just spent the early hours of the morning cleaning all those nets.  So already, Jesus is asking a lot to this worn down, frustrated crew.  But Jesus’ request is funny in another way.  Jesus does not suggest they try his new and improved fishing method.  Jesus does not suggest a new body of water or a different location.  Jesus does not give them new nets to try.  He just asked them to do the exact same thing they had been trying all night.  The only difference this time, as Lose points out, is “… Jesus spoke to them and they do what he says and the word Jesus spoke makes it different, because God’s Word always does what it says, even when those hearing that Word fall short or even have a hard time believing it.”[iv]  God’s Word changes everything.

Now what happens next is pretty typical.  When the miracle of all those fish happens, and Peter senses Jesus offering a call to him, Peter protests as many a servant has – saying he is a sinner.  But what is interesting in this call narrative is Jesus’ response.  Jesus does not say that Simon’s sins are forgiven, or do some symbolic act to cleanse Simon’s sinfulness.  No, Jesus says, “Do not be afraid.”  Sure, Jesus offers forgiveness of sins.  But Jesus offers so much more.  Jesus offers encouragement and comfort.  Instead of simply insisting Simon can answer the call, Jesus instead offers the words of a pastor.  Those words, “do not be afraid,” will be words we hear over and over again in Luke’s gospel.  Part of this call narrative is a reminder that we do not have to be afraid anymore!

Then Jesus tells Peter something even more incredible.  This miracle he just witnessed is nothing.  Peter is going to do something even greater – be a fisherman of people – “catching people up in the unimaginable and life-changing grace of God.”[v]  Simon Peter really was not someone special.  Simon was not so gifted that he was already a leader in the community.  No, Jesus just picks an average fisherman for this incredible new mission.  That’s something else we learn about God in this passage; this is “how God works, always choosing the unlikeliest of characters through whom to work, putting aside all their doubts and fears and excuses and professed shortcomings to do marvelous things through them.”

And this is how we get back to each person in this room.  Despite the fact that call narratives can be dramatic, call narratives are also full of ordinary little things that remind of us the kind of God we have; the reasons why we trust this incredible, loving God; how woefully unprepared and unworthy any of us really are; and how through our relationship with God we find ourselves saying yes, saying hineni, without an exclamation point, but with scared-out-of-our-minds trust.

We may think call narratives are something that biblical heroes experience.  But the reality is, each one of us here has a call narrative.  Sometimes they are dramatic, but most of the time, they are gradual calls that evolve as we deepen our relationship with Christ, as we slowly, quietly keep saying hineni, as we try, fail, and try again to figure out what God wants us to do with our lives, and as we suddenly realize we are doing it.  We are leaving boats full of fish to follow Christ.  We changing the course of our lives in incremental ways.  We are finally able to see ourselves as Christ sees us – as individuals gifted with special gifts that enable us to share God’s love in our own little piece of this big world.  Do not be afraid, friends.  The secret of you already following God’s call is safe here.  Just keep saying yes, keep saying your quiet hineni and God will keep using you in powerful, dramatic ways.  Amen.

 

[i] David Lose, “Epiphany 5C: Lots to Love,” February 5, 2019, as found on February 6, 2019, at http://www.davidlose.net/2019/02/epiphany-5-c-lots-to-love/.

[ii] Lose.

[iii] Lose.

[iv] Lose.

[v][v] Lose.

Sermon – Matthew 5.1-12, AS, YA, November 5, 2017

Tags

All Saints, Beatitudes, blessed, blessedness, extraordinary, God, grace, Jesus, love, martyr, ordinary, saints, Sermon, Sermon on the Mount, souls, unattainable, virtues

Today we honor All Saints Sunday, one of the major feasts of the Episcopal Church.  We recall this day all the faithful departed who lives were marked by heroic sanctity and whose deeds have been recalled and emulated from one generation to the next.  The celebration of these saints began as early as the late 200s, as churches began to honor those who gave up their lives for their faith, as well as those who lives were particularly exemplary.  Later, in the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox traditions, sainthood became reserved for a select few who meet a certain set of requirements, which could include the performance of miracles or a particularly virtuous life.

On such a day of reverence for those whose virtuous lives remind us of God, our gospel lesson from Matthew is an intriguing choice.  Today’s gospel lesson is the beginning of what we call the Sermon on the Mount, that ministry-defining sermon by Jesus that tells us what we can expect from the Messiah.  He begins his long sermon with what we call The Beatitudes:  the famous listing of those whom we define as blessed.  The last two beatitudes make a lot of sense for today’s celebration:  Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake…Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.  Certainly martyrs fall into the category of sainthood.  But what about the other beatitudes?  What about those who mourn, who are poor in spirit, are meek?  Those characteristics seem much more passive than martyrdom, or even the actions I associate with most saints.

I think what has always challenged me about honoring the saints or even reading The Beatitudes is that they feel unattainable.  If Jesus is associating being blessed with grief, meekness, poverty, purity, peacemaking, and mercy, I am not sure I can attain those things.  In my mission travels, I have visited with a couple of L’Arche communities.  Founded by Jean Vanier, L’Arche communities are communities for people with developmental disabilities.  Some of those disabilities are quite severe, and others are so mild that the individuals are highly functional.  Rooted in The Beatitudes, L’Arche communities flip the notion of most group homes.  Those with developmental disabilities are called “core members.”  They are the center of the community, the most elevated and honored members of the community.  The people who are there to help them are called “assistants,” and they live among the core members.  Though society labels abled-bodied people as more valuable, in L’Arche communities, the able-bodied members are seen as mere helpers for the more revered members.

The use of The Beatitudes in shaping L’Arche communities only heightened my sense of inadequacy when reading those beautiful words.  Reading those words have often made me feel like an outsider – that unless I suffer grief, pain, persecution, I will never come close to God.  Unless I give up my life in the ways that many assistants do at L’Arche, or unless I give up my life as the martyrs do, my life will only be one of mediocrity.  I will never be able to achieve the checklist of virtues that The Beatitudes provide.

Luckily, I found some relief from the scholars this week. Stanley Hauerwas says about Jesus’ words today, “The sermon, therefore is not a list of requirements, but rather a description of the life of a people gathered by and around Jesus.  To be saved is to be so gathered.  That is why the Beatitudes are the interpretive key to the whole sermon – precisely because they are not recommendations.  No one is asked to go out and try to be poor in spirit or to mourn or to be meek.  Rather, Jesus is indicating that given the reality of the kingdom we should not be surprised to find among those who follow him those who are poor in spirit, those who mourn, those who are meek.”[i]  N.T. Wright concurs.  He says, “These ‘blessings,’ the ‘wonderful news’ that [Jesus is] announcing, are not saying ‘try hard to live like this.’  They are saying that people who already are like that are in good shape.”[ii]

Taking the pressure off a sense that I need to work harder to be like the saints or that I need to seek out ways to be mournful or meek, I found the text opened up something else this week.  Another scholar suggests we look at the beatitudes in this way, “Perhaps [Jesus is] challenging who we imagine being blessed in the first place.  Who is worthy of God’s attention.  Who deserves our attention, respect, and honor.  And by doing that, he’s also challenging our very understanding of blessedness itself and, by extension, challenging our culture’s view of, well, pretty much everything.  Blessing.  Power.  Success.  The good life.  Righteousness.  What is noble and admirable.  What is worth striving for and sacrificing for.  You name it.  Jesus seems to invite us to call into question our culturally-born and very much this-worldly view of all the categories with which we structure our life, navigate our decisions, and judge those around us.”[iii]

At our worship service on Wednesday night of this week, we shared who the saints are in our lives – the everyday people who taught us something about God.  There were all sorts of people named – mothers, fathers, grandparents.  One that struck me the most was the description of one such mother.  “She simply did her duty every day:  being a wife, being a mom, structuring the home.”  Though I have come to use saints in my prayer life as vehicles for deeper prayer and connection with God, more often, the people whose lives motivate me are just like that mom:  everyday people whose everyday lives point to the sacred – who reveal God to me in the basic ways they live their lives.

In the Episcopal Church, the day after All Saints’ Day is called All Souls’ Day.  This day was established in the tenth century as an extension of All Saints’ Day.  All Souls’ Day is the day the Church remembers the vast body of the faithful who, though no less members of the company of the redeemed, are unknown in the wider fellowship of the Church.  All Souls’ Day is a day for particular remembrance of family members and friends who, though no icon has ever been painted, showed us the beautiful life of holiness and righteousness.

The honoring of these lesser known saints seems to go much more richly with The Beatitudes to me.  If we know those who are meek, grieving, and poor in spirit are just as righteous as those who thirst and hunger for righteousness, we get to the heart of Jesus’ sermon today.  I imagine you all have a story.  Our family has been following a family whose ten-year old daughter had an awful case of cancer.  She has been fighting and fighting, and just last week Hospice was finally called in for support.  At dinner on Tuesday night, our eldest, just two years younger than our friend, said, unprompted, “I feel bad for kids with cancer who cannot trick-or-treat.”  The next morning, we found out that our little friend had passed that very night.  Lord knows, my child is not often a saint.  But that confluence of grief, suffering, and loss, brought us a little closer to blessedness.

Today, we will tie ribbons on our altar for all the saints and souls who have gone before us.  Maybe you will be tying your ribbon for a canonized saint, whose religious fervor has motivated you in your spiritual journey.  Maybe you will be tying your ribbon for a family saint, whose small, everyday witness taught you about the vastness of God’s love and grace.  Maybe you will be tying your ribbon for the random person you encountered who said something so profound you knew God was speaking right through them to you.  The saints we honor today are exemplary and ordinary.  The saints we honor today are people marked by action and advocacy, and people marked by everyday suffering.  The saints we honor today are people completely unlike us and just like us.  God has certainly inspired us by a host of other witnesses.  But God is also using each of you to inspire others in their journey.  Amen.

[i] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew:  Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 61.

[ii] N.T. Wright, Matthew for Everyone, Part 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 36.

[iii] David Lose, “All Saints A:  Preaching a Beatitudes Inversion,” November 1, 2017, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2017/11/all-saints-a-preaching-a-beatitudes-inversion/ on November 3, 2017.

On Dancing and Identity…

Tags

Christ, church, covenant, disciples, dreamy, everyday, identity, life, moments, mundance, ordinary, romantic, wedding

Photo credit:  https://apracitcalwedding.com/first-dance-wedding-songs/

This week I was visiting a parishioner at a retirement facility.   I was waiting in the lobby to meet the parishioner when I suddenly realized they were playing Glenn Miller’s Moonlight Serenade on the speakers.  I was catapulted to another time and place as I listened.  You see, Moonlight Serenade was the first song my husband and I danced to when we were married.  It had been the same song his grandparents had danced to when they were married 55 years earlier.  Not long after we started dancing, they joined us on the dance floor.  I remember catching a glimpse of them together as I danced with my husband, hoping we could enjoy such longevity and happiness in marriage.

Of course, little of our everyday lives are that dreamy.  We spend much of our marriage tending to the “stuff” of life – juggling work and family time; shuttling children to school, activities, and parties; tending to household duties; and trying to squeeze in sleep now and then.  There are certainly great moments – watching my husband engage our children, listening intently as he passionately talks about his vocation, and laughing heartily as he jokes about things only we get.  We are piecing together a life full of wonderful memories and chapters, but that life is also full of the mundane, everyday, ordinary stuff too.

I think that is why I was so grateful to hear that song this week.  That song reminded me of my identity – a moment in which I covenanted to live in a certain way with a certain person.  Though our dance together was just one part of that day, the song is a tangible reminder of identity.

After my visit and quick note to my husband about “our song,” I found myself wondering what other markers of identity we experience.  In the Episcopal Church, I would argue the sacraments are our biggest ones – the weekly celebration of Holy Eucharist, and the periodic celebration of Baptism.  In fact, Church is all about helping us define our identity as disciples of Christ – reminding us who and whose we are.  But I wonder, in your mundane, everyday, ordinary lives, what moments or events remind you of that identity?  What are those moments that halt you in your steps in a lobby and make you feel affirmed, rooted, loved, and empowered?

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CE, YC, December 24, 2015

Tags

agricultural, celebrate, Christmas, civic, extraordinary, family, gift, God, holiness, Jesus, Joseph, life, Mary, ordinary, Sermon, shepherds

In many ways, the story that we tell tonight is rather ordinary.  As the story begins, the government is doing what the government does – finding ways to tax the people.  And so the people without influence are herded – herded back to their hometowns to be registered so that the Emperor can be certain he is getting all he is owed.  But anytime you move masses of people, you get overcrowding.  That is what happens in Bethlehem this night.  Though Joseph’s extended family is expecting him, they run out of space.  Though the story says there is no room in the inn, the more likely scenario is that the family guest room was already full.[i]  So Joseph and his pregnant fiancé get the leftovers – the area of the home meant for the animals.  We’ve had those moments – when your delinquent uncle or your slacker friend shows up unexpected.  You grab a pillow and a blanket and offer space on the couch – or the floor if the couch is already taken.  This is just an ordinary night of making the space work.

Of course, no woman would want to give birth under these conditions, but that is the funny thing about birth – births happen all the time, whether people are ready or not.  Though every time a baby is born we marvel at the miracle of life, births are really much more commonplace that we give them credit for being.  Just like any other birth, Mary finds a place to lay the baby, and just like any other mother, Mary finds a way to swaddle the baby so that he can ease off to sleep.  And so in the messiness of managing civic life and familial life, here our story has us working through the ordinary mess of reproductive life.

And in case we were to get too excited about our story, God decides to reveal the occurrences of that night to even more ordinary people.  Enter the shepherds.  These are ordinary men, doing the necessary work of shepherding.  In fact, these men are so ordinary, they are almost invisible to the outside world.  They are not busy heading to their home town to be counted because according to the day, they are not worth counting.[ii]  They are the migrant workers that do the work no one else wants to do.  So while everyone is sleeping, or eating, or enjoying the warmth of a fire, the shepherds are out tending their flocks, focused on the ordinariness of agricultural life.

Of course, the story becomes interesting when we hear about all of the extraordinary parts of this story.  Yes, there is the same greedy government, the same crowded family, the same new parents, and the same business of farm life.  But something extraordinary breaks into the ordinary this night.  In the midst of everyday lives, God breaks in through the ordinary and proclaims good news of great joy.  The Messiah has been born – the long awaited Savior who will change everything.  In fact, the angels are so blown away by this extraordinary moment in time that they break into song, praising God.  That is what we do when faced with the extraordinary.  We praise God for God’s goodness and mercy and grace.  God takes on human flesh for us, and the angels do the only thing they can – they praise God in gratitude.

The shepherds’ initial reaction to the same news is quite ordinary – they go and talk to the family.  They tell Mary and Joseph what they saw.  Again, the scene is quite ordinary – a travel-worn family making due in rustic quarters having a conversation with equally worn shepherds.  No one is out of place in this scene – everyone is equally ordinary.  And yet, the extraordinary lights up the room.  So extraordinary is the night that the shepherds leave, glorifying and praising God.  They echo the response of the angels, expressing their overwhelming gratitude in the only way they know how – praising and thanking God.  Mary too knows how extraordinary this night is.  She treasures this extraordinary moment in her heart, left pondering what new thing God is doing.

That is what we love about this story:  the juxtaposition of the ordinary with the extraordinary.  The ordinary part we know intimately.  We too find ourselves living ordinary lives.  We work, we play, we laugh, we cry.  We pay our taxes, we deal with family, we go through labor pains.  We come to church, we pray together, we read scripture together, and we feast on the holy meal.  With the exception of a few fun vacations, nights out on the town, or the wedding of a friend, our lives are relatively ordinary.  I am pretty sure most of us have not witnessed a heavenly host bringing us good tidings of great joy.

We do not get the extraordinary most days:  except, of course, when we do.  Even in our ordinary lives, God breaks in with the extraordinary.  Just a couple of weeks ago a parishioner was telling me about how our conversations at church had finally worn him down.  When he ran into a homeless person on his walk in the City, he decided to finally give him some money – a practice that he never endorses.  Something about his experience with God was softening his resolve and he was able, in a moment of clarity, to see the humanity of the man.  Or the other week, I was talking to a teacher about the profound things her children sometimes say.  They sometimes say things that stop her in her tracks and make her reevaluate her way of being.  Or a few months ago I was talking to another person of faith about her prayer life.  She confessed rather sheepishly that sometimes in her prayers, especially when she makes room to listen to God, hears a response back.  She felt like she could not really explain the phenomenon well, but she knew the voice must be from God because the words rang so true and were nothing she would have come to on her own.

That is what happens in our ordinary lives – God breaks through again and again, overwhelming us with the extraordinary.  Those moments are gifts that we celebrate an honor, because they are just that – gifts.  That is the same reason we celebrate tonight.  We honor the gift that God gives us in Christ Jesus.  For all intents and purposes, Jesus is just another baby born under ordinary circumstances.  But we know that he is so much more:  God Incarnate, Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.  Tonight is about honoring the extraordinary in the midst of the ordinary.  Tonight is about claiming the joy that can only come from extraordinary acts of God.  But tonight is also about claiming the joy of a community that invites us to praise – to glorify God as we go our own ways this night.  We are blessed over and over.  In the trials and tribulations of ordinary life, we are so blessed by our extraordinary God and the community of faith that gathers with us.  In fact, the extraordinary nature of God hallows our ordinary lives, making them anything but ordinary.  Tonight, I invite you to embrace the extraordinary in our midst, to honor the holiness of the ordinary, and to find ways to share that extraordinary in our ordinary lives tomorrow.  Amen.

[i] Richard Swanson, “Commentary on Luke 2:[1-7] 8-20,” December 25, 2013, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1880 on December 22, 2015.

[ii] Michael S. Bennett, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 118.

Sermon – Matthew 4.12-23, E3, YA, January 26, 2014

Tags

call, extraordinary, fishers of people, God, immediately, Jesus, ministry, ordinary, relationship, transformative

The first time I sensed a call to ordained ministry was in my last year of college.  The sense of call was strong and I felt like I could hear God’s word to me as clear as a bell.  And so what did I do?  I ran the other way…for a long time.  I remember thinking, “Oh, no.  I can’t do that.  How about I choose how I will serve God?”  And so off I went to my first my position after college.  When that was done, I knew the position was not quite the right fit, so I tried something a little closer to what felt like my call.  And of course, within a year or two, that did not quite feel right either.  And so I began to try to figure out how else God might be calling me.  Around and around I went with this game until finally someone just said straight out, “I think you ought to become an Episcopal priest.”  Even with that direct, irrefutable statement from a live person, I still could not say yes.  I took another whole year in discernment before I was finally ready to say yes to God. 

Needless to say, my response to God’s call was nothing like the response of the disciples in today’s Gospel.  Matthew says that Peter and Andrew immediately left their nets and followed Jesus.  Immediately they left.  The Message translation of this verse says, “They didn’t ask questions, but simply dropped their nets and followed.”  I do not know about you, but the idea of following Jesus immediately, and especially following Jesus without asking any questions seems ludicrous to me.  That act of leaving immediately is equally shocking in Jesus’ day too.  The disciples follow Jesus without qualification or questions.  They leave behind their entire profession, which is quite likely a lucrative business at the time.  All of this without any assurances that they will be provided for or have the ability to improve their financial standing by following Jesus.  Finally, following Jesus immediately means leaving behind families.[i]  This last shocker is perhaps the most unsettling because this is all happening in a time when family connections are “a primary source both of identity and honor,” and at a time when caring for one’s parents is “rooted both in cultural custom and in biblical law.”[ii]  This call narrative is as shocking then as the narrative is shocking now.

In our Adult Forum series last week, we talked about discerning God’s call in our lives.  We opened by reading this text from Isaiah 42, “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations.  He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice.”[iii]  Our class then reread the Isaiah passage, inserting our names in the passage.  So we heard statements like, “Kurt will bring forth justice to the nations,” or “I have put my spirit upon Barbara.”  We realized two things once we put our own names into the passage.  One, when we hear the words, “called to ministry,” we often think of clergy, missionaries, or people from scripture – not everyday people from Long Island.  Second, many of us do not think of ourselves as being called to a ministry.  We may volunteer at church or help out others, but we rarely use “call” language to describe what we do with our time, especially if our secular work does not feel particularly tied to our sacred beliefs.  But then we read the Catechism in the back of the Prayer Book.  The first persons listed as being ministers of the Church are lay persons, and according to the Catechism, the ministry of the laity, “…is to represent Christ and his Church; to bear witness to him wherever they may be; and, according to the gifts given them, to carry on Christ’s work of reconciliation in the world.”[iv]  So not only were we grappling with the idea of being ministers, we were grappling with the idea that those call stories are not just for someone else – we have a call story too.

Once we come around to the idea that we are all called by God, the big question then becomes, can we imagine responding to God’s call immediately like the disciples do with Jesus today?  Do we hear God’s invitation into ministry or a new vocation and immediately drop our nets, without question or delay?  Perhaps a better place to begin is to look back at Matthew’s text and see exactly what Jesus calls those first disciples to do.  Jesus says to follow him and he will make them fishers of people.  I have always read that invitation and basically translated the invitation as Jesus is going to teach them to be evangelists, converting others to Christ.  But as I read this week, I stumbled across a new interpretation of that phrase.  One scholar suggests that inviting the disciples to be fishers of people is an invitation to be in relationship – with Jesus, with each other, and with all the various people they will meet over the next few years, or perhaps even over the rest of their lives. 

If being fishers of people means being in relationship, what does that actually look like?  Exploring Jesus’ relationship with his disciples gives us some clues.  Being fishers of people means “bearing each other’s burdens, caring for each other and especially the vulnerable, holding onto each other through thick and thin, always with the hope and promise of God’s abundant grace.”[v]  Why would Jesus call people into relationship in this way?  Because by calling ordinary people in the midst of their ordinary lives into relationship with the ordinary people all around them, extraordinary things happen. 

So what does that look like here at St. Margaret’s?  In some ways many of us are already fishers of people.  We care for one another in this community, visit one another especially in crisis or illness.  But we also are in relationship with our neighbors – the staff at the local high school who connects us with those in need; our interfaith brothers and sisters as we make sandwiches together for the hungry; the people we meet, both at local ministries, but even our AHRC neighbors as we grow vegetables together.  And the invitation to be fishers of people keeps finding new manifestations here.  Our Outreach Committee is exploring a relationship with a community in Haiti – one facilitated by our relationship with another local parish here in Nassau County.  Though I know many of us are hesitant about international service, imagine what our dropping our nets without question and following Jesus might look like in that relationship.  Meanwhile, as we consider the possibility of a pilgrimage, we consider the ways that we will forge new relationships – with God, with one another, and certainly with people we have never met before.  Even something as simple as our new sponsorship of a Plainview Little League team this year has the potential for being a place to be fishers of people – where we can meet local parents while taking in a game and rooting for our team. 

These very real invitations into new relationships are scary or perhaps seem frivolous to us now.  But the power of Jesus’ invitation to be fishers of people is transformative.  First, accepting the invitation to be fishers of people transforms us.  When we enter into relationships with others, those interactions change us forever.  They help us see God in new ways, they help us reshape our worldview, and they help us to better understand our calling – that ministry that we all have.  Being fishers of people transforms not just us, but also transforms those with whom we are in relationship.  For many years, the staff at AHRC saw St. Margaret’s as distant, if not even inhospitable neighbors.  But now, the staff knows our names, sees new hope in our relationship, and perhaps even sees the love of Jesus through us.  Finally, being fishers of people transforms not just us and those with whom we are in relationship; being fishers of people transforms the kingdom of God here and now.  Our relationships have an impact way beyond the relationships themselves.  Others see the quality of our relationships and they see something intriguing, something inviting, and something inclusive.  Through those relationships, we invite others in, and the kingdom of earth begins to look a lot more like the kingdom of God.  You may not be able to drop your nets immediately today to follow Jesus.  But if you cannot drop them today, know that Jesus’ invitation to follow him is waiting for you and that God will empower you to say yes when you are ready.  Amen.

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[i] Troy A. Miller, “Exegetical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. A., Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 289.

[ii] Judith Jones, “Commentary on Matthew 4.12-23,” as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx? commentary_id=1972 on January 23, 2014.

[iii] Isaiah 42.1-3 

[iv] BCP, 855.

[v] David Lose, “Fishers of People,” as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=3018 on January 23, 2014.

Homily – Advent Lessons and Carols, December 1, 2013

Tags

Advent, Christmas, different, Episcopal Church, Lessons and Carols, music, ordinary, quiet

My first experience of Advent in the Episcopal Church was a bit of a let-down.  In the United Methodist Churches where I grew up in, Advent was a time to sing all our favorite Christmas songs, preparing us for the great feast of Christmas.  It was sort of like turning on the local Christmas radio station throughout Advent, but only with the religious songs.  I loved the experience, and looked forward to December all year long.  So when I encountered Advent in the Episcopal Church for the first time, you can imagine my surprise and disappointment.  Not only were we not singing Christmas songs, the songs we were singing felt drab and disappointing.  Everything about the season felt quiet and reserved – nothing like the boisterous build-up I was used to for Christmas.  I found myself thoroughly confused – wondering if the Episcopal Church had not received the Christmas memo.

But slowly, as the Church usually does, the Episcopal Church won me over.  As my adult life became more frenetic, the quiet of Advent became like a precious gift.  Instead of putting me in the stable on December 1^st, the Church reminded me of the journey toward the stable – of prophecies and promises, of visitations and expectations, of hopes and dreams.  And believe it or not, slowly over the years, I found that there were actually Advent songs that I liked, and eventually came to love, cherish, and anticipate every year.  Many of my favorites we hear today:  O Come, O Come Emmanuel; The Angel Gabriel; and Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence.  Not only are the words beautiful, but the music reaches something deep inside of me and invites me into a rich, reflective reverence as I block out all that beckons me into a break-neck pace of life.  I find that the music calms my spirit and invites me into contemplation and quiet before our God.

And so today, on this first Sunday in Advent, the Church gives us the gift of Advent Lessons and Carols.  Leading up to this day, many of you have asked me, on this day of joint worship, as we head into our Annual Meeting, why we would not have Holy Eucharist.  The strict answer is that the liturgy of Advent Lessons and Carols does not recommend Holy Eucharist.  But the better answer for me is that by having a service so outside our normal pattern, we are marking the differentness of this season of Advent.  By starting out the season with a service so out of the ordinary, we proclaim that Advent is not ordinary.  Our behavior during Advent will not be ordinary – at least not the ordinary of the secular world this time of the year.  As we claim this season of Advent is as quiet oasis during in an otherwise frenzied time, we shake up our senses so much that we cannot help but to set our intentions for these four weeks on a different way of being throughout this season.

I invite you today to drink in the gift of Lessons and Carols.  I invite you too soak in the differentness of this day, letting the service awaken your senses to what is to come.  I invite you to listen to the lessons, many of which you will hear again throughout Advent, remembering why the birth of the Christ Child is so momentous.  I invite you to meditate on the music of this day, letting the words speak new truth to you, and allowing the melodies to calm and renew you.  Advent is the Church’s gift to you, and our service of Lesson and Carols reminds us of the availability of that gift.  Drink from the rich, deep pools of refreshment waiting for you today.  Amen.