Tents of God: A Sermon for 18 December 2011

St. Alban's Episcopal Church, Monroe, La.

A number of years ago—quite a number—my four living siblings and I gathered at the home of our parents in Kalona, IA. And not only the four of us, but our spouses and grown children, some of whom also had spouses and children of their own.

Needless to say, the modest parental home we had once shared would no longer hold us all. My late husband and I decided to camp in a nearby state park. We had one of those tents made of light-weight but extremely tough, rain-resistant fabrics that popped up in minutes with flexible, fiberglass poles and shock cords. We staked it down and were good to go.

Our second night in Iowa, we got classic Iowa summer weather. Of course, we heard the storm warnings, but it didn’t sound that bad. I’m not sure whether vanity or just plain stubbornness ruled the day, but… Oh, no, we said. Of course we’re going to sleep in our tent. We’ll be fine.

The wind blew and the rain came. That little tent with its flexible poles shook and bent in the wind. At times, it laid over so completely that the walls of the tent were right down on top of us. We were too scared to try to leave!

Past midnight, the wind laid down, we slept a bit, and morning came. That little tent had taken a beating. The fiberglass poles were limp from stress fractures, some of its seams were pulled a part, and some of the shock cords had torn loose from the fabric. It had gotten us through the night, but it was done for.

So… why… would God… prefer a tent… to a house?

Because that’s what happens in today’s Old Testament lesson (2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16, NRSV). There’s David, enjoying a respite from fighting for the security and safety of God’s people. And as king, he lives in a fine house.

As sometimes happens when humans have a little peace and quiet to think, David has an idea. It really is a fine idea. And I’m sure it came from David’s heart.

See now, David says to the prophet Nathan, I am living in a house of cedar, but the ark of God stays in a tent. Nathan gets the picture right away and supports the plan. Go, do, he says, for the LORD is with you.

But God immediately nips the scheme in the bud. ‘Who told you to build me a house?’ he asks David, through Nathan. ‘I’ve been traveling with my people in a tent since the day I brought you out of bondage,’ says God, ‘and have you heard me complain?’

We recognize rhetorical questions, questions that are posed for effect, not because they need answers. And we get the feeling that a bit of a scolding is going on here!

Then comes the clincher. ‘In fact, David,’ says God, ‘I brought you in out of the fields, I have traveled with you every step of the way, and I have protected you from your enemies. And one more thing, David. I'm not finished with you yet. I the Lord will make you a house, a house of people, generations of people, a kingdom of people who will be my people forever.’

Now we know, because we’ve read the next story, that David’s son Solomon got to build the temple. And we know that God cooperated. Indeed, God put on his architect’s hat and gave Solomon detailed instructions—not only for the temple itself, but all of the appointments that were to go in the temple and down to the vestments to be worn by the priests.

So I’m not suggesting that God dislikes temples or churches, won’t live in them and doesn’t want us to build them and make them beautiful. Far from it.

But on this occasion, the first occasion in the Biblical account that a human offers to build The One God, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, a fine house to reside in, God says, ‘No, I’ll stick with the tent, thank you very much!’

So.. why would God.. prefer a tent to a fine house?

I think it not a coincidence that God turns right around and promises David a house of people, many generations of people. In fact, maybe tents and people have some characteristics in common that particularly appeal to God.

For starters, both tents and people shelter life. I am amazed by the photographs of mountain climbers camped on snow pack in what appear to be handkerchief-size tents that weigh ounces. But those tents are the difference between life and death.

Everest Base Camp, by Mathias Schar

                            
Tents and people are both resilient. Both can take quite a bit of being buffeted about by the winds of change and challenge in life.

But ultimately, both people and tents are mortal. Only God is immortal, and it is one of the great mysteries of faith that The Immortal One chooses mere mortals to love and live within and among.

Then there’s mobility. People and tents, and especially people with tents, can go most anywhere. And where the people of God go, they take the Kingdom of God with them.

You see, I think WE are the tents of God. God chooses us and dwells within us and goes with us. We call it Incarnation.

Yes, of course, God is here in this church as well, and in churches and synagogues and temples and mosques, grand and humble, around the world. But God is not here because of the beauty of the rose window or the fineness of the wood or the plush red carpet. God is here because we’re here.

So, why, when David wanted to build a fancy house for God, did God choose tents instead? Maybe because David needed a bit of a comeuppance for getting ahead of the plan.

Maybe because God was afraid David and the people would get confused, as humans so easily do, and think they could keep God in the house they had built for him, where he could be consulted as needed but otherwise ignored!

Or maybe for the same reason God chose a stable for the only Son of God to be born in. God seems to like showing up in places that seem least likely to humans.

Maybe because God needs arms and feet, mobile human tents to do the work of extending God’s kingdom here on this earth.

But my favorite “maybe” of all, isn’t a “maybe” at all. It’s the one I’m most certain of. God chooses to live in the human heart, imperfect and mortal tent that it is, because it is the only dwelling place… that can love God back.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

The Last Speech: A Sermon for 27 November 2011

Christ Episcopal Church, St. Joseph, LA

                                                                
Every fall semester, I teach an advanced writing class at ULM. The first day of class I require students to complete a diagnostic writing exercise. I give them several topics to choose from and a time and word limit, and set them to work. One of the topics is “The Last Speech.”

For “The Last Speech,” they must imagine they have six months to live and write the farewell speech they would give in the waning days of their lives. Young people write some interesting things when presented with that particular challenge. I’ll share a few examples with you in a moment.

But first let’s turn to today’s lessons and the church calendar for how my students and their essays are relevant today.
                          

Detail, the Pontifical Irish College Chapel

                       
I might also have begun this sermon by saying “Happy New Year”! Today is, of course, the first Sunday of Advent, the first day of the church year. Today we begin again the familiar cycle: Advent; Christmas—all 12 days of it; Epiphany, followed by a short bit of “ordinary time”; then Lent—all 40 days of it, with Sundays being in, but not of, Lent.
 
Then comes the peak of the church’s year, the terrifying and glorious events of Holy Week and Easter. Forty days into Eastertide, our Lord ascends into heaven, and just 10 days later comes Pentecost—the birthday of the church, which again introduces the looong season of what we call ordinary time.

So “Happy New Year” it is, but… just what does Advent call our attention to? Christmas, the coming of our Lord in human form, for sure.

But why then the color purple? Wouldn’t the red of Christmas be more appropriate? Why then greenery on the altar, rather than festive poinsettias?

When we Christians here the words of the prophet Isaiah and the psalmist calling for the coming of God Almighty, we know the answer. God came!

But that answer is easy to forget, given the challenges of life. We too have mountains to climb. We cry out with Isaiah (64:1-9, NRSV), O that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence…

Indeed, God seems to have forgotten us in the most difficult passages of life. Our strength is drained by the winds of change and the roller-coaster of life. And so we cry out with the psalmist (Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18, NRSV) , …stir up your strength and come to help us.

Advent focuses our attention on God’s answer to the human cry for God’s presence in the world. But at the same time, Advent reminds us that the ultimate answer, the final moment of reconciliation and end to human suffering is yet to come.

As Paul writes to the Corinthians (I Corinthians 1:3-9, NRSV), we wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ, who will strengthen us so that we will make it to that great day of our Lord Jesus Christ.

But leave it to the always cautious if not downright gloomy Mark to remind us of the stresses and uncertainties of being between the babe in the manger and our Lord in triumph (13:24-37, NRSV): [A]bout that day or hour no one knows, writes Mark, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. ...Therefore, keep awake-- for you do not know when the master…will come... And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.

Living in between is the nature of our lives. Living between Incarnation and Resurrection defines our days. And this in-between time is fraught with beginnings and endings and uncertainties about them.

A dear friend of mine buried his 90+-year-old father about a month and a half ago. Then two and a half weeks ago the wife of his best friend, who was also his friend and his own age—that being mid-50s—died a not so timely death after a battle with cancer. Then, most shocking of all, on the eve of Thanksgiving, just four days ago, his 33-year-old son-in-law also lost a valiant battle to that dread disease.

He said to me on the phone yesterday, I hope I am done with death for a while. I hope and pray he is, too. But we never know.

Earlier I promised to return to my students and their assignment. This year three young men took up the challenge of writing their last speech. Their approaches were quite different and each one instructive in its one way.

One imagines himself at the age of 46 with many regrets but determined to not waste his remaining time. No more passing up opportunities, he wrote, I’m embracing everything from here on out. And he imagines a trip to Australia, one that he didn’t take last year, but now he’s pricing some plane tickets for himself and the family.

Another of the three has clearly felt some real pain is his short years. He thanks his parents, reminds them that he had to wear the ill-fitting hand-me-down clothes of his older brother, their “golden child,” but also that they were also always there for him. And I love you, he says. After noting a couple of other great disappointments —one at the hands of his best friend, who stole his girlfriend their freshman year, and another in his country. But he ends with one word: Peace. He has come to terms.

The third young man lives his life in a wheelchair, and his last speech is a statement of courage and defiance. My disability does not define me. I define it, he wrote. That is what I want to talk to you about tonight. Doing the best with what you have and never looking back.

I will close with the words of Mary W. Anderson in an article published by Christian Century.

What if you knew you had only one month left in your life? she asks. Would you finish up important matters at work? Would you travel to a place you always wanted to go? Would you pray more, go to church more, do that generous act you always wanted to do for others? Would you find ways to leave a mark on the world? Would you reconcile a fractured friendship?

By answering yes to one or more of these possibilities, she continues, we indicate that in our last days we would be better stewards of all the things God has given us in this life... In the intensity of last days, we would live better, be better. We would be more generous, more focused on the most important things in life. The question is: Why do we need to be under threat of death to be better stewards?

In this Advent season, as we focus on the gift to come, let us also awaken to our stewardship of all that is in this uncertain in-between time of our life on earth. Come, Lord Jesus.                                                          

AMEN

Energy of Love: A Sermon for All Saints' Day, 6 November 2011

St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, Mer Rouge, La. & Church of the Redeemer, Oak Ridge, La.

As many of you know, I’m a relative newcomer to the Episcopal Church and I came from a radically different “non-liturgical” tradition. I was raised Mennonite, a Protestant denomination descended directly from the original Anabaptists. It was a tradition in which the concept of “saints” was akin to idol worship.

Of course, I now understand that the hostility of the Mennonite Church toward “saints” was really about the Medieval church’s abuses of Saints with a capital S, such things as encouraging magical thinking about the Saints in order to extract money from the devout through the selling of relics—relics often of highly questionable authenticity.

Today All Saints’ is among my favorite church feast days, and I’ll say more about that in a moment. But first a word of explanation. It kind of doesn’t seem like All Saints’ Sunday because Halloween was almost a week ago and we know there’s connection, even if we get hazy about what that connection is!

All Saints’ was established as a major feast day of the church to honor all of those saints with a capital S. It was set to be celebrated November 1st. A lesser feast called “All Souls,’” for the purpose of celebrating ALL of the faithful departed, was set for November 2nd. These dates were most likely chosen because late October was already a time of annual celebrations of the harvest, which in some cultures included honoring the dead.

Revelation 7:9-12

                                   
The Saints with a capital S were also called “Hallows,” short for “the hallowed ones,” and so the evening before All Saints’ was called “All Hallows Eve,” later shortened to “Halloween.” The Halloween costume began as a way to mock evil by dressing up and partying in scary outfits.

Over time, All Saints’ and All Souls’ kind of merged, at least in the Western Church, and today we celebrate both on a single day. And here’s the final bit of historical trivia: Since November 1st doesn’t usually fall on a Sunday, we transfer the celebration to a Sunday, but according to the quaint traditions of the Anglicans, we can only transfer it to the Sunday following November 1.

So here we are, nearly a week after the fact, celebrating All Saints’ Day! And it is a day on which we honor not only the official saints of the church, the saints with a capital S, but all of the faithful departed.

Many of us—perhaps most of us—are here in these pews this morning because of the examples of faith, hope and charity lived out in front of us by those who have gone before us to their heavenly reward. When I hear those words from John’s Revelation (7:9-17, NRSV), I see faces in that multitude of witnesses: my parents and grandparents, pastors and teachers over the years.

Even those with whom I no longer agree, like my Mennonite preachers and teachers who were anti-saint. There they are among the multitude, robed in white, waving palm branches and saying, Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!

But if we listen carefully to John, we see in that multitude not only the faces of our own dear departed, but strange faces in all hues. And we hear their rejoicing not only in our own comforting language but in many languages at once.

On that glorious day when we stand within the multitude, I believe we will hear many names for God, names like Yahweh and Allah.

This picture painted by John is comforting, but surely it’s also an antidote for all religious exceptionalism. Whenever we are tempted to think we’ve got the right answers, the right doctrine, the right religious practice, we would do well to remember this image. Who knows with whom we will be rubbing elbows when we ourselves stand among the multitude?

Turning to today’s Gospel lesson, we learn more about that multitude. It is Jesus’ beloved Beatitudes, a part of the sermon on the mount (Matthew 5:1-12, NRSV).

These too are comforting words: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

Who among us has never felt “poor in spirit”? Who has never mourned? Who has never felt powerless in the face of the challenges of our political system? Our economic system?

The meek shall inherit the earth? Not likely! At least not by earthly standards.

Life is often hard. We are comforted by these words because they promise that in spite of the very real difficulties of everyday life, a better day will come.

They promise that we will ultimately be measured by other standards, God’s generous, loving and merciful standards. And we will not be found wanting.

These words give us hope for that future glory so vividly shown through John’s vision.

But these comforting words might also serve as a warning and cautionary tale. I cannot read the Beatitudes without being reminded of those old Burma Shave advertising signs. Remember those?

Burma Shave Signs

 Kind of like the Beatitudes, the Burma Shave signs set up a situation, then come back with a resolution—one that is kind of unexpected. And many of them were cautionary tales as well. Here’s one I found on the Internet yesterday: Big mistake, Many make, Rely on horn, Instead of brake. Burma Shave.

The Beatitudes make us smile. But they also remind us of our responsibilities as saints as long as we are here on this earth.

WE are to comfort those who mourn. WE are to fill the hungry and thirsty. WE are to be merciful. WE are to be peacemakers.

WE are to seek God above all else and love our neighbors as ourselves. And we can rejoice when that gets us into trouble with those systems and forces that oppress humankind.

In his book Beautiful Losers, Leonard Cohen wrote: What is a saint? A saint is someone who has achieved a remote human possibility. ...I think it has something to do with the energy of love. Contact with this energy results in the exercise of a kind of balance in the chaos of existence. …Something in him so loves the world that he gives himself to the laws of gravity and chance. Far from flying with the angels, he traces with the fidelity of a seismograph needle the state of the solid bloody landscape. His house is dangerous and finite, but he is at home in the world. He can love the shapes of human beings, the fine and twisted shapes of the heart. It is good to have among us such men, such balancing monsters of love. (Thanks to the Website Edge of the Enclosure for this quote.)

The “energy of love” is God. When we connect with it, we become saints—agents of God’s love on earth.

AMEN

Humble Yourself: A Sermon for 30 October 2011

Christ Church, St. Joseph, La.                                         

We just can’t seem to get away from those darn Pharisees and their sinful ways, can we?

At this point in our march through the lectionary for Year A, which obviously features the Gospel according to Matthew, it seems that Jesus has nothing better to do than to argue with and criticize the Pharisees.

In fact, this game of one-upmanship that Jesus always wins, gets even nastier. Soon we will hear Jesus say, Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!

So maybe it’s time to step back a bit and look at the larger picture. Maybe it is time to look at all of the agendas coming together in these stories.

There’s the agenda of the Pharisees, for sure, and it is to discredit Jesus. Then there’s Jesus’ agenda, which is to reform Judaism—often by turning upside down the most cherished tenets of the orthodox faith.

But then there’s the agenda of the Gospel writers, in this case Matthew. That’s the agenda we have the hardest time focusing on—and for good reason. We believe God inspired the Gospel writers. We believe what they wrote contains everything necessary to our own salvation.

And since our eternal lives depend on Holy Scripture, we sometimes have trouble scrutinizing it and considering the social and political contexts in which it was written. We especially have trouble when it seems to mesh so nicely with our own human contexts, our own cultural and political perspectives and, yes, prejudices.

But every so often we need to step back and look at the larger picture, not only of the agendas coming together in Biblical stories, but how those agendas intersect with our own.

Let’s begin with Jesus. He was not a Christian. He was a Jew and a devout adherent to the Jewish faith. When he answered his Father’s call to begin his ministry, he went to a synagogue. Throughout his life he preached and taught in synagogues.

Yes, Jesus was very critical of the religious leadership of his day. He was critical of the Sadduccees, who were the temple priests. He was critical of the scribes and Pharisees, who were learned and devout lay people who studied the Hebrew Scriptures and practiced the Hebrew laws contained therein. The Pharisees especially were known for their strict and diligent observance of Torah, which they understood to be God’s law.

But Jesus’ critique of Judaism and its leadership should first of all be understood as internal criticism, not criticism from without. He never left the Jewish faith. He was crucified as a Jew by the Roman state, with the consent and encouragement of the most powerful religious leaders of his day.

Moreover, Jesus’ criticism was part of a long tradition of internal criticism practiced by Judaism. That’s why so many saw him as the latest in a long string of prophets who had called the Israelites back to the faith over the centuries.

Little wonder then that the Pharisees mistrusted and questioned Jesus! They were the defenders of the traditional faith. He was the radical seeking to reform the faith.

Our Holy Gospels were written some 50 to 70 years later. That is, 50 to 70 years after Jesus spoke out against the hypocrisy and arrogance of some of the leaders of his faith.

And why then, you might ask? Because that is when the followers of Jesus were busy separating themselves from Judaism and forming a new religion, namely Christianity.

Little wonder then that the Gospel writers, carrying out the crucial work of creating a new faith identity and a new religious structure, tend to cast the Pharisees in a negative light and to show Jesus handily defeating them at every turn. And because the Gospel writers disliked the Pharisees, we think we should too. 

But external criticism is very different from internal criticism, and we know that Christian dislike for Jews has produced centuries of anti-Semitic prejudice and even violence. The words of Jesus, criticizing some of the religious leaders of his time, have been put to a use Jesus himself abhorred.

And that brings us full circle. In today’s Gospel lesson, Jesus teaches not only that hypocrisy and self-righteousness are wrong, but that we need look no further than within our own ranks for examples (Matthew 23:1-12, NRSV).

I am reminded once again of contemporary politics, and specifically of recent episodes of hate-filled behavior at political rallies and forums. Things like shouts of “Let him die” when discussion turned to the problem of people who need major medical care but have no insurance.

Things like booing a gay soldier serving in Iraq when he asked a question about his own government’s policy toward him. Things like cheering at a prideful claim by a candidate that he has presided over more than 200 executions.

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of these incidents is that the candidates, many of whom openly stand on their Christian credentials as a campaign strategy, did not speak out against or even seek to distance themselves from the hate-filled outbursts.

Love God, and your neighbor as yourself, Jesus said, just last Sunday.
   

Jesus Washing the Feet of His Disciples, by Michal Splho

But of course, we needn’t leave our own homes and communities to find examples of the problem Jesus addresses in today’s lesson. Most of us at least some of the time fall for the illusion of self-reliance and indulge in feelings of moral superiority.

We have been at least somewhat successful in making the social and economic system work for us. We go to church on Sunday, put our offering in the plate and thank God for our many blessings, even though we are quite sure we earned that new car or lovely home or promotion or rise in stock prices or… whatever.

And that becomes a burden we tie up and lay on the shoulders of others, sure that if we did it, they can too. We don’t have to leave our own churches to find contempt for the poor, even though Jesus calls us to love and serve them as we would Jesus himself.

Humble yourself, Jesus says. The greatest among you will be your servant. He will soon demonstrate the point by getting down on his own knees and washing the feet of his disciples as they share their last meal together. And finally, he will go to the cross, in humility and for love of us, his neighbor.

AMEN

Love in a Time of Partisanship: A Sermon for 23 October 2011

St. Luke's Chapel, Grambling, La.

In last Sunday’s Gospel lesson, the Pharisees had sent their disciples to try to trap Jesus in what he said. They asked him a question about taxes, a contentious issue then as it is now. Surely a question about taxes would get Jesus into trouble with somebody, no matter how he answered it!

Today seems to be “pop quiz day.” The Pharisees seek to “test” Jesus, and, again, they pick an ideal topic: The Law (Matthew 22:34-44 NRSV). We can almost hear the wheels turning in their minds. A question about the law will surely trip up this peasant from Galilee!

Now when I announce a pop quiz in one of my classes, I am typically met with widespread moaning and groaning. But Jesus—ever on top of the situation—has a ready answer. It is succinct and clear, and reduces the complexity of the law to two truly memorable mandates. We’ll come back to those mandates shortly, but for a moment I want to consider further the Pharisees and what they are up to.

Barbara Crafton is an Episcopal priest who writes an online meditation (The Almost Daily eMo). Writing on today’s lesson, she suggests that we modern Christians tend to forget that the Gospels were written at a time of partisanship within Judaism.

That is, followers of Jesus were a “party” within Judaism and what they believed was deemed heresy by mainstream Jews. The Pharisees were leaders of the orthodox party. They studied Torah, God’s Law and covenant with the Jewish people. (The Sadducees were temple priests and a third party within Judaism, but I’m not going to say more about them this morning, lest we need a score card to keep track of things.)
                               

Simchat Torah

These parties within Judaism thoroughly mistrusted each other. Little wonder then that the Pharisees questioned Jesus! Likewise, little wonder that the Gospel writers, left to carry on the work of the followers-of-Jesus party after his death and resurrection, tend to cast the Pharisees in a negative light, and to show Jesus handily defeating them at every turn.

And because the Gospel writers disliked the Pharisees, we think we should too. 
 
But we are misguided in our dislike of the Pharisees. They are the forerunners, not only of rabbinic Judaism as we know it today, but of those men and women we call Biblical scholars who contribute so much to our understanding of Holy Scripture.

Moreover, Jesus was not the first to reduce the complexity of the law to a clear, concise statement of concern for one’s neighbor. A few decades before Jesus’ time of teaching and preaching, a rabbi by the name of Hillel was challenged by a would-be convert to Judaism to explain the law while standing on one foot.

It’s hard to say what the challenger’s motive might have been. Perhaps he hoped Rabbi Hillel would not be able to meet the challenge and he would then be justified in giving up on the project of becoming a believer. Or, perhaps he was genuinely tired of long, complicated explications and really needed a simple understanding of the faith he was interested in—one that could be given while standing on one foot!

Either way, Rabbi Hillel met the challenge. He immediately raised one foot off the ground and said, That which is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. That is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary. Go and study it.

So when the Pharisees test Jesus, he too is prepared with a standing-on-one-foot summary of the law. First he says, You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and first commandment. 

And we recognize that as a theme of Hebrew Scripture. Many places in what we call the Old Testament, the people of Israel are commanded to love and commit themselves fully and only to the one and only God, the God of their ancestors, the God who brought them out of bondage in Egypt.

But then Jesus ups the ante over Rabbi Hillel. He says, And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.

In other words, where Rabbi Hillel says don’t be hateful toward your neighbor, Jesus says LOVE your neighbor, and not a little bit but just as much as you love yourself. Care as much about the wellbeing of your neighbor as you care about your own.

Now Jesus is, in fact, quoting a passage from Leviticus when he says love your neighbor as yourself, but the bulk of Torah is devoted to other things: Property laws to ensure fairness in society, holiness laws for keeping oneself pure, laws about how and where to worship God, and so forth.

So when Jesus makes “love your neighbor as yourself” the second most important commandment, he is taking a radical stand. And he is upping the ante over the standard teaching and practice of mainstream religion in his day.

Many people—not just the Jews of old but many people today—want to turn Holy Scripture into a rulebook that covers all sorts of things: Taxes, who can marry whom, what kind of government a country should have, what kind of economic system a society should have, which countries are justified in forcing their political and economic systems on others, and on and on, ad nauseum.

But Jesus gave us just two mandates in his 1-minute, standing-on-one-foot interpretation of all of Holy Scripture: Love God with all your heart, soul and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.

Pretty simple, huh? Straightforward, direct, no conditions to remember, no complicated formulas to memorize. Just… love God and your neighbor as yourself.

So… how is that working for us? How are we doing with this command to love unconditionally in our own time of partisanship, both within the church and in the larger society?
                 

My Team vs. Your Team

With a presidential election just around the corner, we hear daily from politicians who are quite certain, on the one hand, that God is behind their candidacy, their platform, their agenda. Yet in the next breath they are equally certain we can’t afford to provide health care to all, that educating all of our children equally well is too costly, that the Mexicans who pick our fruit and pluck our chickens ought to be summarily kicked out, if not shot dead on the spot. And they have a following—a wildly enthusiastic following—people who applaud when they say these things and boo when a gay soldier ready to die for their freedom says he’s tired of living in a closet.

Turns out this mandate to love—completely, unconditionally, in our own time of partisanship—is much easier to say and to preach than to live.

But remember that Jesus ultimately and finally upped the ante on his own words. Ultimately and finally, with his own death on the cross, he says loving God and your neighbor is not enough. Be willing to die for them as well.              

  AMEN

Image & Likeness: A Sermon for 16 October 2011

Christ Church, St. Joseph, La.

In today’s Gospel lesson (Matthew 22:15-22, NRSV), the Pharisees are once again up to no good. They’re still trying to trap Jesus in what he says. 

They have been playing this game for a while now. In fact, I Googled the question, “How many times did the Pharisees try to trap Jesus?” but apparently no one has thought to count them. At least Google didn’t come up with an answer!

On this particular occasion, they send their disciples, perhaps in the hope that the disciples will do better, perhaps just because they are tired of public embarrassment.

“The Herodians,” by the way, are followers of King Herod, who want more than to trap Jesus. They want to kill him. This Jesus of Nazareth is a serious threat to the seats of power, both the seat of religious power, as represented by the Pharisees, and the seat of political power, as represented by the Herodians.

So… the game in today’s story is entrapment, and this time the Pharisees try a question about—heaven help us—taxes. 
                                     

Making the Sign of the Cross

I wonder how many good Christians across this country and around the globe are taking the bait this very morning!

You see, I think what the Pharisees were really up to was trying to get Jesus “off message.” That is, the Good News Jesus proclaimed, the central message he preached over and over again, was so threatening and so troubling to the religious mainstream, that the Pharisees sought over and over again to get him to talk about something else—to go “off message.”

In today’s lesson, that something else is taxes, and it is excellent bait. Who doesn’t have an opinion about taxes? Then and now, everybody… has an opinion… about taxes!

The Roman tax referenced by this passage was particularly controversial. Some of the Hebrew people believed that, as a matter of practicality if nothing else, it simply should be paid. Others believed that to pay taxes to the Roman oppressor was an act of collaboration with the enemy.

And so the Pharisees, thinking they had posed a simple “yes or no” question, just  knew that whichever way Jesus answered the question, he was going to be in trouble with somebody.

Interestingly enough, many people today seem to think that Jesus actually answered the question. I’m guessing, in churches across the country and around the globe this morning, preachers are using this passage to endorse their particular political view about taxes.

Certainly, a few minutes of searching the Internet will produce serious commentary going both directions. Some say, yes, this passage supports the paying of taxes. Others say, no, this passage really says that taxes are of the world and of political systems, and that those who belong to God are obligated only to tithe or give their money to charity. One source I found even argued that this story was Jesus’ coded encouragement to the Israelites to refuse to cooperate with Rome.

But notice that the representatives of the Pharisees and the Herodians understood that Jesus had once again skillfully sidestepped their question. Rather than pounce on his answer, as they had hoped to be able to do, they turn and walked away in amazement. They had been outwitted. Jesus stayed “on message.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could get Jesus to answer for us today the vexing question of taxes? Who should pay them, how much, etc. I certainly know how I wish Jesus would answer that question!

But when we humans co-opt passages of Holy Scripture in order to line them up behind, and in support of, our various cultural, social and political orientations and opinions, we are not only getting “off message,” we are taking the name of our Lord God in vain.

And this truly is one of the most troubling aspects of our politics today: That various and sundry politicians lay claim to having God behind their candidacy, their platform, their agenda.

So… Jesus deflects the trick question by pointing out the obvious—that coins minted by a government have symbols of governmental power imprinted on them—very often the image and likeness of a person of power within that government. Then he enigmatically suggests that whatever belongs to Caesar should be given back to Caesar.., leaving them and us to wonder what, in fact, belongs to Caesar: Every coin that bears his likeness? Only some? Perhaps none?

And isn’t it interesting that Jesus himself did not have a coin. He had to ask for one. But, of course, Jesus spent his short life teaching against materialism. He never owned the kind of property the tax was levied against.

It’s almost as if the whole subject is just plain distracting and tiresome to Jesus. He dispenses with the question then drives home once again his own message: Give to God the things that are God’s.

Who can hear this story—either ancient Hebrew or contemporary Christian—without hearing the words of Genesis echo in our heart and mind? We know that we are made in the image and likeness of God.
                    

Hands of God and Adam

                                      
And from Genesis through the New Testament, that message resounds: We are made in the image and likeness of God. We are God’s people and the sheep of his pasture. He abides in us so that we can abide in Him.

Unlike the identical stampings of symbols of power on coins, each of us is a unique person, yet each of us is made in the image and likeness of God.

Jesus stays “on message”: You belong to God, he reminds us. Give back to God what belongs to God.

Moreover, the image and likeness of God is not stamped on our surface. It is not skin color, or shape of the nose, or gender. Rather, the image and likeness of God is planted within us. We call it Holy Spirit, and it is that homing device that dwells within each of us and keeps us turned toward God.

Many people want to turn Holy Scripture into a rulebook that covers all sorts of things. Not just taxes, but who can marry whom and what kind of government a country should have and what kind of economic system a society should have and on and on, ad nauseum.

Jesus gave us just two, and they follow directly from the understanding that we belong to God. For when we love God, and our neighbors as ourselves, we are giving back to God.. that which came from God.. and belongs to God..

AMEN

 

Child of God: A Sermon for 25 September 2011

Christ Church, St. Joseph, La.

Today’s parable from Matthew (21:23-32, NRSV) follows last Sunday’s parable by just a few verses. The Master is still presiding over the vineyard.

In the time of Jesus, wine was drunk with most meals. It was the safest thing to drink. Thus the Master of the vineyard was in the business of providing a major necessity of everyday life.

Today wine is not a major necessity of life, at least not for those of us who have safe drinking water. Yet we value it highly, first because of its role in our sacramental life, but also as a special drink we willingly pay for--sometimes handsomely. So Jesus’ imagery continues to resonate.

Today’s story about the Master’s sons and the vineyard struck close to home for me. Up in Ouachita Parish we are privileged to have a real, honest-to-goodness functioning vineyard. It came about when Hurricane Katrina chased Jeff Landry out of south Louisiana. He found a lovely piece of hilly land west of West Monroe and planted his vines.

Landry’s Vineyard thrives, I believe in part because Jeff’s business plan seems to involve inviting the locals to become part of the family and get hands-on involved in the operation. 

Libby & Jeff Landry, Landry Vineyards, Ouachita Parish

Thus when it is time to pick the grapes, Jeff doesn’t hire a professional crew of grape pickers. Rather, he invites everyone and anyone to come on out on the chosen Saturdays, pick grapes for as long as you want or are able, then return for an evening of festivities that includes wine tasting, of course, plus Louisiana cuisine and live music, and even stomping grapes, if you are so inclined.

Back in late August, I decided to help with the red grape harvest. I even told several friends that I was going to be there come Saturday morning to help pick those grapes. After all, I love red wine!

But, you guessed it: Come Saturday morning, it was hot, hot, hot. I was tired from a week of I don’t remember what…. It just didn’t seem so important to hop out of bed early and go out into the sun, on that steep hillside, among those vines that probably harbored mosquitoes and who knows what all, and pick those grapes. I didn’t show.

We have all been the son or daughter who said “yes,” then didn’t do what we said we would do. For any number of reasons, some good, some not so good, we all at least occasionally agree to do things that we ultimately do not do.

But, you know what? We have also all been the son or daughter who said “no.” No, I don’t have time. No, I have a scheduling conflict. No, I’m no good at that. Etc., etc. Then we thought better of it, or we made some time, or we simply felt guilty, and we went and did what we thought we couldn’t or wouldn’t do.

Moreover, more times than not, we are the son or daughter Jesus doesn’t mention in this story—the one that says “yes”… and then is good to that word. That’s the ideal we uphold, and even though we don’t always achieve it, I’m pretty confident that most of us most of the time are people of our word.

We say “no” only when we must. We say “yes” most of the time, perhaps too often for our own good, and most of the time, we do what we say we’ll do.

So why didn’t Jesus put these ideal children in his story? What is the lesson of this story for us, given that most of us know that on any given day we could be either of these sons, both of whom need an attitude adjustment, but that on most days we strive to be the ideal child who is not in the story?

Perhaps you’ve noticed that I’ve completely passed over, so far, one set of characters who… well, are they part of this story or not? What IS the connection between this story about the Master of the vineyard and his two sons, and these Pharisees standing around questioning Jesus about his authority?

At first blush, there appears to be none. The Pharisees try to trick Jesus. Jesus quickly turns the tables on them. Jesus launches into a story.

We can readily see ourselves in either and both of the sons who insult their father by not being men of their word. But we’re not too upset by that because we also know that we are often the missing ideal child.

But… and here’s where it gets uncomfortable: What if we’re the Pharisees?

Could it be that the Pharisees are those “ideal” children missing from the story? The good church people of the day who strive to be good to their word… but who then forget the times they said “yes” and didn’t show?

The good church people of the day who say “no” because, after all, they have businesses to take care of and a family and lifestyle to maintain, and they really don’t have time to feed the poor and welcome the stranger—who are surely lazy or illegal anyway?

The good church people of the day who become so full of themselves and their many good deeds that they come to think themselves better than all those sinners out there who just can’t seem to get their act together?

The Pharisees in this story stand for us when we are hypocritical and self- righteous, when we forget that we are sinners in need of mercy too.

A drunk man who smelled like beer sat down on a subway seat next to a priest. The man's tie was stained, his face plastered with red lipstick, and a half-empty bottle of gin was sticking out of his torn coat pocket. He opened his newspaper and began to read.



After a few minutes the man turned to the priest and asked, 'Say Father, what causes arthritis?'



The priest replied, 'My son, it's caused by loose living, too much alcohol, contempt for your fellow man, sleeping around with prostitutes and lack of a bath.' 

The drunk muttered, 'Well, I'll be damned,' and returned to his paper.



The priest, thinking about what he had said, nudged the man and apologized. 'I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to come on so strong. How long have you had arthritis?'



The drunk answered, 'I don't have it, Father. I was just reading here that the Pope does.' (Internet joke, contributed by Edge of the Enclosure)

Those who would enjoy the bounty of the Master’s Vineyard, better get used to rubbing elbows with drunks and prostitutes. For they are variations on Child of God just like you and me, and the Master sees through ALL of our false selves.                                                                    

AMEN

God's Economy: A Sermon for 18 September 2011

Christ Church, St. Joseph, La.

We really don’t like this story, do we?

I mean, listen to this! Here’s Jesus once again teaching his disciples using his favorite method: a parable (Matthew 20:1-16, NRSV). The characters in the parable are easily recognized by us. The Master of the Vineyard is, of course, God.

Because Jesus is speaking, I’m guessing many of us immediately think “God the Father.” But the Master of the Vineyard could also be Jesus the Christ, who was, after all, frequently called “Master” by his disciples, and did, after all, sometimes refer to himself in the third person.

Either way, the Master of the Vineyard is clearly a personification of the one and only God we worship.

The workers are, of course, us. And we recognize each type. Being good church people, we are probably the ones ready and eager to go into the vineyard at the break of day, and stay at it all day.

We do it, at least in part, because we are good church people. We’re loyal and committed. We believe in our work, that it is a good thing to do. We have a strong work ethic. We’re not slackers!

We look with disdain on those we perceive to be slackers. And we are pretty sure those who show up to be hired late in the day, and who therefore put in only an hour of work, are slackers. 

Parable of the Workers of the Vineyard, by Rembrandt

                                       
It goes without saying that we expect to be rewarded for our hard work, and we expect those we have judged to be slackers to at least earn less, if not be outright penalized for their lesser effort.

Sound familiar? It should, because it is a system devised by humans for the purpose of regulating human behavior. It’s called the merit system, and we are quite devoted to it. 

And I will certainly grant you that it makes a certain kind of sense and accomplishes certain things in the world of human endeavor. One of the hats I wear is that of a member of the Board of Control of the Ouachita Parish Public Library system. Just this past week, we decided, in these days of economic constraint, that the only raises the library system will give this year will be merit raises.

Last year we gave an across-the-board, cost-of-living raise to everyone. But we agreed that we could only do that occasionally. We agreed that merit raises hold people accountable and are an incentive to work harder and better.

So, yes, the merit system has value in the quid pro quo world of human endeavor.

But we get confused. As with so many things that seem necessary to make human societies function, we imbue the merit system with moral virtue. We even come to think it so wonderful that we are quite sure God must have invented it.

The story of creation in Genesis says that God made us in his image. But we humans put the cart in front of the horse all the time. We think that because we are made in God’s image, therefore God must think like us.

We would be wrong.

And as people of the Good News, who purport to not only believe in but follow Jesus, we really should know better.

Jesus tells us and shows us, over and over again, in myriad ways, that the human economy of merit falls short. He teaches it through his criticism of the scribes and Pharisees—the good church people of his day—who believe they are earning their way to heaven by following the letter of the law.

He teaches it with parables like the one about the treasures accumulated on earth through our economy of merit, treasures that will rot and rust and be stolen by thieves.

He shows it by insisting upon associating with, even eating with, all those people who don’t measure up according to the economy of merit: prostitutes, poor people, even tax collectors.

He preaches it in the Sermon on the Mount with its series of inversions: The meek shall inherit the earth! Really, now? Not in the economy of merit, they won’t!

He teaches it in today’s lesson: The last shall be first and the first shall be last. And who are any of you, you good church people, to say I can’t do what I want with what belongs to me?

Fr. Richard Rohr is a Franciscan monk and Roman Catholic priest. He writes prolifically and publishes both books and an online daily meditation. He is another of my favorite spiritual mentors.

Fr. Richard says that the gospel—the good news taught by Jesus—won’t make much sense to those who are committed to worthiness, competition and rewards—in other words, to the economy of merit.

That’s because the very heart of the Gospel is that God’s economy is one of grace, radical grace, offered to us as unconditional love—a wedding feast of God’s love.

Sounds fabulous, right? So why do we have such a hard time accepting it? Why do we cling so tightly to our economy of merit?

Well, for one thing, we really aren’t sure we want to rub elbows with all the folks who are invited to God’s feast of unconditional love. The economy of merit feeds our pride in accomplishment, our pride in being the ones who show up for work at the break of day. The economy of merit allows us to think we are better than the ones who show up at noon, or late afternoon, for heaven’s sake.

But Paul, in the passage read today from his letter to the Philippians (1:21-30, NRSV), gives us a glimpse of what happens when we accept God’s unconditional love and embrace God’s economy of grace. Remember that Paul wrote this letter from a Roman jail under threat of execution. Yet he is free, free even from fear of death. Living is Christ and dying is gain, he rejoices, and I do not know which I prefer.

Then Paul admonishes us to live a life worthy of the Gospel of Christ. But note that the purpose is not to merit God’s love. Rather, following Jesus the Christ serves as evidence of our salvation in the face of a hurting and sometimes evil world.

Or, as Fr. Richard puts it, God does not love us because we are good. We are good because God loves us.

AMEN

                  

Practice Blessing: A Sermon for 28 August 2011

Christ Episcopal Church, St. Joseph, La.

In today’s lessons, people who are trying to serve God engage in intense struggles with the world. First is Moses, called by God from the burning bush that is not consumed to lead the Hebrew people out of bondage in Egypt (Exodus 3:1-15, NRSV). 

Moses struggles throughout this story with his fears. First he fears God and hides his face. Then he fears Pharaoh. After all, he is in the wilderness precisely because he is a fugitive from Pharaoh’s justice, having slain an Egyptian who had been beating a Hebrew slave.

Moses and the Burning Bush

When God reassures him on that point, Moses struggles further with his fears, this time in relationship to the Isrealites themselves. He needs a credential, and God provides it: Say that “I AM,” the God of your ancestors, has sent you.

This is a “good news, bad news” story. The good news, or "gospel" message, is that the Lord God has seen the affliction of God's people and has come to deliver them from slavery and oppression. The bad news, for Moses, is that responding to the good news requires him to go way out of his comfort zone.

The story from Matthew’s Gospel (16: 21-28, NRSV) is a prediction of the suffering and death of Jesus. We know, of course, that it was written well after those events had taken place. Thus the vantage point is post-resurrection and the writer believes that Jesus’ death and resurrection had been necessary to his salvation, just as we believe today they were necessary to our salvation.

In that light, Peter seems rather clueless, if not an outright obstacle to what Jesus needed to accomplish. At the same time, who among us, not yet comprehending God’s plan for our salvation, would not have acted as Peter did? Would we not also have said, No, Lord, that can’t be. That you should suffer so is unacceptable.

Jesus rebukes Peter sharply. Wasn’t it just last Sunday and a couple of chapters ago that he was saying to Peter, You are the rock on which I will build my church? Yet today he says to Peter, Get thee behind me Satan.
                           

The sharpness of Jesus’ rebuke suggests two things: First, he did have a clue to what was coming, and, second, he was struggling with that awareness. How could he go through with such a horrendous reality if his own closest friends and followers were going to try to talk him out of it? Indeed, were not prepared to go through it with him?

In other words, the story both suggests what God was to accomplish with that cruel death—namely our ultimate deliverance from death—even as it makes clear that the price of deliverance is affliction and suffering. If any want to become my followers, Jesus says, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.

In today’s Epistle, the Apostle Paul provides guidelines for how we should live in response to the gospel proclaimed by these stories (Romans 12:9-21). And just as Jesus’ statement suggest, Paul’s guidelines reveal that it will be a struggle and it will take us out of our comfort zone.

Much has been made over the centuries of the supposed conflict between a good, omnipotent God and the persistence of evil in the world. Underlying that debate is the notion that it’s God’s responsibility to fix evil in the world.

But Paul makes it perfectly clear that countering evil is our job, and in the passage from Romans just read, Paul focuses on how we are to counter evil. He provides us with an impressive list, the bottom line being quite simple and succinct: We are to overcome evil with good.

Our human tendency is to think that we must overcome evil with much more aggressive strategies than those listed here. I suppose that is, at least in part, because we fear evil and when we are afraid, a peaceful counter to the threat is about the last thing that occurs to us. We want to “fight fire with fire.” We believe that “the best defense is a good offense,” and so forth.

But that is hardly what Paul commands and that is precisely why his instructions take us out of our comfort zone. We are to hate evil but respond to it with love and nobility and leave vengeance to God.

One of the strategies Paul suggests for countering evil in this familiar passage strikes me today in a way it never has before. It comes about a third of the way in: Bless those who persecute you, Paul says, bless and do not curse them.

Wow. What a thought. And it strikes me today because I just finished reading a book that I think I mentioned to you a few weeks ago. The book is An Altar in the World by Episcopal priest Barbara Brown Taylor.

The book is about how to draw closer to God through the demands, struggles and pleasures of everyday life. Spirituality is not just for formal worship experiences, Taylor argues. Rather, we can turn many aspects of our daily life into spiritual practices.

She begins with a chapter called “The Practice of Waking Up to God,” followed by chapters called “The Practice of Paying Attention,” “The Practice of Getting Lost,” and more. The last chapter of the book is “The Practice of Pronouncing Blessings.”

Bar Mitzvah Blessing

                                  
Now we Episcopalians are very big on blessing things, but we have rules about who can bless what and when. Bishops must always bless churches, communion vessels and those who are being ordained deacon or priest. Priests can bless many things: bread, wine, marriages, babies just baptized, houses, vestments, jewelry, and all of us at the end of every worship service.

But as Taylor notes, that leaves lots and lots of things that all of us can bless: Our food before we eat. Our children when putting them to bed at night. A perfect stranger who happens to sneeze in a public place.

Blessing is everyone’s job and surely the world would be a better place if we all spent more time pronouncing blessings and less blaming, criticizing and cursing!

Like Paul, Taylor says we need especially to bless that which at first repels us or seems unworthy of blessing: the fat man spilling into your space from the airplane seat next to you, the sullen cashier, the neighbor who has already put the wrong political sign in his front yard, even the mosquito intent on supper at your expense. God made these beings, Taylor says, they share in God’s…holiness, whether or not they meet your minimum requirements for a blessing. And to bless is to recognize that holiness. It is to defer judgment, and to see God in every aspect of life.

And watch what happens inside when you do this. The recipient of the blessing might never know or notice. Transformation of the blessee is not required, but the heart and mind of the pronouncer of blessings will be changed.

Let us pray: Blessed are you, Lord of the Universe, and blessed is your creation now and forever,

AMEN.

Does God's Mission Have You? A Sermon for 21 August 2011

St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, Mer Rouge, La.

It is not that God’s Church has a Mission, but that God’s Mission has a Church.

I wish I could put that statement out there and just let you all think that I came up with it. But, in fact, I didn’t. As usual, I began sermon preparation by casting about on the Internet to see what others were saying about today’s lessons.

The Rev. Kirk Alan Kubicek of St. Peter’s Episcopal Church in Maryland made that statement, and you can find his sermon based on it on the Web at a site called “Sermons That Work.”

I think it is a brilliant insight, but plan to have my own way with it. So allow me to repeat:

It is not that God’s Church has a Mission, but that God’s Mission has a Church.

We church folks have a tendency to get such things reversed. We tend to talk about “the church’s mission” in and to the world.

And, yes, of course, it is in part just an easier way to talk about things. After all, the church is structured and organized to do certain things: to serve the spiritual needs of people, to spread the Gospel, to do various kinds of outreach, like disaster relief, soup kitchens, and so forth.

One could even argue that talking about these things as “the church’s mission” is a healthy way of taking responsibility and claiming ownership of the things we are called to do as the body of Jesus Christ in the world.

I would not deny or reject any of that. At the same time, it is also the case that the church has, throughout history, tended to get confused on this point. And when the church loses sight of its subordination to God’s Mission, when the church starts thinking it is pursuing its own mission, bad things tend to happen.

I am currently taking a course at the Diocesan School on Anglican Theology, and we began yesterday with a lecture on things that led up to the Protestant Reformation, things like the Roman church’s shake-down of believers by putting a price on forgiveness.

That was the practice known as the selling of indulgences, and it was the impetus and inspiration for the 95 theses Luther probably did NOT nail to a church door, but did present to his Bishop along with a letter of calling for open debate on the matter, and thereby kicked off the Protestant Reformation.

But we needn’t go so deep into history to find examples of churches acting arrogantly, and taking over the role of God in sorting the good sheep from the bad. In recent months we have seen religious fanatics, Muslim and Christian alike, blowing up, gunning down, burning holy books, sabotaging the construction of worship spaces… from the Middle East to Tennessee and Florida, and from New York City to Norway, of all places.

And then there’s the Westboro Baptist Church in Kansas spreading its anti-gay hatred across the country. The churches behind the “pray away the gay” movement. Even our own church’s civil war over doctrine and the interpretation of Scripture.

These are surely examples of religious institutions—churches, mosques, synagogues—pursuing their own mission in the world rather than God’s.

But let us bring the point closer to home. If indeed we agree that God’s Mission has a Church, in general, then it’s not a huge step to recognize that the same is true for all of the church’s constituent parts: God’s Mission has a St. Andrew’s, and a St. Thomas’ and a St. Alban’s. God’s Mission has a Diocese of Western Louisiana, an Episcopal Church… and on and on.

How does it re-orient our thinking to say that these units of church do not have a mission, rather God’s Mission has them? Indeed, perhaps we should pose it as a question: Does God’s Mission have them?

This might be an especially useful and important question for St. Andrew’s to consider as you embark upon the task of preparing a parish profile as part of your search for a new rector!

Likewise, it is an extremely important question for this Diocese as we prepare a profile in search of our next Bishop.

Saint Teresa church window, Convento de Sta Teresa,
Ávila de los Caballeros, Spain.

                                
Do we think WE have a mission in the world? Or do we understand, accept and practice our faith in ways that make perfectly clear that God’s Mission in the world has us?

Our Bishop has been known to pose the question this way: “If Christianity were illegal,” he asks, “would there be enough evidence to convict us?”

And now, one more step, even closer to home. Consider this: It is not that Bette Kauffman has a mission, but that God’s Mission has a Bette Kauffman.

I was going to stand here and name names, but.. you can put your own name in the sentence. Now how does that distill your thinking? How might it adjust priorities for each of us?

We have lots of practice and experience in seeking to carry out our own mission in the world. Indeed, that is the primary job, for each of us, of our own precious ego.

But what can we do with and in response to this moment of profound humility? For as we recognize that the Mission is God’s, and that we are called to belong to God’s Mission, we must also recognize—in gratitude and with fear and trembling—that we are, at one and the same time, wholly inadequate but selected and formed by God precisely for that purpose.

The 16th Century nun, Teresa of Avila, said it like this:

Christ has no body now on earth but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours. Yours are the eyes through which to look out Christ's compassion to the world. Yours are the feet with which he is to go about doing good; yours are the hands with which he is to bless...

AMEN.

The Miracle: A Sermon for 31 July 2011

Christ Episcopal Church, St. Joseph, La.

In this day of cell phones and iPads and GPS devices and laptops, iPods and more, it can be pretty hard to “get away from it all.” Indeed, I have noticed a change in my own travel planning. Any hotel that does not offer free wireless high speed Internet gets my business only in the absence of appropriately connected alternatives!

In late May of this year, I traveled to the Dominican Republic with a group of U.S. deacons to learn about the growth and struggles of the Episcopal church there. We were to spend some time living with the families of Dominican deacons, most of whom are working class. And so I braced myself for two days and two nights of “Internet withdrawal.”

Much to my surprise and delight, my Dominican family had—indeed—high speed wireless Internet! They were people of humble means, a lot of them living in a small space. No screens on the windows; no air conditioning. Water came out of the tap on demand… about half of the time. But there it was, on a high shelf: an Internet router blinking away!

We all complain that our inability to really get away is an affliction of contemporary life, and we tend to blame it on the ubiquity of electronic devices designed precisely to keep us in touch, no matter how far away from our everyday routine we have traveled. You’ve seen the commercials touting the latest gadget that enables us to conduct business from a remote beach.

So… how interesting it is that back in the day of row-boat technology, Jesus himself could not “get away.” Here again is the beginning of today’s Gospel lesson: Jesus withdrew in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns (Matthew 14:13, NRSV).

As the story continues, it sounds like the crowd might actually have gotten their first. When he went ashore, it says, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick (Ibid., v. 14).

Feeding of the 5000, by Justino Magalona.

Jesus could not get away from the needs of the world, even though, just like us, he needed to. But, why? Why did Jesus need to withdraw in the first place?

I’m not asking for a psychological explanation here, like “all humans need vacations and Jesus was human.” I’m also not asking the cosmic why, like people do when they wonder about God’s grand plan or scheme for each of us that involves inexplicable chains of events. Those might be useful discussions, but...

Rather, I’m asking what happened just before Jesus got in that boat, such that he felt the need to get away at that precise moment. What are the first 12 verses of Matthew 14 about?

It’s important to know that the lessons we read in church on a Sunday morning are often not quite the same as the original passage in Scripture. Often, they are adjusted slightly so that they will stand alone better, as “a lesson” for a given Sunday. And that often works well and facilitates sermon writing. Today, however, that practice directs our attention away from something very important.

So, let me read Matthew 14:13 again, as it actually appears in the Bible. It says, Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself (op cit.).

How’s that for a clue? But what did Jesus hear that caused him to need to get away? Verse 12, the one right before the beginning of today’s lesson, is an even better clue: His disciples came and took the body and buried it; then they went and told Jesus.

So, whose body was it? John the Baptizer’s body. You know the story well. The first 12 verses of Matthew 14 tell about Herod and Herodias, the wife he had taken from his brother, and Salome, and the dance, and the promise and the beheading…. a story—if ever there was one—of violence begot by and for power and politics.

It’s a story of the unnecessary sacrifice of human life out of sheer arrogance, a story of injustice by the proud in order to save face. The news of the day drove Jesus to need to get away. And does it not sound familiar?

And do we not have plenty to want to flee from today? Starvation in Somalia, due to the maldistribution of food worldwide. Religious fanatics, Muslim and Christian alike, blowing up, gunning down, burning holy books, sabotaging the construction of worship spaces… from the Middle East to Florida and New York to Norway, of all places. And our own federal government ready to do economic violence, very possibly global in scope, in order to preserve rigid ideological positions.

If we don’t flee from the news of the day, we are likely to become cynics. But notice: That’s not how Jesus responded. When the needs of the world followed him to his get away, he turned and ministered to the people.

And just what, do you suppose, was the miracle that took place on that hill near the Sea of Galilee some 2,000 years ago? I’m sure God can create out of nothing at any time. I’m sure God can cause molecules of bread and fish to magically multiply.. at any time.

But that kind of miracle would be almost unremarkable. After separating light from dark and sea from dry land, after hanging the sun, moon and stars in the heavens, I’m guessing God could multiply bread and fish without breaking a sweat.

I’m guessing a greater miracle happened on that day so long ago. I’m guessing Jesus blessed the bread and fish.. and through his compassion and his act of thanksgiving and praise, God became known to the gathered throng in the breaking of that bread.

And when God becomes known to humankind, our hearts are opened and miracles happen, miracles of giving and sharing even when we ourselves are in hard times, of welcoming the strangers…, of caring for the least among us. So much so that we have more blessing left over than what we started with.

You’ve heard it many times: “I went to the homeless shelter or the food bank or the mission field to give/help/do something for people who are less fortunate than me,” people say, “and I got more out of it than I gave.”

Meister Eckhart, a German theologian and Franciscan monk of the 14th Century, said it this way:
For not only bread
but all things necessary
for sustenance in this life
  are given on loan to us
    with others
    and because of others
    and for others
    to others through us.*

Amen.

*As quoted online by Edge of the Enclosure, 7/30/11.