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On Merry, Messy Christmases…

22 Wednesday Dec 2021

Posted by jandrewsweckerly in reflection

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abundance, blessing, Christmas, horrible, Jesus, joyful, juxtaposition, merry, messy, perfect

Photo credit: https://myharvestchurch.ca/messy-christmas/

Christmas as a pastor is not really like Christmas for most people.  Just ask any preacher’s kid.  While their peers are taking long road trips, fun vacations, or at least doing fun activities like making gingerbread houses, going to the movies, or baking cookies, the fun in a pastor’s home does not really begin in earnest until all the church services are done – and after a requisite nap for said pastor. 

But that is just surface stuff.  The harder part for clergy is holding in tension the reality of Christmas.  The secular world would have you believe Christmas means perfectly decorated trees stuffed with tons of perfect presents, hearths dressed in elaborate greenery, family traditions that always bring joy, and gatherings around meals with people who are happy to be together. 

But clergy are the ones who hear throughout Advent about those dealing with health crises, those struggling with the pending death of a loved one, those whose marriages are crumbling, those struggling to make ends meet, and those who are in the fog of depression and anxiety.  Clergy are also the ones who celebrate weddings, the births of babies, the good grade on an exam, the new relationships or reconciled family member, and the unbounded joy of a child waiting to open gifts.  The juxtaposition of the messy, horribleness of life and the joyful, abundance of life is never sharper than at Christmas – where societal and personal expectations are high, and where reality never reaches perfection. 

The irony, though, is that the actual Christmas story is just about that – a juxtaposition of messy horribleness and joyful abundance:  where governments are oppressing the poor financially, where pregnancies are scandalous, where birthing rooms are inadequate; all while the poor receive good news, where the lowly birth the mighty, and where community and goodness is shared among strangers.  This year, still slogging through a long season of pandemic and political strife, I pray that you might see the Christmas story clear-eyed – taking off the rose-colored glasses, and seeing with fresh eyes the messy, ugly, beautiful story of Christmas.  Christmas blessings my friends!  I see you, I love you, and more importantly, so does Jesus.

Sermon – Mark 12.28-34, Deuteronomy 6.1-9, P26, YB, October 31, 2021

17 Wednesday Nov 2021

Posted by jandrewsweckerly in Sermons

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commandments, discomfort, gift, God, grace, Jesus, love, neighbor, perfect, radical, responsive, self, Sermon, shema, silence

In preparation for a mission trip to Honduras, we did a lot of study on the history, politics, and economic development of the country.  Part of that preparation included reading Don’t Be Afraid, Gringo, the story of Honduran woman Eliva Alvarado.  Her story is the story of all campesinos – the poor and oppressed in her country.  Her story is the kind of story that stirs up righteous indignation and makes you want to hop on a plane to go fight for justice.  But in the conclusion of her story, she says to the reader that her ultimate desire is for us to stay where we are.  She does not want her story to inspire us to come there and “fix” things.  Instead, she implores us to fix ourselves – explore our own country’s policies and practices that abet the oppression by the privileged in her country. 

I remember when we got to her conclusion, the team sat in silence for a long time.  You could see the wheels churning in each of our minds – surely, we know what is best, surely we can fix things if we can just get there, surely there is a way around the way this woman has made us feel impotent.  And yet, there was profound truth in her words, and an understanding that to not listen to her final request would be worse than to have not read her words at all.  And so, we sat in pained silence, letting her charge sit uncomfortably with us.

Jesus creates a similar silence at the end of our gospel lesson today.  Jesus has been poked and prodded by one group after another at this point in Mark’s gospel.  In chapter 11, the chief priests, scribes, and elders question Jesus’ authority.  Early in chapter 12, the Pharisees and some Herodians try to trap Jesus with a question.  Finally, some Sadducees question Jesus about a theological issue.  Then today, a scribe asks a “palpably disarming” question – not one to test Jesus, but as one scholar says, an “invitation to the table of theological discourse.”[i]  The conversation today is about the greatest of the commandments. 

Jesus’ response is not new.  In fact, Jesus quotes the shema, the classic text we heard just this morning from Deuteronomy, “Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.”  This is a text the Israelites have emblazoned in the minds of their children, and repeated for generations, “Shema Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad.”  “Hear, O Israel, The Lord is our God, the Lord alone (or the Lord is one).”  Jesus tweaks the answer only slightly from the original shema, adding that we should love the Lord our God with all our mind in addition to all our heart, soul, and strength.  And he adds that we should love our neighbor as ourselves.  But that notion is true to the original commandments as well.  When the scribe agrees with Jesus, saying loving God and neighbor as self is more important than any other ritual of the faith, the crowd falls silent, and we are told “no one dared to ask him any question.”  In other words, “Jesus’ critics were silenced and the effect was momentarily deafening.”[ii] 

So why is the crowd suddenly and dramatically silenced?  What’s the big deal about loving God and neighbor as self?  We talk about these commands all the time.  I mean, Bishop Curry has preached these words more times than I can count.  So why do Jesus’ words shock the room into silence?  One scholar suggests that the silence is so deafening because those gathered understood something about the reality of love that we modern Americans sometimes neglect.  As one scholar explains, “…sometimes — especially in western Christianity — we focus so hard on the emotive and affective aspects of love that we forget its rigor, its robustness, its discomfort.  We assume that loving God and our neighbors means expressing friendly sentiments to God in Sunday worship, and exchanging warm pleasantries with the people who live near us during the week.  We forget that in the scriptures, the call to love is a call to vulnerability, sacrifice, and suffering.  It’s a call to bear a cross and lay down our lives.  Biblical love is not an emotion we feel, it’s a path we travel.  As the children of God, we are called to walk in love. Think aerobic activity, not Hallmark sentiment.”[iii]  An invitation into that kind of radical love – the love of neighbors we would rather not love, the love that is as powerful as the natural, preserving love of self[iv], the love that is a response to the overwhelming love of God for us – that kind of invitation is sobering. 

I remember having read Elvia’s disinvitation to come to Honduras and “fix” things felt like a disempowering, painful rebuffing of love.  But I think I felt that way because we do not get to dictate what love of neighbor looks like.  True love of neighbor is not self-designed but is responsive – responsive to our love of God, and respectfully responsive to the self-articulation of needs by others.  Elvia’s self-articulation was deafeningly silencing the way Jesus’ invitation is too.  As scholar Debie Thomas explains, “Silence is the appropriate first response to the radical love we’re called to.  We dare not speak of [love] glibly.  We dare not cheapen [love] with shallow sentiment or piety.  Rather, [we] ask for the grace to receive [love] as the wise scribe received [love].  In awed and grateful silence.”[v]  Only when we have sat in the uncomfortable silence that recognizes the true love of God and neighbor as self are we ready to take up every perfect gift God has given us and travel the path of love.  Amen.


[i] Cynthia A. Jarvis, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 262.

[ii] Jarvis, 364.

[iii] Debie Thomas, “Walk in Love,” October 24, 2021, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2944 on October 29, 2021.

[iv] Victor McCracken, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 262.

[v] Thomas.

On Tiny Perfect Things…

26 Wednesday May 2021

Posted by jandrewsweckerly in reflection

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blessing, Christ, God, grace, moment, pandemic, perfect, small, tiny

Photo credit: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/269441990176015475/

I just finished up a movie called The Map of Tiny Perfect Things.  The premise is much like Groundhog Day, where Bill Murray relives the same day over and over again.  But in this film, the two protagonists use their day of repetition to find tiny perfect things – an eagle grabbing a fish out of a lake, an elderly woman dancing about a game victory, a perfectly timed funny moment, a custodian sneaking on a piano, demonstrating his incredible hidden talent. 

These last weeks, I have been noticing a lot of tiny perfect things as we slowly make our way out of this pandemic:  a hug between vaccinated friends who haven’t seen, let alone touched, each other in over a year; watching kids play with bubbles, mastering not just blowing them, but popping them too; an outdoor wedding after a year of wondering if it would be possible with a long pandemic and the threat of unpredictable weather; being able to hold and bounce a baby after over a year of isolating newborns from all of us. 

We are approaching some of those tiny perfect things at our church as well.  Because we are loosening restrictions incrementally, we are not getting some magical “perfect” experience where everything “goes back to normal.”  But we are approaching a time where we can sit in pews that were off limits, where we can sing those songs and texts that have been spoken or been instrumental, where we can sit beside a friend whose physical presence we have missed, where we can receive the body and blood of Christ.  We still have to mask, and communion is being served in sealed plastic chalices – but there are tiny perfect things nonetheless. 

This week, I invite you to find your own tiny perfect things – tiny moments of grace.  Take a moment to watch children play in your neighborhood, see what wonders nature is up to, enjoy a bit of hearty laughter, or observe the way an older couple holds hands after what must be decades of marriage.  There is a lot of work to be done as Christ commissions us to go out in the world.  But what will sustain us in that work are the tiny perfect things that remind us of God’s blessing and grace that are there for us every day.  I cannot wait to hear what you find!

The Pilgrim’s Way…Day 6

12 Wednesday Feb 2020

Posted by jandrewsweckerly in Uncategorized

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

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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!

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

On Thanksgiving and Imperfection…

04 Wednesday Dec 2019

Posted by jandrewsweckerly in Uncategorized

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God, gratitude, imperfect, love, messy, perfect, ritual, shadow, sinner, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Day

Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving

Photo credit:  https://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/collections/thanksgiving/

The last two weeks have been marked with rituals of thanksgiving:  a community ecumenical Thanksgiving service at the local Roman Catholic Church, Holy Eucharist on Thanksgiving Day at Hickory Neck, dinner and visiting with my dad, and, today, offering the benediction at the 400th anniversary of the first official English Thanksgiving in North America.  The rituals have all been tremendous blessings and ways to center and ground life in gratitude, a practice that can sometimes fall to the wayside in the busyness of life.

However, what has struck me about this season of gratitude is how imperfect it has been.  Often when we think of Thanksgiving Day, we immediately picture Norman Rockwell’s famous painting of the perfect meal.  But as I checked in with people and as I watched those around me, I realized nothing about this season of thanksgiving has been perfect.  I had parishioners who just welcomed a baby a few days before Thanksgiving Day and had resigned themselves to having Chinese so that no one would have to cook or stress about taking the newborn out.  I heard stories of family drama over the menu for the day.  My own family was coming off a few hospitalizations so resigned ourselves to dinner out – which then got foiled by a two-hour wait, with a wait staff that looked like they wanted to be home with their own families.  The music and collaboration of clergy was beautiful last week, but we hold in tension our denominational differences.  Even the anniversary celebration today is consciously honoring the ways in which the histories of American Indians, African-Americans, and English-Americans bring a shadow over our celebration.

As I have been pondering this imperfection, this disconnect between our ideal of perfected thanksgiving rituals and the reality of the messiness of life, I have actually found deep spiritual comfort.  Nothing about our lives is perfect.  We are all sinners, trying to be better versions of ourselves.  Even our offering of thanksgiving is imperfect.  But the love of God is perfect.  God sees our messiness and loves us anyway.  God sees the ways we hurt each other, the ways we argue, the ways we are rude or unkind, the ways that we cannot always honor our rituals, and God loves us anyway.  In fact, I sometimes wonder if God doesn’t prefer our imperfection, for in confessing our imperfection, we are fully honest, fully vulnerable, and fully trusting of God.  We bring our real selves to God, and it is there that we give the most heartfelt thanksgiving.  We feel, know, and experience God most powerfully in those moments of imperfection.

This week, I invite you to continue your practice of gratitude with God and one another.  In our thanksgiving, we are not just thanking one another for appearance’s sake, but we are thanking one another in fullness, in love, and in generosity.  Use this week to find people to thank – for the big things and the very tiny things.  My guess is we may all start working toward the perfection of God’s love with each act of thanksgiving.

Homily – Luke 2.-8-20, Blue Christmas, December 21, 2016

04 Wednesday Jan 2017

Posted by jandrewsweckerly in Sermons, Uncategorized

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Blue Christmas, Christmas, happy, Holy Family, homily, honest, hope, imperfection, perfect, perfection, real, vulnerable

I can still picture the perfect Christmas in my head.  My cousins were all there, along with my aunts, uncles, and grandparents.  The kids’ table was the coveted spot for dinner – even some the adults offered to make the “sacrifice” of not sitting at the adult table in order to join the kids.  After a dinner with the lamb and asparagus casserole my grandfather always cooked, the cousins challenged the aunts and uncles to a football game in the yard.  I scored a touchdown, which if you know me, was a minor miracle.  It was a perfectly beautiful, chilly day, and I remember being happy.

Of course, I was too young to know what was actually happening.  Marriages were hanging on by a string, and only one would survive.  Anxiety was hidden beneath the surface at the kids’ table as one family member barked at us for various offenses.  At least one family member was struggling with her sexuality.  Cousins would later be caught in the middle of nasty divorces, meaning I would not see them for several years.  Jobs would be lost, and identity would be questioned in the midst of unemployment.  American politics would infect family politics.  Even my own immediate family was heading for all sorts of tumult.

For a long time, I mourned the loss of that perfect Christmas.  I saw other families seeming to hold their Christmases together without effort.  I watched commercials that reminded me more of how things used to be rather than how they were.  I would receive annual Christmas cards and letters from seemingly perfect friends that made me feel like I did not measure up.  Even the pictures of the Holy Family seemed to capture a peace and contentment that I would never have.

But slowly, over the years, the old Biblical narrative seemed to unravel.  Knowing how hard marriage is, I could finally imagine how tense things must have been between Joseph and Mary.  Knowing how hard pregnancy is, I could finally imagine how miserable Mary must have been by the time they arrived in Bethlehem.  Knowing how brutal the Roman rulers were, I could imagine how dehumanizing going back to your hometown to be enrolled in the census must have been.  Knowing that not one family member, friend, or business would take in the Holy Family, leaving them in the most humiliating of situations, I could imagine how panicked and lonely the first-time mom, Mary, must have felt, even in her exhaustion.  Knowing how filthy shepherds usually were, and how Mary and Joseph just wanted a little peace, I could imagine how overwhelmed the Holy Family felt.  Though we like nativity sets, cards, and pageants that depict the Holy Family’s experience as heavenly perfection, the scripture tells a different story.

One of my favorite paintings of Mary is a painting that depicts her, just after birth, splayed, half-dressed, on a rustic bed, with women hovering in the dark background, tending to baby Jesus.[i]  There’s something very real and raw about that painting – the animals and baby are all there, but none of it seems perfect.  That’s what I love about this service too.  We too are tired, overwhelmed, and feeling vulnerable.  We too are lost without our loved ones this year.  We too are terrified of the ambiguity of life, and the sense that we are not in control.  But unlike everywhere else we live and work, this gathering tonight says we do not have to hide; we do not have to stuff our vulnerabilities and weaknesses in a box; we do not need to try to find perfection.

Tonight we are simply invited to be real, vulnerable, and honest about the imperfection of our lives, of ourselves, and of this time of year.  And though some artists might want you to believe that the Holy Family puts forth some sort of perfection standard, if anything, the Holy Family is right there with us.  Sitting among smelly animals and shepherds, settling into itchy hay and drafty stables, and wrapping their child in scraps of simple cloths, the Holy Family invites us into an imperfect Christmas.  Only when we enter fully enter into the imperfection of our Christmases are we able to allow the perfection of Christ to light a small flame of hope in our hearts.  May that light be kindled or stoked tonight, and may that light of hope grow ever strong in the days, weeks, and years to come.

[i] Paul Gauguin, “Te Tamari No Atua (Nativity), 1896,” as found at http://www.jesus-story.net/painting_birth_christ.htm on December 20, 2016.

Sermon – Philippians 3.17-4.1, L2, YC, February 24, 2013

25 Monday Feb 2013

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Christ-like, example, imitate, Jesus, Paul, perfect, Sermon, teacher

When a person is ordained as a priest, they make a series of vows.  One of the scariest ones for me was this question:  Will you do your best to pattern your life and the life of your family in accordance with the teachings of Christ, so that you may be a wholesome example to your people?  The question sounds simple enough:  Will you be an example to others?  But the question is anything but simple.  The question asks whether the priest will shape their lives so that parishioners, neighbors, and the world will understand the teachings of Christ through the priest’s life.  And not only is the priest responsible, the whole family of the priest has to be an example.  So when your three-year old is having a meltdown in Target, and your nerves are shot from a morning of similar tempter tantrums, and your spouse and you have argued about discipline, you and your family are supposed to be emanating Christ in Target.

Of course, the priest is not the only one who is supposed to be living a Christ-like life.  When we are baptized, and every time we affirm our baptismal covenant, those promises we renew are all about living a Christ-like life.  And yet, we rarely walk the walk that we talk.  I think one of the most common retorts to a petulant teen by a parent has been, “Do what I say, not what I do.”  We know the life we are supposed to live – even the life we want to live – and yet we fail miserably at that life everyday.  One of my favorite online videos is a video for Welcome Back Sunday in the fall.  The video talks about the top reasons why people do not come to church.  One of those reasons is that the Church is full of hypocrites.  We know the ways that we feel like hypocrites and the world knows the ways we act like hypocrites.

So, when we read our epistle lesson to the Philippians today, we may be shocked by Paul’s words.  Paul, who has regularly said that followers of Christ should imitate Christ, now says, “Brothers and sisters, join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have in us.”  Paul’s instruction to imitate him is bold.  Paul does not say, “Do as I say, not as I do.”  Paul says, “Do what I do.”  Modern skeptics that we are, we immediately assume Paul has developed an inflated ego.  We know that telling people to imitate you is the first step toward a nasty fall.  Such a bold claim is setting Paul up for failure – because none of us are perfect.  Paul’s words immediately remind us of the hundreds of clergy who have fallen – who have embezzled, had affairs, abused children, abused alcohol, and have failed to be faithful pastors.  Surely Paul is setting up himself and the many people who are following him for failure.  Why would he do such a thing?

What we lose in our jaded, skeptical, snarky twenty-first century selves is the reminder of how learning and formation have happened for centuries.  Both Jesus, and Paul his disciple, “know that true moral and spiritual formation depends on tutelage under a master – learning to follow the habits and practices of one who has become proficient in a particular trade or skill.  Indeed, this is the precise meaning of the word ‘disciple’:  a learner or pupil.”[i]  In this way, disciples are learning from someone wiser than themselves, and in fact are imitating the teacher’s teacher.[ii]  So when Paul says imitate me, he does not really mean imitate Paul, but imitate Paul, who is imitating Jesus Christ.  Imitate the teacher’s teacher.

What I find comforting then, is that Paul is not saying he is perfect.  He is not boasting about his perfect imitation of Christ, but only encouraging others to imitate Christ as he imitates Christ.  What Paul knows is that our lives are never perfect.  But if we are not imitating something worth imitation, then we are already losing the battle.  And so, Paul’s imitation and our imitation many years later may be rough versions of Jesus Christ, but our imitation is still rooted in that great teacher who taught so many before us.

How we imitate Paul today is a bit more complicated.  We too must find our teachers who point to The Teacher.  The trick is not to think too remotely.  When asked who our role models are, many of us will name famous people of faith – Martin Luther King, Jr. or Mother Teresa.  And those folks will give us much to ponder about our faith life.  But the problem is, sometimes those people are so removed from our lives that they cannot really teach us how to live our lives as Christians.  I did a book study with a group once to prepare us for a prison ministry.  The book was about a woman from California in her fifties who gave up everything and moved into a prison in Tijuana as a nun to become an advocate for the men and families affected by the prison.  She lived in a cell in the prison and she ministered to the guards and the prisoners alike.  She transformed the place into a place of humanity.  She helped everyone equally, and managed to mobilize thousands of Americans to support the desperate needs of the Mexican prison.  Mother Antonia was an amazing role model that we all found incredibly inspiring.  But at the end of the series, one of the group members confessed that despite the fact that she appreciated Mother Antonia, she really would have preferred to have read a book about someone a little more like herself.  Mother Antonia was so dramatically different from her life that she found that instead of being inspired, she was left without a true mentor to imitate.

This is why Paul offers himself up as an example.  Not because he is some stellar example of Christ, but because he is in relationship with those with whom he is talking.  Paul realizes that the most powerful person to learn from is someone right in your community.  “Paul is directing the gaze of the community not toward some type of individual perfection, not even toward the supreme perfection of Christ…but to the realization of Christ’s love within the community itself.”[iii]

So Paul is inviting us to do a couple of things.  First, Paul is inviting to name our own teachers.  One of my favorite set of teachers is a couple I know from college.  When Rebecca and David were married, they bought a home in North Carolina much larger than what they would need.  The house was a fixer-upper, but they had dreams.  Their dream was to make the house into an intentional Christian community that also serves as a transitional house for families.  So, people who are in-between jobs, a woman who is recently divorced, or really anyone the local pastor recommends is welcome to come live in their home.  They have some house rules about sharing work, community meals, and weekly worship.  But Rebecca, David, and their two sons are imitating Christ in this radical lifestyle.  When I am really wondering how to live a Christ-like life, I look at this family and see how far I have to go.

But even Rebecca and David can be a little too removed.  So sometimes I just look at those around me.  I look at the spiritual disciplines of parishioners here.  I look at the ways that you care for those with physical limitations.  I look at the ways you tend to this property or the ways that you serve our neighbors in need.  Much like Paul and his community, we are not perfect.  We too struggle to understand how faith is lived right here in Plainview.  Our engagement in that struggle is what points us toward Christ.

This leads us to our second invitation from Paul – to recognize the ways in which we are all teachers to others.  When you leave this place every Sunday, you are not just Barbara or Bob or Paul.  You are Barbara the Christian from St. Margaret’s.  You are Bob who shows what being a person of faith is all about:  not because you are perfect, but because you are struggling to be like Christ.  That video about why people do not come to church has responses to each person’s fear or hesitancy about Church.  When one person complains that the Church is full of hypocrites, the Christian honestly and humbly says, “And there’s always room for one more.”  That kind of raw honesty is the kind of honesty that leads to trust, that leads to sharing, that leads to opening our doors to others.  That is the kind of honesty that makes others not only want to imitate us, but also to join us.  Paul invites us then to boldly proclaim, “Imitate me,” so that we can figure this journey out together.  Amen.


[i] Ralph C. Wood, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 62.

[ii] Casey Thompson, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 64.

[iii] Dirk G. Lange, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 65.

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