Sermon – Luke 13.31-35, Psalm 27, L2, YC, March 13, 2022

Tags

confidence, defiant, hen, Jesus, lament, lectionary, lost, love, mistrust, Psalm, reliant, Sermon, theme, trust

When you listen to enough sermons in the Episcopal Church, you will eventually realize the preacher is using a set of lessons from what we call “the lectionary.” Unlike in other denominations, the Episcopal preacher doesn’t really get to go “off script” or preach a particular passage to promote an agenda.  And if you have visited other Episcopal Churches, you quickly learn that we all use the lectionary – whether you watch the broadcast of the National Cathedral or the broadcast of Hickory Neck, you will hear a sermon on the same scripture lessons.  But what you might not know is that within the lectionary there are two “tracks” – one where you read through the Old Testament in a semi-continuous way, and one where you jump around in the Old Testament to allow all the readings to have a similar theme as the Gospel.  Hickory Neck is currently following the thematic readings track.

What is interesting about that thematic track is you would think the Old Testament readings and Gospel would be similar.  But this week, the reality is quite the opposite.  In our Psalm today, we have the ideal follower of God.  The psalmist proclaims things like, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” and the Lord will “hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble; he will conceal me under the cover of his tent; he will set me high on a rock,” and “Teach me your way, O Lord, and lead me on a level path” and finally, “I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”  The psalmist is a faithful follower of God, totally leaning into God for strength and protection, trusting in the Lord’s goodness, wanting to keep learning and being led.  The words of this psalm indicate a confidence in God, a trust in God’s protection, and reliance on the Lord.

And yet, everything in the Gospel text depicts followers of Jesus that are anything but confident, trusting, and reliant.  As Jesus makes his way to Jerusalem, we hear a lament so profound as to cause shame and a sense of failure.  Jesus says, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!  How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”  As one scholar describes Jesus, “He longs and grieves for his lost and wandering children.  For the little ones who will not come home.  For the city that will not welcome its savior.  For the endangered multitudes who refuse to recognize the peril that awaits them.  His is the lamentation of long, thwarted, and helpless yearning — ‘How often have I desired to gather you.’”[i]

Jesus’ lamentation describes the very opposite of the followers in Psalm 27.  Whereas the psalmist has confidence, trust, and reliance, the followers of God in Jesus’ day are lost, mistrusting, and defiant.  In this thematic year of the lectionary, how do we hold these contradictory images in tension with one another?  The reality is the two are not all that different.  In fact, I wonder if our work this Lent is in confessing the ways in which we are those lost, mistrusting, defiant chicks, fighting against the care of our mothering God so that we can be the followers of Christ who can profess psalms with confidence, trust, and reliance. 

This week, I invite you to consider the ways in which you are running away from your protective mother hen Jesus.  How are you fighting against Jesus’ care, Jesus’ love, and Jesus’ grace?  Who in your life is offering you care, love, and grace that you are resisting:  maybe because you do not like to be vulnerable, or you do not like to admit your need, or you just do not like other people in your business?  That care, love, and grace is coming from all directions, and our invitation is to simply say yes – to let ourselves be gathered in by this community and those who love you.  And if that hurdle is just too high this week, perhaps your invitation is to read Psalm 27 every morning this week – and nights too if you need – maybe even singing the Taizé song, “The Lord is my light,” until the repetition convinces you – so that the words of Psalm 27 no longer feel aspirational and become truth.  That way, the next time someone needs you to gather them in, you will have a psalm you can share with the authenticity, grace, and love that has been shown to you this week.  Amen.

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[i] Debie Thomas, “I Have Longed,” March 6, 2022, as found at https://www.journeywithjesus.net/lectionary-essays/current-essay?id=2944 on March 12, 2022.

On New Songs…

Tags

God, grace, gracious, Holy Spirit, Jesus, light, Lord, love, moving, new song, praise, Psalm, reflection, Sermon, sing, suffering

This reflection was offered through the livestream program called “Take Five” at New Zion Baptist Church on July 28, 2020.  This is the text from that talk.

Tonight we turn to Psalm 149, which says, “Praise the Lord.  Sing to the Lord a new song, his praise in the assembly of the saints.  Let Israel rejoice in their Maker; let the people of Zion be glad in their King.  Let them praise his name with dancing and make music to him with tambourine and harp.  For the Lord takes delight in his people; he crowns the humble with victory.  Let the saints rejoice in this honor and sing for joy on their beds.”

Now I know what you may be thinking.  Really?  You want us to talk about praising God?  We’ve got a worldwide pandemic, which our country is becoming one of the worst handlers of in the world, which disproportionately is affecting people of color, and has become so politicized that we are no longer worried about the sanctity of human life, but are instead arguing about rights and the ethics of sacrificing life for some contrived greater good.  Not only that, we are in a crucible around racism, that alternatively gives us great hope for change and makes us despondent about how far we really have to go.  Add to that the emotional, spiritual, financial, and physical toll of this time, a time when we seem incapable of respecting the dignity of every human being, and you want to talk about singing to the Lord a new song?

I don’t know about you, but when I am feeling the weight of the world, and when I am longing for a word from God, an old song is usually where I return.  Every once in a while, when I slow down enough not to just to pray to God, but to actually listen to God, those old timey hymns from my childhood come back.  Their words speak to my ache, or let me wallow in my despair.  They talk about sweet, sweet Spirits, and walks through garden alone with Jesus, and balms in Gilead.  When I talk to Jesus, I want an old song.

But that is not what the psalmist says.  We are not asked to recall the old songs; we are invited to sing a new song.  In fact, seven times in the psalms, we are invited to sing a new song to the Lord.  As a fellow pastor says, “New songs of praise are appropriate for new rescues and fresh manifestations of grace.  As long as God is gracious toward us, as long as he keeps showing us his power, and wowing us with his works, it is fitting that we not just sing old songs inspired by his past grace, but also that we sing new songs about his ever-streaming, never-ceasing grace.”[i]

In this time of utter upheaval, unrest, and unevenness, two things are happening.  One, God is still moving.  The Spirit’s movement may be hard to see or hear in the cacophony of noise.  But I know in talking to New Zion’s leadership, talking to the folks at Hickory Neck Church, and talking to our neighbors here in James City County, Jesus is still moving.  I know that you are finding moments of grace, even in the darkness of this time.  I know that you are seeing shreds of hope, even in what feels like the disappointing failures of our nation.  Two, despite how comforting those old songs are, I am guessing the Holy Spirit has whispering some new songs in your ear.  You may not be sure of the words, and you may be straining to hear the tune.  But in the depths of your heart, where we fear change and we harbor anxiety, we know that only a new song can help get us out of this mess.

So, here’s the good news.  We are not on our own to birth these new songs.  Psalm 40 says, “I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry.  He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.  He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God.  Many will see and fear the Lord and put their trust in him.”  God put a new song in my mouth, says the psalmist.  Not I, out of my genius, wrote a new song.  Not, I worked hard and put in the time, and out of my labor created a new song.  Not, I listened to what others were singing and sang their songs.  No, the psalmist says, God put a new song in my mouth.  Our invitation tonight is to open ourselves to that new song.  Our invitation is to concede that during this time – a time unlike anything any of us has experienced – God is providing something new – new grace and new songs (which might be even better than that old favorite).  Our invitation tonight is to sing the new song God gives us out in the world – to trust in the wisdom of the words and notes Jesus is giving us and shout them out to a world that desperately needs to hear that new song.

Let us pray.  Holy and creative God, we know that you see our suffering and our cries.  We know that you see us patiently waiting on you to lift us up out of the mud and mire, to put us on a firm place to stand.  Help us to trust that you will put a new song in our mouths – a song to give voice to your ever-streaming, never-ceasing grace.  When we finally hear your new song, help us to sing that song – help us to praise your name with dancing, and make music with tambourine and harp.  Help us to remember that when we sing your new song, we shine your light into the world, helping your transformative, life-giving love take root, and disrupt the injustice of our day.  We praise you, Lord, and we bless you, and we sing a new song with you.  Amen.

[i] David Mathis, “Sing a New Song,” May 4, 2014, as found at https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/sing-a-new-song on July 27, 2020.

Sermon – Jeremiah 31.31-34, Psalm 51.1-13, L5, YB, March 18, 2018

Tags

clean, comfort, communion, covenant, exile, God, heart, Lent, persistence, Psalm, relationship, repentance, Sermon, sin, sinfulness, ten commandments

As we heard our psalm today, you may have thought the psalm sounded familiar.  And you would be right.  Just under five weeks ago, we said this exact same psalm on Ash Wednesday.  After we were invited into a holy Lent – one of fasting, self-examination, and repentance, and ashes were spread across our foreheads, we said this psalm.  “Have mercy on me, O God…For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me…[I have] done evil in your sight…” we confessed.  We begged God to create in us a clean heart and renew a right spirit within us.  I wonder how saying these words again, just several weeks later, feels today.  Perhaps after weeks of following your Lenten discipline, you feel closer to that clean heart and renewed spirit.  Maybe you are making your way out of Lent and the repetition of Psalm 51 feels unnecessary because you have completed your repentance work.  But maybe Psalm 51 feels unattainable, because your sinfulness feels like something you cannot shake.

If you are in the latter category, and if, in fact, you are beginning to wonder if you will ever master this sinfulness thing, take heart.  I actually say verse eleven of this psalm every time I celebrate the Eucharist.  Week in and week out, whether we are in Lent, Eastertide, or Ordinary time, even after I have prayed and confessed with the community, before I approach the altar to celebrate holy communion, I say these same words, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.”  Whether in a season of penitence or not, whether I have already celebrated Eucharist two times earlier in the morning, I still pray Psalm 51.11, longing for the God of mercy and hesed, or loving-kindness, to create in me a clean heart.

That is why I think the beginning of our liturgy was so hard today.  As part of the penitential order, we prayed the decalogue, or the ten commandments.  With each commandment, we responded, “Amen. Lord have mercy.”  Reading the decalogue in scripture, as we did just a few weeks ago in Lent is a bit different – somehow having them in paragraph form makes them more palatable – with only certain commandments jumping out at us as areas of improvement.  But praying them is more difficult.  With each commandment receiving a closing petition, the idea is hammered home – we struggle with every last one of these commandments.  Now I can imagine what you are thinking – but I have never murdered.  While that may be true, the poor and the oppressed die every day because no one cares enough to change policy or ensure each person gets help.  Or maybe you are muttering that you have never put any gods before our God.  But we commit idolatry every day when we believe money or even we ourselves are in control instead of our God.  Each petition we pray in the decalogue reminds of how deep and diverse our sinfulness is.

But here’s the funny thing about those commandments – the Israelites could not follow them either.  The Israelites had been rescued from slavery and protected relentlessly.  Once the Israelites were finally in safety and heading to the Promised Land, God created a new covenant with the people.  God sent Moses up the mountaintop and had Moses write the law on tablets – the law that would guide the people into faithful, covenantal living.  But before Moses could even get down the mountain and deliver the covenant to the people, they had already created the golden calf – an idol in the place of God.  They people would struggle so much with the ten commandments that a whole generation of God’s covenantal people would not be allowed into the Promised Land – not even Moses himself.  Although God intended for the decalogue to shape the lives of the people and to create the boundaries for the covenant, and although none of the petitions are all that unreasonable, yet still the people would break their covenant with God time and again.

We are just like our ancestors.  I was just retelling a parishioner this week about my Lenten discipline in college.  You see, in college I picked up a bit of a potty mouth.  It got so bad that my freshman year, I decided to charge myself a quarter for every curse word I uttered, with the plan of giving the proceeds to church on Easter.  By the end of week two in Lent, I had to reduce the fee to a nickel because I could not afford the fee!  And the funny thing was that every year in college was the same.  “This year!  This year I will master my filthy mouth.”  And every year I would have to reduce the fees.  We are creatures of habit, masters of repeated sinfulness, just like our ancestors.

That is why reading Jeremiah is so powerful today.  Jeremiah writes in a time of desperation for the people of God. The Babylonians have razed the temple and carried King Zedekiah off in chains.  Effectively, the Babylonians have “destroyed the twin symbols of God’s covenantal fidelity.”[i]  Sometimes we talk about the exile so much that I think we forget the heart-wrenching experience of exile.  Being taken from homes and forced to live in a foreign land is certainly awful enough.  But the things that were taken – the land of promise, the temple for God’s dwelling, the king offered for comfort to God’s people – are all taken, leaving not just lives in ruin, but faith in question.  But today, in the midst of the physical, emotional, and spiritual devastation, Jeremiah’s reading says God will make a new covenant.  God knows the people cannot stop breaking the old covenant, and so God promises to “forgive their iniquity and remember their sin no more.”  Instead of making the people responsible for the maintenance of the covenant, God goes a step further and writes the law in their hearts, embodies God’s way within the people.

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

I have had parishioners attend two services in one day – maybe they were a speaker at two services or maybe they sang in two different choirs.  Invariably, one of these multi-service attendees will ask me, “Should I take communion again?  I shouldn’t, right?”  I always chuckle because I have to remind them that I take communion three times every Sunday – sometimes four or five if I take communion to someone homebound on a Sunday.  I confess all those times, I pray all those times, I say those words of Psalm 51 all those times, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” Lent is the same way – sometimes we are confessing multiple times in one day.  Sometimes we need to say the decalogue, and we need to confess our sins, and we need to hear Psalm 51.  And before we go to bed, we may need to confess to God again.  We do all those things with confidence because our God is a god of mercy, hesed, and restoration, always looking for ways to renew God’s covenant with us.  God’s persistence with us is what inspires our work this Lent.  So yes, create in us clean hearts, O God, and renew a right spirit within us – every week, every day, every hour.  Amen.

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

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

Homily – Psalm 1, Benedict of Nursia, July 10, 2014

Tags

abundant, Benedict, God, homily, law, meditate, Nursia, Psalm, rule, scripture, space

“Happy are they who delight in the law of the LORD, they meditate on his law day and night.”  The psalmist tells us that those who meditate on the law day and night are like trees planted by streams of water, bearing fruit, with leaves that do not wither – and that everything they do shall prosper.  The image is a rich image – a tree planted near abundant water, with perfect produce and growth.  All we must do is meditate on the law constantly and this water and fruit will be ours – and everything we touch will turn to gold.

It sounds like a wonderful set of promises, and yet the promise hangs on one major task: to meditate on the law night and day.  Now I don’t know about you, but the only time I had to meditate on the law night and day was when I had an Old Testament final in seminary.  Most of us have full, full lives, and meditating on scripture is something we squeeze in  – if we are lucky.  We would love to be like those trees planted by water, and we would certainly love for everything we do to prosper.  But how can we access that kind of blessed abundance in the midst of our everyday lives?

Well, Benedict of Nursia, who we celebrate today, knew a little something about lives of meditation.  Benedict is generally known as the father of Western monasticism.  Born in 480, Benedict was disgusted by the life in Rome, which was overrun by barbarians.  His disapproval of the manners and morals in Rome led him to a vocation of monastic seclusion.  Others joined Benedict and he eventually developed a rule that has been used by religious around the world.  His rule structured the day with four hours of liturgical prayers, five hours of spiritual reading, six hours of work, one hour of eating, and eight hours of sleep.  His rule is intense and probably foreign to most of us, but his rule was also trying to create a life much like that tree in our psalm today.

The good news to me about Benedict’s Rule is that even Benedict does not meditate night and day – at least he gave his followers eight hours to sleep!  But both the psalmist and Benedict know that scripture gives us life.  Our invitation today is to consider how often we create space for God’s word in our lives.  The promise for us is an abundant, prosperous life of fulfillment with our LORD.  We are unlikely to take on Benedict’s Rule, but we can create a rule that fits our lives and invites that stream of water closer.  Amen.