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

Tags

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Cups of Sugar and Other Gifts…

Tags

death, emotion, gift, God, neighbors, pandemic, share, struggle, suffering, sugar, together

Photo credit: https://www.bhg.com/recipes/how-to/bake/how-to-measure-sugar/

One of the things I love about our public library is the way they display children’s books to catch your attention.  We have our favorite characters and series, but our librarians always pick books you might not find if you were just looking at endless rows of books.  In our last trip, we picked such a book called Addy’s Cup of Sugar.  There was a girl and a panda bear on the cover, so I was sure it would be a winner with my young daughter.  It also said it was based on a Buddhist story of healing, which sounded intriguing.

Little did I know how powerful this children’s book would be.  For those of you who have not read it (spoiler alert!), the book is about a girl whose cat dies.  She talks to her friend, the panda bear, about bringing the cat back to life.  The bear says the only way to accomplish that is for her to help him with the supplies he will need – specifically a cup of sugar from a neighbor; but the cup of sugar must come from a home where no one has experienced death.  So off Addy goes, and slowly we learn through her visits and beautiful conversations with neighbors that not one single house in her neighborhood has been unaffected by death.  You can imagine the conversation Addy and the bear have upon her return at the close of the day.

After recovering from being sideswiped by the emotional power of the book, I began to reflect on my work as a priest.  As part of my vocation, I am entrusted with fullness of people’s stories – grief they might not confess to their loved ones, weariness they may not show in their tough facades, anger at God they are afraid to claim aloud for fear of judgment.  Every once in a while, one of those poignant moments of sharing knocks the breath out of me and I am at a loss for words – because words cannot heal some hurts. 

Although I experience the depth of humanity more regularly than some, we all have the opportunity to do the same with our family, friends, and neighbors.  As the duration of this pandemic lengthens, I have been wondering if we all might need to start taking our own cups for sugar around the neighborhood (masked and socially distanced, of course), offering the opportunity for others to share their hurts, their sorrows, and perhaps their own struggles to see God.  Once we begin to see the wideness of the human condition, we also see how we are not alone.  Our cups of sugar then become not just gifts for ourselves, but for others too.

On Things Hidden and Things Seen…

Tags

empathy, God, grace, grief, hidden, journey, pain, pandemic, seen, strength, struggle, suffering

Photo credit: https://psychcentral.com/blog/how-to-sit-with-painful-emotions/

October is reserved for awareness about many issues:  infertility and child loss; breast cancer; domestic violence; and mental health.  What I noticed about all these issues is they are hidden – issues we do not talk about, have shame about, or are labeled as “private” and therefore off-limits.  And while I always like to respect people’s privacy or private grief, when we do not talk about these issues, we end up ignoring people’s pain or worse, robbing them of our empathy and support.  By hiding these issues away, we can do more damage than the issue itself.

I have seen a similar pattern with the Coronavirus.  Because we are physically isolated, we struggle to make space to honor the physical, emotional, spiritual, and financial strain of this time.  In my pastoral conversations, I have heard the grief of people who are physically or financially secure but are overcome with anxiety and depression.  I have talked with those who have lost jobs and are struggling with a sense of failure that has nothing to do with their abilities, effort, or achievements.  And I have reflected with others on how things slowly returning to a semblance of normalcy as we progress forward in phases of regathering in our communities makes them feel even more stress – as if they should feel normal too, but cannot seem to operate at full capacity.

In times like these –in infertility, infant loss, breast cancer diagnoses, domestic violence events, and mental health strains – but also most certainly during this pandemic, many of us are trying to show strength or an ability to power through, so much so that we avoid taking our suffering to God.  But that is not the kind of God we worship.  God does not expect an ability to be stronger than the pain and suffering of this world.  Instead, God longs to be invited into our pain, journeying with us, giving a comfort the world cannot provide.  This kind of relationship involves vulnerability and honesty – something that may be difficult for us.  If you find yourself in the midst of that struggle to trust God enough to show your weakness, or if you are feeling shame for your lack of empathy lately, I invite you to pray Psalm 139 with me this week, especially the first twelve verses.  I leave them here for your prayers, inviting you to be gracious with yourself, with your neighbor, and with the stranger.  Even if we do not know their struggles, God does.

Psalm 139.1-12

1 O Lord, you have searched me and known me.

2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up;

    you discern my thoughts from far away.

3 You search out my path and my lying down,

    and are acquainted with all my ways.

4 Even before a word is on my tongue,

    O Lord, you know it completely.

5 You hem me in, behind and before,

    and lay your hand upon me.

6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;

    it is so high that I cannot attain it.

7 Where can I go from your spirit?

    Or where can I flee from your presence?

8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there;

    if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

9 If I take the wings of the morning

    and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,

10 even there your hand shall lead me,

    and your right hand shall hold me fast.

11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,

    and the light around me become night,”

12 even the darkness is not dark to you;

    the night is as bright as the day,

    for darkness is as light to you.

On Sacred Ground and Stories…

Tags

God, holy, Moses, power, sacred, sacred ground, story, struggle, tender

Photo credit: https://gracechurchanderson.com/2017/09/holy-ground/

Last week, our parish kicked off a program called “Sacred Ground.”  The program comes out of the Episcopal Church and is meant to be a program to help Caucasians begin (or continue) to wrestle with the issue of racism.  As part of the introductory materials, Bishop Michael Curry retells Moses’ call narrative.  If you remember, God tells Moses to take off his shoes beside the burning bush because he is standing on holy ground.  Bishop Curry submits that the ground is holy not because of the fire but because it is the place where God tells God’s story.  Curry further suggests that anytime someone shares their story, we are standing on sacred ground with them.

As our group began to tell our stories, I began to realize perhaps this is why we are struggling as a country and community these days.  So often we assume we know people’s stories based on their political stances, their social media posts, or even our chitchat with them on a daily basis.  But every person has a story – a journey of joys and sorrows, a path of successes and failures, and a walk of pride and shame.  And until we make space to hear that story, we will judge, assume, and desecrate the holiness of others.

This week I came across a story of a project in Denmark called the Human Library.  People go to public libraries and instead of borrowing books they “borrow” people.  Each person is given a “title,” such as “Unemployed,” “Refugee,” or “Bipolar.”  When you borrow the person, you sit with them for thirty minutes and hear their story.  The idea is to break down prejudice through the power of story.

This week I invite you to reach out to someone you do not know much about – someone you only know superficially, someone different from you, or someone you already know will rub you the wrong way and ask if you can hear their story.  In this time of social distancing, maybe you start with projects like Humans of New York or StoryCorps.  But maybe you use a phone, FaceTime, or outdoor coffee as your method to connect with someone local.  Either way, this week I invite you to take off your shoes and stand on some holy ground with one another and your God.  Perhaps once we all have our shoes off, we will find ourselves walking much more tenderly with one another.

On the Infertilities of Life…

Tags

calling, church, community, God, healing, infertility, limitless, limits, meaning, share, spiritual, story, struggle

Photo credit:  https://cbsipandpaint.com/event/tree-of-life/

One of things I am working on this summer is helping our parish leaders plan our fall Women’s Retreat.  In interviewing guest facilitators, one of the facilitators talked about the scriptural theme of infertility.  Having some amazing people in my life who are or have struggled with infertility over the years, I immediately connected with the idea.  But the facilitator expands the definition of infertility as being unable to do the thing you felt you were created to do.

As I have been thinking about this expanded definition of infertility, I have seen that spiritual struggle all around me.  Certainly, I have been aching for those who struggle with literal infertility, knowing what a crushing experience that can be.  But I have also seen that same sense of infertility happen vocationally for people who really thought they would end up in a certain career, only to find their restrictive geography, their family responsibilities, or their inability to take on the time or financial commitment needed to pursue their dream making them unable to do the thing they felt created to do.  As our diocese is looking at electing a new bishop, I am aware that all four of the current candidates have discerned they feel created to serve in this new role, and yet only one of them will be invited into that ministry.

But infertility strikes us in other ways too.  This week I was listening to Kate Bowler’s podcast Everything Happens, and she and her guest were talking about palliative care and mortality.  The two of them talked about how one of the disadvantages of our American culture is a sense of limitless – that we can do anything we want in life.  And what both of them has seen, as a person in recovery from cancer, and a palliative care doctor, is the falsehood, or even the sinfulness, of the notion of limitlessness.  When we think we can do anything our heart desires, we are inevitably disappointed when our bodies, our mortality, or other things outside our control, throw limits around our dreams.  Part of their work has been helping people work through the sense of infertility that comes from that experience, and helping them find hope, healing, and new meaning in life.

As I have been thinking about literal and figurative infertility, I have been wondering whether sharing those stories might be a part of the healing process.  Something about naming the struggle and sharing the journey has power to not only help you move toward invitations to new vocations, but also has the power to encourage others to name their infertilities, destigmatize them, and transform them into something else that can be lifegiving.  If you are looking for a safe place to do that, I invite you to join our community of faith – a place where wounded souls are heard, broken hearts are mended, and new paths are celebrated.  You are not alone.  We would be honored to walk with you.   I suspect we need you as much as you may need us.

Sermon – Luke 17.5-10, 2 Timothy 1.1-14, P22, YC, October 2, 2016

Tags

apostles, belief, Episcopal, faith, God, head, heart, heritage, identity, increase, Jesus, mothers, pastoral, Sermon, struggle, Timothy, work

One of the funny things about wearing a priestly collar in public is that people tend to tell you way more about their lives than perhaps they should.  As soon as a person realizes you are a priest, the flood gates open and all of a sudden you are the guest on the “Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Church But Were Afraid to Ask!” Show.  I get questions about how one becomes a priest, what being an Episcopalian means, and what kind of Christian I am.  But mostly I get confessions.  People will confess they used to go to church, but once they became an adult, they had a hard time believing everything the church taught them as a child.  People will confess that they were raised in the church, but when a terrible tragedy hit, they felt abandoned by God and could never go back.  People will confess that they miss going to church, but that they always feel like they do not belong when the go to church – that everyone in the church seems to have their lives figured out except them.

What is interesting to me about those conversations with non-church goers or lapsed Christians is that they seem to think that their struggles with faith make them ineligible for church membership.  Perhaps that is true in some denominations in our country.  But one of the primary reason I became an Episcopalian was because the Episcopal Church not only made room for faith struggles, but expected those struggles.  Almost every time I have raised a question about a Biblical text in Bible Study, instead of someone explaining the answer to me, the response is almost always, “Yeah, that is a hard piece of scripture.”  Almost every time I have been with a grieving family who is on the brink of questioning their faith, no one in the room challenges them.  Usually someone says, “I could totally see how you would be doubting God right now.”  And almost every time I have been in a class about theology, the creeds, confirmation, or baptism, someone has asked, “What if I can’t believe that part.”  Never once has that person been told they do not belong if they cannot believe – in fact, usually the person is praised for naming the lack of faith we have all have had at some point in our spiritual journey.

I think that is why today’s Gospel lesson feels so real.  The disciples and apostles have been following Jesus for weeks, and Jesus has been handing them a lot of heavy stuff.  Jesus has told them to give up their possessions, to forgive those who wrong them, to take up their cross.  I cannot imagine anyone looking at the stark life Jesus describes and not calling out, “Increase our faith!”  How else can we be all Jesus wants us to be without increasing our faith?  Surely we have all had those trough moments – in the face of our mortality, at the betrayal of a friend or spouse, in the midst of anxiety and stress – when we too cry out to God, “Increase our faith!”

What might be helpful to do is talk a little about what we mean when we say faith.  Marcus Borg talks about two different kinds of faith:  faith of the head and faith of the heart.  Faith of the head is claiming something about God or the human condition.  This kind of faith is more about what we believe.  When someone says they have lost their faith, they have often lost this faith of the head.  They no longer believe something taught by holy scripture or the church.  In the Episcopal Church, we do not get too upset about this kind of faith struggle.  Instead, we see faith as ever evolving and growing.  Questions are at the root of a deep, mature faith.  Borg would argue that God cares very little about what beliefs are in our heads – if we believe the right things.  Borg knows that you can believe all the right things and still be in bondage, because, “Believing a set of claims to be true has very little transforming power.”[i]

Unlike faith of the head, faith of the heart is a little different, according to Borg.  Faith of the heart is characterized by three things:  trust, fidelity, and vision.  To have faith of the heart is to put a radical trust in God – to rely on God for grounding and safety.  Faith of the heart is also characterized by fidelity – an understanding that we will be faithful in our relationship with God and God with us.  Faith of the heart is finally characterized by vision – a belief that reality is life-giving and nourishing instead of threatening or hostile.  “To live in faith requires ‘a radical centering (of our lives) in God that leads to a deepening trust that transforms the way we see and live our lives.’”[ii]  So when the disciples ask Jesus to increase their faith, they are not necessarily asking Jesus to help them believe certain statements about God to be true (that faith of the head).  Instead, they are asking for faith of the heart – to get help in trusting God, remaining faithful in their relationship with God, and seeing life as God-given and gracious.

Now one would hope that Jesus would hear this request from the disciples and come back with a loving response – a pastoral word of encouragement that makes them feel affirmed in their fears and doubts.  Unfortunately, that is not what Jesus does at all today.  Instead he tells an abrasive story about masters and servants, which is basically Jesus’ way of saying, “You want your faith to increase?  Then get out there and do the work you have been given to do.”  Instead of assuring and coddling the disciples, Jesus sounds more like that old Nike ad that says, “Just do it!”

I do not know about you, but Jesus’ words are not all that comforting today.  I have sat with someone who is overwhelmed by the disappointments of life, and never once did it occur to me to tell them to just go out there and do the work they have been given to do.  I have counseled people who are facing death, divorce, job loss, or shame, and I have not told a single one of them to stop complaining and just get back out in the world doing what God has called them to do.  I myself have had moments when God felt absent, and I probably would have deemed any counsel to “Just do it!” as insensitive or unfair – to just trust that God is there anyway and get back to work.  Where are we supposed to find the strength to be faithful – to trust, to be loyal, to hold on to the vision of God’s goodness – when we feel completely unable to “Just do it!”?

As I struggled with Jesus’ harshness today, I remembered Paul’s second letter to Timothy.  Paul says to Timothy, “I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you.”  Paul’s words this week help me see how we get back to the work Jesus wants us to do.  In Paul’s encouragement, he is confident that Timothy can “Just do it!” because he knows Timothy’s identity.  Timothy is the grandson of Lois and the son of Eunice.  These women have taught him everything he knows about Jesus.  They have been through the depths of despair themselves, and yet they are faithful witnesses of God.  Timothy is not just a man fighting for faith – Timothy is known by God, and comes from a long line of people who have walked with God.  Timothy’s heritage is a heritage of people who have gone before, who have shown him the way through their lives, and who have encouraged him.  Now, you may be thinking, “Yeah, except my Grandma was a Southern Baptist who disagrees with what I believe, or my Mom stopped going to church ages ago.”  Whether biological or not, we all have grandmothers and mothers of our faith.   Maybe they are friends or fellow parishioners.  Or maybe those mothers and grandmothers are the matriarchs of our faith.  Regardless, we are all rooted in something bigger than us – something with much deeper roots that can ground us when we feel like we are flailing in our faith.

When I first read our gospel lesson this week, I thought we had been cursed with the wrong lessons – especially for those of you who brought friends today.  But the more the lessons unfolded, the more I realized they might be the perfect lessons.  We all struggle with faith – certainly of the head, but more importantly of the heart.  But as Paul reminds us, we come from a long line of people who have gone before who have struggled as we do, and who leaned into their identity as beloved children of God in order to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  We are encouraged today because we have seen the fruit of “Just doing it!”  We have prayed for someone struggling this week.  We have called or visited a friend who needed encouragement this week.  We stood up to a bully this week.   We gave money to support ministry this week.  We did something seemingly inconsequential, but those small, everyday acts of faith are powerful, and they are how we answer Jesus’ call to “Just do it!” – even when we did not think we could.[iii]  Paul and the Church remind us that we can – we can do those acts of faith because we are surrounded by matriarchs and patriarchs who encourage us along the way.  We all have those moments when we just want Jesus to increase our faith.  Today we are encouraged by doing – and eventually our faith increases in spite of us.  Amen.

[i] Marcus Borg, The Heart of Christianity, 30.  Argument about Borg presented by Br. David Vryhof, “Lord, Increase our Faith!” October 7, 2007, as found at http://ssje.org/ssje/2007/10/07/lord-increase-our-faith/ on September 28, 2016.

[ii] Vryhof.

[iii] David Lose, “Pentecost 20C:  Everyday Acts of Faith,” September 26, 2016, as found at http://www.davidlose.net/2016/09/pentecost-20-c-every-day-acts-of-faith/ on September 28, 2016.

Sermon – Luke 2.41-52, C2, YC, January 3, 2016

Tags

childhood, Christ, Christmas, family, impetuous, independence, Jesus, Joseph, Mary, parenting, self-sufficiency, Sermon, struggle, surprise, teenager, transition, village, wise

I learned pretty early on to adopt the model of a village partnering with me to raise my children.  We have never lived close enough to parents or siblings who could take our children for the afternoon or in an emergency.  Instead, we learned to lean on babysitters, friends, and parishioners.  And because both my husband and I found fulfillment working, we relied on teachers and daycare workers to support us during working hours.  Though we are our children’s parents, there is an entire village who is helping us to raise our children.

Though not all parents subscribe to that model of parenting, that is certainly the model in Jesus’ day.  Families stick together – but “family” has a much broader definition.  Your extended family and your family’s friends are your village – so you have a lot of moms, pops, grandmas, and aunties watching over you.  That village is the reason Mary and Joseph can travel for a day’s journey without noticing their missing twelve-year old.[i]  In the village, much like at Coffee Hour or a Pancake Breakfast at St. Margaret’s, the watching of children happens in community.  Mary and Joseph have no worry about Jesus because they know that the other moms, pops, grandmas, and aunties will keep him in line and safe.  And Jesus knows his role too – to follow instructions and to stay with the village.

Much like we should not be surprised that Mary and Joseph do not notice missing Jesus for a full day, we should also not be surprised that they are angry with Jesus when they find him.  They have journeyed a full day out of Jerusalem, rushed the day-long journey back to Jerusalem, and have scoured the City for three more days to find their missing child.  When they finally find Jesus, Mary lets Jesus have it.  “Child, why have you treated us like this?!?” she scolds.  But as exasperated as Mary and Joseph must be, I imagine they are furious with Jesus’ response.  I can hear the preteen annoyance and flippancy in Jesus’ words[ii], “Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”  I am sure Luke edited out Mary’s response, “Excuse me?!?  Who do you think you are to talk to me like that?!?”

The interaction between Mary, Joseph, and Jesus is the story of every family experiencing the transition from childhood into adolescence.  I am convinced that the commandment to honor one’s father and mother is rooted in the adolescent-prescribed struggle between family and independence.  In fact, that transition from preteen to teenage years is probably the most difficult of parent-child transitions.  This is the time when parents transition out of being the primary teachers and forces of influence on their child’s life.  Meanwhile, peers transition into being the primary teachers and forces of influence in a child’s life.  That time is a liminal time when the child is no longer solely dependent upon the parent but also is not yet totally independent.  So although the child may want to shed his or her old way of life, he or she is not fully prepared to live parent-free.  The child struggles, but so do the parents.  I remember one of the pieces of advice I received early on as a parent.  The seasoned parent told me that my number one goal was to help my child become self-sufficient.  But the parent warned me:  the preparation was the easy part – the teaching, the modeling, the cheering on of each successive milestone.  The hard part is when self-sufficiency is actually attained.  Feeling no longer needed or an active part in the child’s life can leave a parent feeling bereft or abandoned – whether that happens at twelve or twenty-one or forty.

That is where Mary and Joseph struggle today.  They have been preparing Jesus his whole childhood to be self-sufficient.  They have cared for him, protected him, and taught him.  But they have yet to let go of Jesus.  They are surprised by Jesus’ defensive response – partially because Jesus’ response is a bit rude, but partially because they have boxed Jesus into a role.  Jesus is their child who is to follow their rules.  Not only have Mary and Joseph forgotten that Jesus is growing up, they have also forgotten that Jesus is the son of God, the Messiah for God’s people.[iii]  What is probably the most annoying about Jesus’ response to his parents is that Jesus’ response is also partially true.  No one likes to be reprimanded by their twelve-year old.

What the encounter today between Jesus and his parents reminds us of is that we too can put Jesus in a box.  With a lifetime of hearing and learning about Jesus, we feel like we have a pretty strong grasp of who Jesus is and what Jesus is about.  But the danger in that kind of comfort with Jesus is that we put Jesus in a category as a known, unchangeable entity.  But if we remember, Jesus was not particularly known for doing the predictable.  Jesus was always surprising those closest to him.  He would even sometimes say one thing and do another.  Clearly Jesus’ parents thought they had him figured out.  The disciples fell into the same practice too.  They were constantly suggesting a plan of action they thought was in line with Jesus’ way of doing things, only to be shut down by Jesus himself.

We fall into the same trap.  Being followers of Christ, we sometimes think we can speak for Christ.  I have heard people argue that Jesus would have been a democrat or a republican – an argument that clearly is setup to satisfy a need for self-affirmation.  Our question, “What would Jesus do?” is also a dangerous one, as the question tempts us to put words into Jesus mouth that have never been there.  The conundrum is easy enough to see – how can we make a two-thousand-year-old Middle Eastern Jesus relevant to a twenty-first century American?  Truthfully, as a preacher, I am the most at risk because my whole job is to make Jesus relevant to our lives.

A couple of years ago, I stumbled on a quote from Steve Maraboli.  He said, “Want to keep Christ in Christmas?  Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, forgive the guilty, welcome the unwanted, care for the ill, love your enemies, and do unto others as you would have done unto you.”[iv]  In many ways, we have all we need to know about Jesus.  He taught and showed us how to live.  Our questions about what Jesus would do or what party affiliation he would have are distractions.  We know how he lived his life.  We also know that he was constantly surprising those around him.  Our antidote to falling into the same trap of keeping Jesus in a box is to live the life he called us to live, but also to always expect to be surprised.  I imagine when we feed the hungry, clothe the naked, forgive the guilty, welcome the unwanted, care for the ill, love our enemies, and do unto others as we would have done unto us, we will find that Jesus shows up in all sorts of surprising ways.  And like Mary and Joseph, we may find sharp, annoyed responses from Jesus to our questions.  His response is the same to us today, “Why were you searching for me?  Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”  Did you not know that I would be with the hungry, the guilty, the unwanted, the ill, and the enemy?   Jesus sounds like an impetuous teenager at times.  But he also sounds like a wise a teenager at times.  Amen.

[i] Barbara Brown Taylor, “Homiletical Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 167.

[ii] William J. Danaher, Jr. “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 1 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 164.

[iii] Danaher, 164.

[iv] Steve Maraboli, Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience.  Quote found at http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/476284-want-to-keep-christ-in-christmas-feed-the-hungry-clothe on January 2, 2016.

On Mother’s Day…

Tags

bless, difficult, joy, Mother's Day, mothers, pregnancy, struggle

Photo credit: http://www.modernartimages.com/symbol-of-motherhood.htm

As Mother’s Day approaches, I face it with my usual dread.  Though there are so many mothers that we can and should honor (I love you, Mom!!), there are so many people for whom this is a hard day.  I am at the stage in life when many of my friends are having children.  There are the sonogram picture announcements about the pregnancies, the gender-reveal parties, the showers, and, of course, the onslaught of beautiful baby pictures.  It is a time of great joy and most of the time it feels like a gift, especially to be a part of it all when friends live far away.

But then I remember all of those friends who want to be pregnant, but struggle with infertility.  Each pregnancy announcement is bittersweet.  And I remember all of those friends who have lost a pregnancy.  Those sonogram pictures bring up fresh rounds of grief.  And I remember those friends who have lost children after birth.  Those pictures of swaddled babies bring back the muscle memory of empty arms.

Of course, that does not even include all the other ways that Mother’s Day can be difficult:  the mothers we have lost, the mothers who have been abusive, the mothers who are estranged from their children.  The list goes on and on.  And so, each year, my Mother’s Day tradition has been to reread this wonderful ode to “The Wide Spectrum of Mothering,” by Amy Young.  May you bless and be blessed this Mother’s Day, affirming all the women in your life.

Sermon – Mark 1.21-28, E4, YB, February 1, 2015

Tags

change, control, expectations, God, healing, Jesus, parent, struggle, trust, unclean spirit

I have often joked that of all the people in the world who needed to become a parent, I was one of them.  I say this because I am a person who likes routine and order.  I like things done a certain way, and prefer to have a sense of control over things.  Of course, this is one of those areas in life with which God and I often struggle.  Jesus even teaches about the need to let go of control and trust God.  Whenever I read that passage I nod in assent, remembering the many times God has proven God’s self to be trustworthy.  I put up my hands in defeat, and try to trust God.  And then about 48 hours later, I am sneaking back to grab the reins again.

That is why parenthood has been so good for me.  Parenthood challenges this weakness over and over again.  My eldest is at the age where she wants to do things herself.  This is a good and natural development.  But for someone who likes a sense of control, this good and natural development can be maddening.  I cannot count the number of times I have had to literally bite my tongue instead of jumping in with some explanation about a better way to do a task.  I cannot count the number of times I have had to clinch my hands to prevent myself from just taking over a task, so that the task would be done the correct, and often faster, way.  Sometimes I wonder whether God is chuckling to God’s self when God sees me fumbling through this reality with my children over and over again.

The people who had gathered at the synagogue in Mark’s gospel lesson today have a similar experience.  They are not unlike most of us here.  Every week they go to temple, following the same pattern of worship, expecting the same experiences.  There is a certain comfort for them knowing what to expect.  They have learned to watch how the scribes debate and have a dialogue about the traditions.[i]  This is how they learn and decipher truth and is a natural part of their weekly experience at temple.  But today is different.  Today there is a new teacher in synagogue, and he is doing things all wrong.  His teaching style is more declarative than deliberative.[ii]  For some reason he teaches with tremendous authority, as if he really is sure of what God would say or think about certain things.  Jesus is not following the rules, and those gathered at the temple have no idea what to make of him.  He even is able to exorcise an unclean spirit out one of the worshippers who is present.  They had not even realized the man had an unclean spirit, and here Jesus is, casting the spirit out.  How did he know?  Where did Jesus get the idea that he had the power to do such a thing?

If ever we doubted that we come from a long line of faithful Jews, today is the day we realize how closely related we are.  I cannot count the number of times I have heard this same conversation at Church.  Why did the priest use that prayer today?  We never use that prayer.  Why did the Vestry make that decision?  We never used to do things that way.  Why did the Activities Committee change that event?  We never do the event that way.  I have sat in many a meeting discussing a change or a new way of doing something and invariably someone will say, “If we change this someone might get upset.”  After many years of experience, my response has finally become, “When we change this, someone will definitely be upset.”  That statement may sound obvious or maybe even sound judgmental or harsh.  But what I have come to find is that expecting that change is unsettling and makes people upset actually makes the wave of resistance to that change not a frustrating thing, but a happily expected reaction.  In fact, a wise old priest once told me, “If you are not upsetting people, you are not doing your job.”

Just the other day, my oldest daughter and I were making scrambled eggs.  She was fumbling through breaking the eggs.  I must have picked out two or three shell pieces that day.  Then she was stirring the eggs so haphazardly, my tongue started hurting again.  My clenched hands had to strain to stay at my sides to avoid “just taking over this one part.”  We all do it – and not just with children.  We think we know a better way to accomplish a task, so instead of inviting someone to help us, we do the work on our own.  We know the historical way something has been done and we forcefully teach a volunteer that way instead of hearing their idea of how to do something differently.  Instead of a shared, collaborative ministry, we take over a task ourselves because we can get the task done faster and more efficiently if we do not have to sit around a talk about the many options available.

But you know what happened when I bit my tongue and pinned my hands to my sides that day?  The eggs tasted just as good as they always do.  Though I could have had a stress-free cooking process otherwise, you know what else happened?  My daughter had a big, proud smile on her face when we devoured those yummy scrambled eggs.  I have seen the same thing happen here at St. Margaret’s.  When I started team teaching with other adults, we gained some tremendous and transformative teaching material.  When we let some excited volunteers start a community garden, we not only fed the hungry in our neighborhood, we also made some new friends by letting our neighbors, AHRC, help water the garden.  When we revamped our family Christmas Eve service, we found that the service attracted new people, and in fact has become more popular than our once favored midnight mass.

I have been thinking this week about that man with the unclean spirit in today’s gospel.  The funny thing is that no one seemed to notice the man beforehand.[iii]  Had the leaders of worship and learning been in control that day, the man might have come to temple and left temple equally tortured.  He may have come hoping someone would notice his pain and suffering and left realizing that no one could really appreciate the depths of his struggle.  But because Jesus is there, teaching in a way that only the Holy One of God can, the unclean spirit reveals himself, and is cast out by Jesus.  Had Jesus not been there, doing things the “wrong” way, the poor afflicted man may have never been cleansed and given new life.

I wonder what ways we are not like the scribes and those gathered at the temple.  I wonder how our way of insisting on the familiar blocks us from seeing unmet needs.  I wonder how our reliance on ourselves and our guarding of control forbids new life from breaking in and shining new light into our community.  Today we will pray the Litany for Healing.  Every month we make space for people to come forward for healing prayers.  Most of us come forward for some physical ailment we are facing or for healing prayers for a loved one.  But our healing prayers do not just have to be prayers for the healing of our bodies.  They can also be prayers for healing our spirits.  If an unclean spirit has taken over you – like a spirit of control or manipulation – perhaps today is the day you ask God to release that spirit from you.  Or perhaps you have lost a sense of joy or connection.  God can heal that brokenness today too.  Or perhaps you know that you need God’s healing, but you cannot articulate the brokenness, even to yourself.  Our healing prayers can be for you too.  Much like Jesus could see the unclean spirit when others could not, my guess is that Jesus knows what is troubling your heart today too – even if you cannot articulate that pain yourself.  And much like that day at the temple, albeit in a way that was unusual, uncomfortable, and unexpected, Jesus can work in you, casting out the darkness and blasting through with light.  Amen.

[i] Matt Skinner, “Commentary on Mark 1.21-28,” as found at http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2343 on January 28, 2015.

[ii] Skinner.

[iii] Ofelia Ortega, “Theological Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. B, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 310.