Sermon – Luke 24.1-12, ED, YC, April 21, 2019

Tags

celebrate, celebration, church, confusion, doubt, Easter, faith, Jesus, journey, joy, loud, question, quiet, resurrection, Sermon, unbelievable, uncertain, victory

Easter is one of my favorite days in the church year.  I love how no matter whether we come to church every Sunday or if we haven’t been to church in ages, something about Easter draws us to the Church.  I love the celebration:  the Easter outfits, the fragrant flowers, the boisterous music, and the family of faith gathered at the communion table.  I love the sweet feeling of having emerged from the penitential season of Lent, and counting how many times we can say, “Alleluia.”  There is a loudness to Easter, an unbridled joy, a sense of victory.

What is funny about our experience today though is very little of the boldness of this day is present in Holy Scripture.  In fact, Luke tells a story that is quite the opposite of our experience today.  While we sing loud alleluias and hosannas, all of the characters in our gospel lesson today are in a totally different place.  They are mired in grief, lost in confusion, unsure about what has happened to them.  In a quiet, almost mechanical, numb way, the women who have been beside Jesus his entire ministry and were the only ones remaining at his death, come to the tomb in the fog of dawn, to do the work of tending to the dead body.  In their haze, no sense of closure comes.  Instead, more confusion comes.  Not only is the tomb empty, the angelic figures tell them Christ is risen.  The angels remind them Jesus had explained this to them, and things start to make sense.  But when the women return to tell the men, the men are so resigned and defeated, they mock the women.  Peter goes to check out the story, but even he does not come back with profound clarity.  He is lost in amazement – in awed confusion.  This story tells us very little about what this all means, what we should do, or how we should respond.  Very little about the gospel today is loud, triumphant, or jubilant.

Though I have been begging our musician for years now for more sound at Easter – a timpani to accompany the brass – the truth is, I kind of like how our gospel lesson today takes us in another direction.  Much of what we boldly proclaim today – that Christ is risen, his resurrection brings eternal life, and everything we know has changed – is pretty difficult stuff to believe.  Any of you who has spent time around an inquisitive child or a doubtful friend knows how difficult explaining the resurrection can be.  For our rational, twenty-first century selves, the theology of Easter is not only difficult to articulate, Easter is almost unbelievable.  And when we are really honest with ourselves, in the quiet of our own homes, we sometimes have moments when we are not really sure why we believe what we believe about Christ.

That’s why I love today’s gospel.  Today’s gospel reminds us of how unbelievable the resurrection of our Lord really was.  Sure, Jesus had said he would be handed over to sinners, be crucified, and on the third day rise again.  But his words sounded crazy at the time.  Now that Jesus’ words have come true, the women are perplexed, terrified, and rejected when they share their truth.  The men are paralyzed, doubtful, and downright mean.  On this early morning, the followers of Jesus only have their experiences of Jesus, their uncertainty of faith, and their attempts to believe the unbelievable.

To me, that is very good news indeed.  On this day as we sing songs about Jesus’ resurrection, and as we hear Peter preach with certainty in the book of Acts, and as we, with joy, proclaim, “Christ is risen!  The Lord is risen indeed!” our gospel story reminds us faith is a journey full of doubt, questions, and confusion.  We come on this festival day not because we are absolutely certain about Jesus.  We come on this festival day because in our foggy dawns, we have had encounters with the risen Lord – even when we did not know how to articulate the encounters.  We come to this festival day because in our pain, suffering, and questioning about life – we have had moments when something from scripture or our faith life suddenly connected and made sense.  We come to this festival day because even in our doubts, there is some small part of us that cannot extinguish hope, that suspects Christ might have actually changed the world.

On this day, the Church does not want our theological explanations of the resurrection.  On this day, the Church invites us to recall those moments, however fleeting or miniscule, where we have encountered, or suspected we encountered, the risen Lord.  Our bold singing of alleluias only needs that small flicker of hope – or maybe our desire for that flicker of hope.  Our celebrating today only needs our presence – our willingness to be here, encouraged by others walking through the fog.  Our proclamation today that the Lord is risen, only needs our willingness to say the words.  The community gathered here today will do the rest.  We will say with you, “The Lord is risen indeed,” until someday we can all claim the astounding love and grace of our Lord Jesus Christ ourselves.  Amen.

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Sermon – Luke 2.8-20, CD, YC, December 25, 2018

Tags

birth, chaos, Christmas, forgiveness, God, holy, incarnate, intimate, Jesus, marriage, Mary, normal, quiet, Sermon, shepherds, vows, wisdom

On Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, we split up the gospel of Luke.  On Christmas Eve we hear about the registration, and how all the families have to travel to be taxed.  That part of the story is when we learn about there being no room in the inn, and Mary giving birth, wrapping her child in bands of cloth, lying him in a manger.  But today, we get the part of the story I love.  I know the multitude of the heavenly host has inspired many a Christmas carol, but I like the very last part of the story:  the part where the shepherds have gathered with Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus, where others gather with them to marvel at the shepherd’s story and Mary ponders everything in her heart.

I like this last part, because this last part is the most normal, intimate moment we get in the birth narrative of Jesus.  Everything else is so chaotic – people migrating, hustling for space to stay, likely arguing about who gets to stay where.  Then there is the birth of Jesus itself, not only without modern medicine, but in the roughest of conditions.  Birthing children is hard enough as is – I cannot imagine the messy, loud scene of childbirth under such conditions.  And finally, the shock of not only an angel of the Lord, but also the chorus of the heavenly host in the middle of the night where there is usually no sound is mind-blowing.

Instead, I prefer the quiet scene at the end.  That is a kind of scene I can imagine.  Of outcasts thrown together, sharing stories, bonding over the craziness of the night.  Of an exhausted mother and father and shepherds lounging around, wondering what all this means.  Of the moments of silence when everyone’s eyes settle on baby Jesus who has finally drifted off to sleep, watching his chest rise and fall, wondering what else might rise and fall because of this tiny baby.  I imagine the bonding that can only happen at three in the morning, that can only happen through a people filled with hope in a hopeless world, that can only happen when God sweeps through your life in a bold way.

That’s why I love today’s service so much.  Last night was the night of holy chaos – of kids with pent up excitement for Christmas day, of dinners being prepared, trumpets leading us in song, and the loud chatter of old friends and family greeting one another.  But today, we enter the church in quiet, with no music to distract us, perhaps having left behind piles of wrapping paper or needy family members, having turned off our radios so that we can tell the old, old story.  On Christmas Day, I like to imagine we recreate that holy, intimate night, where old friends and strangers gather around the mystery of the incarnation, wondering what Jesus has in store for us today.  All we need is a little straw and sleep deprivation, and we can almost imagine ourselves there.

That is why when Margaret and Jim asked if we could renew their wedding vows on Christmas Day, wanting something quiet and sacred to mark their sixtieth wedding anniversary, I said an emphatic, “Yes!”  Marriage is a sacred institution too – where we welcome friend and stranger alike, where we sometimes meet people who change our lives but we never see again, where we share intimate time, and where we ponder what God is doing in our lives.  So, gathering again, sixty years later, we too gather like a band of misfits, sharing stories of marriage, of Jesus, and of community.  We let down our hair and marvel at the holy mystery of God, holding holy moments of silence like gifts, and giving thanks for the God who makes sixty years possible.

The other reason I love the idea of renewing wedding vows on a day like today is because today is a day of hope.  When God incarnate comes into the world, we are given the gift of hope – the promise that life will change dramatically.  As we ponder the baby Jesus with those in that quiet room, we also slowly fill with hope, knowing that God is doing great things.  The same is true of marriage.  When I marry two people, I never know how the marriage will go.  I am hopeful that the two will get to do things like celebrate sixtieth wedding anniversaries, but honestly, hardship and separation are equally likely.  But we marry people anyway because we have hope – hope that God is doing a new thing between two people, and will make those people better through God.  As Margaret and Jim recommit themselves to one another today, we again claim hope that God will do amazing things through their marriage, bringing blessing to all of us, not just to the two of them.

Our prayers for Margaret and Jim today are not just for them.  They are for all of us.  We need wisdom and devotion in the ordering of our common lives as much as they do.  We need to recognize and acknowledge our fault when we hurt others, and seek forgiveness of others just as they do.  We need to make our lives a sign of Christ’s love to this sinful and broken world, and reach out in love and concern for others as much as they do.  All of that ordering of our lives is made possible by what happens today.  When God becomes incarnate in Christ, everything changes.  In that intimate space where strangers, exhausted, afraid, and full of hope, came together in the mystery of a miracle, life is changed.  Our gathering here today, to honor the incarnation, to celebrate the blessing of long marriage, and to create a sacred moment of intimate community, is the way we take the first step in living life differently – living a life of sacred incarnation.  Thanks be to the God who showed us the way in the incarnation of God’s only, begotten Son.  Amen.

Sermon – Luke 2.8-20, CD, YB, December 25, 2017

Tags

birth, Christ, Christmas, contemplate, God, incarnate, Mary, miracle, ponder, quiet, sacred, Sermon, silence, wonder

Eight years ago, while serving as a curate in my first position out of seminary, I experienced Christmas Day worship for the first time.  Though I had often gone to Christmas Eve services before ordination, I suppose it never occurred to me to go to church on Christmas Day.  I was probably still in my pajamas or on the road to see family.  So imagine my surprise when the Rector told me there would be no music at the Christmas Day service.  I was shocked!  After all this time, patiently waiting through Advent music, on the actual day of Christmas, we were not going to hear any music?!?  I threw what some might consider a bit of a temper tantrum, and was told I should talk to the people who normally go to Christmas Day services.

Of course, my Rector knew what she was talking about.  As I talked to Christmas Day attendees, I discovered one universal truth:  they loved the spoken Christmas Day service.  First, they all went to a Christmas Eve service, so they got their carols fix the night before.  Second, they loved the quiet respite in an otherwise chaotic day.  A quiet service on Christmas Day was a godsend.  And third, they loved the Christmas Day service because it was a small, intimate service of what they called the “faithful;” much like what happens when you throw a party at your home and everyone but your close friends go home at the end of the night.  You kick off your shoes, find a warm beverage, and enter into quiet, meaningful conversation with your friends.  Music, in those parishioners’ minds, would have hindered the intimate, contemplative, peaceful vibe they loved.

In a lot of ways, having a quiet Christmas Day service is like taking a cue from Mary in our gospel lesson today.  After the chaos of travel and birthing a child in less than ideal accommodations, after shepherds have seen blinding lights and hear the triumphant chorus of the multitude of heavenly host, when everything quietens down, all that is left is a mother, father, and child, and some shepherds who seem like old friends.  I have always imagined the shepherds bursting through the doors, talking on top of each other to tell the story of the angels.  But I wonder if perhaps the scene was a little different.  Knowing full well the baby has arrived in less than ideal circumstances, and that babies are notorious for crying when disturbed, maybe the shepherds were whispering their intimate tale to the holy family.  Maybe they were those gathered at the end of the party, sharing in quiet, meaningful conversation.

I wonder if this might be true because we get one short line about Mary at the end of our text today, “But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.”  Exhausted, fatigued, weary Mary takes the enormity of what has happened:  to her, when Gabriel came to her; with Elizabeth, who further revealed the angel’s proclamation; with Joseph, as he shared his own angelic story; and now with the shepherds who tell of yet another angelic encounter.  Mary takes all the bits of information – all the encounters she is privy to – and ponders them.  She takes a personal moment to sit quietly in the enormity of it all to ponder.  In some ways, she is a mother like anyone else – one who has carried a child in her womb with all the normal doubts and concerns that come from every ache, pain, and discomfort.  But in other ways, she is nothing like other mothers.  She is an instrument – pregnant without her own doing, carrying a child who will be bigger than anything before, and mothering someone who will never fully belong to her, but to the greater world he will soon save.

The funny thing is, pondering is an activity that would hardly ever make an appearance on our Christmas to-do lists.  We have been scurrying about this past month:  decorating homes, sending cards, attending parties, planning liturgies, hosting guests or finding hostess gifts.  We have either been caught up in the joy of the season, reveling in the 24-7 Christmas radio stations, or maybe we have been lost in our grief of all that is not this Christmas season.  Regardless of whether you are off to a Christmas celebration with twenty or more people, or having a quiet day alone or with one other, there is likely to be little true quiet:  our minds are way too noisy for quiet today.

And yet, quiet pondering is exactly what Mary does today.  She takes all the noise and chaos – both outward and inward – and she pauses for pondering.  She hits the pause button on the movie called life, takes a deep breath, and drinks in the miracle of Christ’s birth.  She stops talking, turns off her internal conversation, and listens.  She makes room for God in that rustic, foreign room, with people who are not her own, letting her body and soul contemplate the enormity of the nativity:  God incarnate; Messiah arrived; Eternal life made possible.  The wonder of that moment is enough to silence Mary, giving her much to ponder.

That is our invitation today too.  I know today is the least likely day for a moment of wonder, pondering, and contemplation.  But you are here.  You took a moment away from whatever today will be to sit at the manger with Mary and ponder.  Drink in the miracle of Christ’s birth, the gift of God incarnate.  Stand before our God in holy quiet and reverence as we pray and eat a different meal.  Remember “how God became one of us, remember how Christ still joins us at the Table, remember how we are fed by him in order that we might live as his body in the world.”[i]  These kinds of sacred moments are so rare in life.  Receive the gift of pondering at the manger with Mary today, and take that quiet out into the world with you, giving your heart the gift of true celebration and joy.  Amen.

[i] Kimberly Bracken Long, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 121.

On Turning Down the Noise…

Tags

Advent, breath, breathe, Christ Child, church, God, loud, noise, quiet

Photo Credit:  www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/lucy-gaskin/playing-the-game-of-shh_b_7894332.html

I live in a noisy house.  We have tried teaching our children about volume control (we use a scale to help our oldest; e.g. “You’re at a 10.  I need you at a 6.”).  We have worked on the concept of taking turns while speaking.  We have tried yoga breathing (which more often sounds like hyperventilating that calming breaths).  And we use a lot of “time out.”  As a parent, most of the time I am used to the volume of our house.  But occasionally I spend time with families who have much more quiet homes, and the experience reminds me of how loud my house really is.

We are currently living in a culture of loud.  Every day I receive emails from some online store who promises that today’s sale is even better than yesterday’s.  When I try to work in public places on my laptop, either music or TVs are blaring loudly.  Our current political discourse feels more like a shouting match than a quiet discussion of issues.  And that does not even include the noise of Christmas preparation.  Our lives are very loud when we stop to listen.

I think that is why I love Advent so much.  It is the one church season that is almost always the total opposite of our secular season.  In a time when the secular world is getting louder and louder, the church invites us to be more and more quiet.  Our liturgies get simplified.  Our educational offerings focus more on quiet reflection than dynamic presentations or lively conversations.  Our calendar invites us to slow down.  We do all this not to be contrary, but because our church wants to give us space to ponder and savor the coming miracle of the Christ Child.

This morning I used on online version of Morning Prayer that I don’t usually use.  The nice thing about the website (or app if you use it on your phone), is the lessons are incorporated into the page so you do not have to find them separately.  Also incorporated are some hymns and canticles.  Today, the hymn was “Breathe on me Breath of God.”  I remember that old hymn from my childhood and it was just what I needed to help me stay engaged in the quiet of Advent.  My prayer for each of you today is not only that you feel God’s breath on you, filling you with life anew, but also that you breathe in God, allowing God to work through you so that God’s light might shine through you with renewed vigor.  Perhaps simply by breathing in God and allowing God to breathe on you, you might find some small way to combat the loudness of life today.

Sermon – Luke 2.1-20, CD, YC, December 25, 2015

Tags

Christmas, Jesus, love, noise, ponder, quiet, reverence, Sermon, silence, story

One of the things I have always found funny about Christmas is the number of hymns that talk about silence.  Our favorite is usually Silent Night.  When we sing the song on Christmas Eve, we dim the lights and enjoy a quiet moment of reflection.  But that holy night was anything but quiet.  Bethlehem is inundated with people coming in for the registration.  The fact that there is no room for Joseph and Mary tells us how crowded Bethlehem is.  But Mary and Joseph not only have to tend with homecoming revelers, they also have to contend with the animals over whose abode they have taken.  Add into the mix a screaming newborn, and the idea of a silent night is almost comical.

But Mary and Joseph get even more noise than that.  You see, nearby shepherds hear a cacophony of praise from the heavenly hosts in the middle of the night.  Their night has been anything but quiet too.  Instead of trying to get the animals and themselves back to sleep, they decide to go into town and see this thing which has come to pass.  And so, they spend the night, talking to Mary and Joseph, maybe taking turns trying to soothe baby Jesus.  When they leave those rudimentary quarters, they leave town praising and glorifying God.  Yes, this is no silent night for the shepherds either.

I think that is why I enjoy our Christmas Day celebration.  Silence is in short supply on Christmas Eve.  We sing carols, we hear the giddy laughter of children awaiting gifts, stockings, and cookies, and we chant the mass, singing our traditionally spoken words.  For those of us with small children, even the wee hours of the morning of Christmas Day are loud – filled with cries of elation, joy, and battery-operated toys.  But on Christmas Day, after a noisy night and morning, we make our way to church and find, perhaps for the first time, the silence for which we have been looking.  We do not sing carols.  We do not have to speak over the hubbub of full pews.  Instead we gather in relative quiet, and tell the old story again – but this time with a softness that cannot be found on Christmas Eve.

What I love about finding true silence on Christmas Day is that our morning is structured a lot like I imagine that first holy morning being structured.  Christmas Eve was full of noise – of animals, shepherds, angels, and crying babies.  But that next morning, the dust has settled.  Gone are the shepherds and angels.  The animals have calmed down after too many midnight guests.  I even imagine baby Jesus has given in to sleep, since most newborns get their nights and days reversed for the first few weeks.  Into this relative quiet is when I imagine Mary treasuring all those words and pondering them in her heart.  The night before was just too loud.  The exhausted, travel-weary, physically and emotionally spent Mary gets a moment in the morning to begin to process what God has done in and through her.  After the break of dawn, as the sun rises and the loud revelers and news deliverers have gone, she can have a quiet moment as she rocks or feeds baby Jesus and ponder in her heart this child at her breast.

I do not think that night was silent.  But I understand why our hymnodists would want to talk about silence.  I think that is why I prefer the hymn, “Let all mortal flesh keep silence.”  Instead of depicting a silent night, that hymn invites us to keep silence as a form of reverence.  The first verse says, “Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and with fear and trembling stand; ponder nothing earthly minded, for with blessing in his hand, Christ our God to earth descendeth, our full homage to demand.”  I like the hymn because that is the kind of pondering I imagine Mary does in her heart this morning.  Unlike most new mothers, I do not think she is worried about the impact of birth on her body or even about her humble surroundings.  I imagine her thoughts that morning are consumed with nothing earthly minded.  Instead, I imagine her heart is pondering the blessing of Christ our God descending on earth through her – and the enormity of the event drives her to pay silent homage as she gazes on Jesus’ precious face.

That is what the church invites us to do today as well.  We structure a morning for worship.  The dust of gift wrap, egg nog, and stocking stuffers has settled.  The noise of carols, singing choirs and priests, and antsy children in pews has faded.  The anxiety of preparing for the big event of this day has eased.  And all that is left is a moment to let our mortal flesh keep silent before the Christ Child.  This morning we take a moment to ponder nothing earthly minded, and instead join Mary as she ponders all that has happened in her heart.  We come to church on this holy morning to ponder the miracle of the Christ Child.  We honor the way in which God is ever trying to honor the covenant God has made with us – willing to go to the extreme of taking on human form to care for and preserve us.  Our God’s love knows no bounds.  Humbled by that knowledge, we come to pay God homage.

The question for us in our pondering is what we will do with that love.  Though we make space this morning for silence, we do not remain here all day.  Like any other Sunday, the priest will dismiss us to go in peace, and serve the Lord.  Anytime we feast at Christ’s table, that is our charge:  to take whatever sustenance we have gained and to go out into the world to do the work that Christ has given us to do.  Certainly that may involve cooking, travel, or more gift giving.  But the news we ponder in our hearts today is much bigger than today.  Today we are commissioned to consider the impact of the birth of the Christ Child on our lives.  What will our response be to the God who is so faithful to God’s covenant with us that God would take on human flesh to redeem us?  We may need still need to ponder in our hearts what that response will be.  I cannot imagine a better day than today to keep pondering what new work God is crafting in our hearts.  Amen.

Sermon – Mark 13.24-37, A1, YB, November 30, 2014

Tags

Advent, anxiety, awake, Christmas, contrast, discipline, God, loud, noise, quiet, Sermon

I live a very loud life these days.  If any of you have ever visited the Rectory between the hours of five and seven in the evening, you have witnessed the sheer volume of my life.  Between the baby who can only communicate frustration through crying and the kindergartner who is quite verbose nowadays, mixed in with the fatigue they both feel after a long day of school and nursery care, let’s just say these hours are full of a lot of noise.  That is not to say that all of the noise is unpleasant – there is also the noise of laughter, storytelling, and shaking rattles.  But our house in those hours is not the place where you would want set up a yoga mat and try to meditate.

I sometimes blame all the noise in my life on my beloved children.  But the truth is I am as much a cause of the noise as they are.  I am admittedly loud myself – whether barking instructions around the house, singing aloud, or simply talking my husband’s ear off.  But I am not just loud in the house – I am also loud inside my head.  My mind is in constant conversation:  my to-do list, searching for ideas for a blog post, worrying about a sick friend or parishioner, trying to make plans for the weekend, processing a troublesome conversation, or wallowing in guilt for missed exercise or time in prayer.  As loud as my outside world is, my inside world is probably much worse.  Add Christmastime to the mix, and the loudness of my life reaches levels that can be incapacitating.

That is why I love Advent so much.  In the lead-up to Christmas, the outside world bombards us with noise:   Christmas songs on the radio, shopping to complete, parties to attend, gifts to wrap, houses to decorate, gatherings to host, cards to send, and loud relatives or friends to entertain.  In contrast, the Church at this time asks us to do the exact opposite:  slow down, take a breath, light some candles, breath in the fresh greenery, sing quiet, meditative songs, and worship in the soothing purple of anticipation.  When the outside world is telling us, “Do more, buy more, run more, fuss more, stress more,” the Church says, “Do less, worry less, run less, talk less, be busy less.”  The contrast between the two worlds is like night and day, and at a time of high stress, Advent becomes the Church’s greatest gift to us.

Into this contrast, we hear words from Mark’s gospel today.  The text says, “Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.  It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch.  Therefore, keep awake– for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly.  And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.”  Many of us hear this text today with a sense of anxiety – of needing to keep anxious watch for the Lord.  We might imagine the many apocalyptic movies, predictions, and preachers we have witnessed over the years and wonder whether Jesus really does want us to be more alarmed.  Certainly the outside world would have us also be alert and anxious for the coming Christmas.

But I think the Church is saying something else today.  Instead of an anxious alarm, our gospel lesson sounds like a gentle reminder to me.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the quiet beauty of Advent.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the gift of time set apart in these four weeks.  Keep awake, for you do not want to miss the lead in to the manger, the dramatic retelling of why the manger is so important, and the grounding for this entire season.[i]  Jesus’ words for us to “keep awake,” are not meant to be one more anxiety to pile on top of a mound of concerns.  Jesus’ words for us to “keep awake,” are meant to help us focus on what is really important.

So make a commitment to come to church each Sunday in Advent and spend those Sundays in quiet worship with your church family.  Grab an Advent calendar or devotional to help you more intentionally mark the days leading up to the manger.  Or set up that Advent wreath at home, so that you might bring the quiet candlelight of prayer and meditation to your home.  Whatever the discipline, choose something this Advent that will help you maintain the quiet peace you find here at Church and carry that quiet peace throughout your weeks leading up to Christmas.  My guess is that noise of life will slowly fade into a quiet hum in the background – which is right where it should be.  Amen.

[i] Lillian Daniel, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 22.

God’s embrace…

Tags

Advent, busyness, God, peace, quiet

This time of year is always a little crazy for me.  The plus side is that we have established with our family and friends that given my work, we really cannot get away for Christmas.  We do however, more than welcome folks to come and stay with us.  So our place has become a wonderful place of hosting various family and friends since my ordination.  That being said, while in the midst of finishing bulletins, preparing multiple sermons, and tending to any work that needs to be finished before I take several days off, I also need to make sure the house is clean, the shopping (food and gifts) has been done, the decorations are all ready to go – the list goes on and on.

Needless to say, anxiety is pretty high around our place this time of year.  I try to soak in the quiet of Advent, and I try to proceed with a steady calm, but I regularly fail.  Sometimes I wish I could get through Christmas, make time freeze for a couple of days, and then pick up in the middle of Christmas dinner.  But no matter what I do, I still have not figured out that time freeze trick.

Courtesy of http://www.illustrationsource.com/stock/image/248001/a-mother-and-child-hugging/?&results_per_page=1&detail=TRUE&page=38

Tonight, though, I was reminded of the little gifts that God gives me in the midst of anxiety and overwhelmedness.  After her bedtime routine, some quiet play in her room, and much stalling, my daughter always comes to me and asks me to rock her a little while in the dark before singing her to sleep.  Tonight, as she lay on my chest and growing belly, we rocked in the quiet.  It occurred to me how close her body was to the other growing child in my womb.  It was almost like the two were hugging each other in the quiet.  Of course, then I realized that I had the pleasure of hugging both of them, as the three of us rocked back and forth in a brief moment of calm and peace.  I rocked for a minute or two more before realizing that the three of us were not actually alone.  God’s arms were wrapped around all of us, holding us tightly, rocking gently with us.  The image took me by surprise, but also created a wave of relief for me.  It is so easy for me to get wrapped up in the busyness of this time that I forget that God is with me, even though I flit around as if God is not.

In the midst of these last days of preparation and waiting, I invite you to imagine the times when God might be enveloping you too – when you least expect it, when you most need it, but more importantly, when you do not even realize it.  That is the gift of our awesome God – a God who carries us, despite the fact, that we, like a four-year old, insist that we can do it by ourselves.  Ever faithful, ever patient, ever awesome is our God.

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.

Giving thanks…

Tags

breath, busy, God, quiet, thanks, Thanksgiving Day, worship

At 6:30 this morning, I got a call from the Chair of my Buildings and Grounds Committee.  He was worried about the amount of water we are getting here and asked if I would run over to the church to make sure the undercroft had not flooded overnight (as his basement at home had).  Luckily I was dressed, but our family was in the morning flurry of getting showers, eating breakfast, and making lunches.  I had hoped to sneak over to the church quietly, but as soon as my daughter found out what I was doing, she wanted to go too.  So we rushed to find her shoes and raincoat, I rushed to grab an umbrella, and we ran out the door.  About half-way to the church, I realized I had forgotten the church keys.  As I quickly tried to rush my 4-year old back to the house, I realized that my lack of church keys meant I also had left my house keys inside the house.  Of course, my husband was in the shower.  Needless to say, there was lots of doorbell ringing over the following five minutes.  Ah, the joys of a crazy, scattered priest and mother.

For this and so many other reasons, I am tremendously grateful that my husband suggested we take this Thanksgiving to just have a quiet holiday alone.  As an extrovert, my immediate response to his request was a bit of sadness and wistfulness – Thanksgiving is supposed to be about loud families or friends and yummy food.  But then I remembered how for the last several weekends in a row I have had multiple church commitments, how last week alone I had three night meetings, and how my husband I have felt like ships passing in the night these last several weeks.  I knew the wisdom behind his request, and so we have gathered a much smaller amount of food, and have plans to just be together as a family this weekend.  Well…and maybe clean the house and unpack some baby stuff.  But at least we are doing that together!

Courtesy of http://metropraise.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-history-of-thanksgiving-in-united.html

I know for most of you, Thanksgiving is not really about quiet and retreat.  That may feel like a foreign, if not uncomfortable, concept to you.  But even if you are planning to gather with your loud Uncle Joe or your nagging mother-in-law, I hope that you will take a moment to take a little breath, and remember in the quiet what Thanksgiving is really about.  Maybe you invite your family into prayer before the meal, maybe you invite everyone to share something they are grateful for, or maybe you just do your own self assessment of the bounty surrounding you on every side – of food, of shelter, of clothing, of laughter, of a God who loves and cares for you abundantly.  And if that is the only breath of thanksgiving you can afford on that day, then you have taken a sip of the pool of thanksgiving available to you.  And if you are thirsty for more, find a church holding a Thanksgiving Day service, and give yourself an entire hour of this kind of thankfulness.  It may be the greatest gift you give yourself this holiday season.

St. Margaret’s Church celebrates Holy Eucharist on Thanksgiving Day at 10:00 AM.  All are welcome!

Sermon – John 21.1-19, E3, YC, April 14, 2013

Tags

action, disciples, follow, Jesus, quiet, Sermon, surrender

There are two layers to our gospel lesson today.  In one layer, there is a lot of movement and action.  We have disciples fishing, a man shouting about where to put nets, Peter leaping out of a boat to swim ashore, breakfast sizzling in a pan over a crackling fire, and Peter and Jesus having this strangely repetitive conversation.  This layer of the text is really distracting.  There is so much happening that by the time we get to Jesus telling Peter to feed his lambs, we forget the part of the story about Peter getting dressed to jump into water.  The frenetic nature of the text leaves us with more questions than answers.  Why is Peter fishing at a time like this?  Why is he naked?  Why do the disciples not recognize Jesus at first?  Why is Jesus cooking breakfast?  Why does Jesus repeat his question to Peter three times?

In truth, I think there is so much activity in our gospel lesson because the disciples are a little frenetic themselves.  They had all settled into certain identities in their lives – many of them were fishermen, many of them had families that they worked with, and all of them had homes where they resided.  Their lives were simple and predictable.  Then this guy came into their lives and their identity and purpose got totally out of balance.  They had no consistent daily routine, they left behind everything they knew, this man they were following was compelling but also completely confusing, and they were being asked to totally change their lives.  And just when they had found the rhythm of managing their unpredictable lives with Jesus, then everything turns over on its head again, and they lose everything – their leader, their purpose, and their identity.  So in an effort to find something to hang on to, the disciples become punchy with action.

We all do this.  I know that I am particularly stressed out when I find myself intently scrubbing something in the house.  I may not be able to solve some problem at work, or I might not be able to fix some relationship that needs mending, but I can have a clean floor.  I might not have responded to the forty-eight emails and the twenty-nine items on my to-do list, but my desk will be cleared of all clutter and looking freshly dusted.  My neurotic behavior is cleaning, but we all have some neurotic behavior.  Some of us need to find a mall to clear our minds of all the stuff going on inside of us.  Somehow finding the perfect dress or pair of shoes takes away our other anxieties.  Others of us get out in the garden and dig our way to peace of mind.  Something about a freshly weeded garden makes us feel like something was accomplished, even if the rest of us is in shambles.  Still others hit the gym.  There is nothing like sweating away anxieties or feeling the burn to take away the other feelings going on inside of us.[i]

What is interesting about all the activity and noise found in our gospel lesson is that there is another layer of this text that is completely quiet.  We start with the disciples silently staring at that Sea of Tiberias.  There is nothing left to say among them, because they have talked this whole resurrection thing to exhaustion.  Then we find the disciples on the boat fishing in the middle of the night.  I do not know the last time you went fishing, but fishing is one of the more quiet, uneventful activities you can do.  Despite the splashing of Peter to swim to Jesus, once they all gather on the beach, no one says a word.  The air is only filled with the quiet lapping of water and the sizzling of a pan over a fire.  The disciples have questions, but no one says anything.  Even the conversation between Jesus and Peter has a quiet tone to the conversation.

In some ways, I think this is where the text is really pointing.  The disciples, who have irritated Jesus to no end, finally fall silent.  No more asking about who shall be first, and nor more asking what Jesus means or who he is.  No more crazy proposals like building booths for Moses, Elijah, and Jesus, and no more insisting that Jesus wash all of their bodies, not just their feet.  No more insisting that they would never betray Jesus.  There is nothing left to say.  And so they stare quietly, they fish in silence, and they answer in hushed voices.

This layer is the most important because this layer marks a shift.  The disciples stop trying to muscle their way to discipleship, and they finally learn to let Jesus take the lead.  They have become so physically, mentally, and spiritually exhausted that they stop trying to control everything, and they simply wait for Jesus to tell them what to do.  This is a critical moment in the disciples’ journey with Christ.

I think many of you know this about me, but I love to dance.  I grew up doing all sorts of dancing, but the most difficult form of dancing I stumbled into was formal partnered dancing – the fox trot, waltz, etc.  In the other forms of dancing I learned, I was responsible for myself, learning the steps, and making sure I knew the rhythm so that the dance looked beautiful.  But in partnered dance, especially as the woman, you have to learn how to follow.  As someone with pretty good rhythm and memory for steps, you have no idea how incredibly frustrating it is to follow a man who does not know what he is doing.  The tendency is to want to use your arms or legs to start guiding the man, or even to whisper the directions.  But the role of the woman is to follow where the man leads – perhaps the only time in a woman’s life that she is forced to do this!  But what I also found in this kind of dancing is that when you have a really good partner, he can make you feel like the most graceful, beautiful woman on the dance floor.  In fact, you stop worrying about the steps and the count, and you start moving with fluidity and ease.  The price for such a feeling is total surrender and trust.  But the payoff is that you find a joy so strong that you will hunt down that partner and beg them to save you a dance.

This is the kind of submission the disciples finally master on that beach.  No more trying to muscle Jesus into the way they want him to behave.  No more trying to talk their way through their relationship with him.  They surrender all they have to him, longing for the clarity that only he can give them.  And when they finally do that, in the quiet of that morning, they finally hear the words of purpose for their lives.  “Follow me,” Jesus says.  They are the same words Jesus said to them at the beginning of their relationship with him.  But now they finally hear.  And now they can finally respond with their whole being.  Jesus’ words are as clear as they can be.  Jesus’ words give their life meaning.  And their spirit is finally in the place where they can hear and respond.  They are truly and thoroughly ready to follow him.

This is what Jesus invites us to do as well.  This morning, as we sit in the sacred place, Jesus invites us to shove those piles off the desks of our minds, to rip out the weeds blocking our hearts, and to drop our armfuls of distractions and to listen to his simple words for us.  The words are there waiting.  The direction is clear.  The peace and comfort of clarity and purpose are ours for the taking.  So when you come to this table for the Eucharistic feast, quietly listening for Jesus’ words for you, you will be able to hear those words, “Follow me,” and do just that when you walk out those church doors.  Amen.

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[i] Gary D. Jones, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 420.