Walking in the Presence of the Lord

Grace Episcopal Church, September 12, 2021

If you accept, as I do, that preaching is a form of teaching, and if you are not only a preacher but a teacher, as I am, today’s lessons give plenty of reason to run for whatever kind of cover can be found.

 

Isaiah presents “the tongue of the teacher” as a gift from God, and so it is. And on our better days, we manage to use it to sustain the weary with a word. And I’m going to try to do that later in this sermon.

 

But Isaiah also makes clear two additional and often hard to manage things about teaching. One of those is that your speaking will not always be appreciated. Speaking truth to power is never an easy thing. Speaking truth folks really don’t want to hear—whether they are powerful are not—is equally hard—even though it might be truth they really need to hear.

 

 

The other point Isaiah makes is that listening to those who are taught is critical. It took me as a teacher quite some time to learn to resist filling the air with words, and to allow silence to linger long enough for words other than my own to come forth. Those being taught are so accustomed to not being listened to, that even when invited to speak, the words often come hesitantly, warily.

 

Indeed, I think Isaiah’s point has a broad application, much broader than “official” teachers. Being a good listener does not necessarily come easily to any of us who have words, opinions, often clearly and strongly held points of view. From conversations at the water fountain at work to posting on social media, we are quite willing to fill whatever space is available to us with our words. 

 

 

So I, myself, have not only struggled to learn to sometimes just shut my mouth, bridle my tongue, but also I have been silenced by others—who have announced their own truth in such a way as to define my truth as unacceptable, stupid, crazy, unchristian, before I even open my mouth.

 

James, in particular, lays it out in plain terms: The human tongue has never been fully tamed by an imperfect human. We humans have tamed every other species. But we cannot tame our own tongues. We silence others with our vehemently voiced opinions, we sow wildfires with our gossip, we spread mistrust and cynicism by repeating rumors, half-truths, misinformation. Of late, we have learned just how deadly misinformation can be.

 

But James acknowledges that the tongue is also used to praise God. And, as Isaiah says, to sustain the weary with a word. Ultimately, the tongue is a mixed bag, at best, for, as James states, With it we bless the Lord…, and with it we curse those who are made in the likeness of God.

 

Early on I promised to try for a word to sustain the weary, and for that I turn to the Psalm appointed for today. It is often the case when I am at a loss for words, praying a Psalm helps, and that’s true whether my loss for words is due to great heartache or to great joy. The Psalms help us express the full range of human emotions.

 

 

 cThe first 8 verses of Psalm 116 came to my attention in a special way back in the year 2000. It was a time of great personal loss: a few weeks after my husband had died. It was a time of questioning: Why am I still here? What sort of arbitrary God snuffs out one life and not another?

 

This Psalm does not exactly answer that question, but it offers us something way more important. And so, I’m going to read it to you again, now.

 

I love the Lord, because he has heard the voice of my supplication,
because he has inclined his ear to me whenever I called upon him.

The cords of death entangled me; the grip of the grave took hold of me;
I came to grief and sorrow.

Then I called upon the Name of the Lord: "O Lord, I pray you, save my life."

Gracious is the Lord and righteous; our God is full of compassion.

The Lord watches over the innocent; I was brought very low, and he helped me.

Turn again to your rest, O my soul, for the Lord has treated you well.

For you have rescued my life from death,
my eyes from tears, and my feet from stumbling.

I will walk in the presence of the Lord, in the land of the living.

 

Here’s what this Psalm has come to mean to me. God does not promise to save our lives by intervening in the messiness of the world. Indeed, the Psalm acknowledges, we WILL come to grief and sorrow.

But when we are brought low, God hears our cry and is with us and is saving our life—perhaps with so simple a thing as rest. That one line has been a balm to me many times, perhaps because I am one of those people who fills my life with too many things.

Turn to your rest, O my soul, for the God of the universe is with you, the God of the universe loves you—whether you get all that stuff done or not!

God saves my life with other things as well. I have a folder on my computer titled “What’s saving my life right now.” And in that folder are photographs, mostly photographs of beautiful skies: brilliant sunrises, thunder clouds forming, the sun’s rays steaming through an opening in the clouds, gorgeous sunsets.

Beautiful skies have saved my life many times. It might be something entirely different for you: faces of your loved ones, blooming flowers, waves rolling into a beach. Whatever. I strongly recommend that everyone start a collection that shows how God saves your life over and over again.

But it’s the last line of this Psalm that is the clincher for me:

I will walk in the presence of the Lord, in the land of the living.

Back in 2016, a man walked into the Pulse nightclub in Florida and opened fire, slaughtering 49 people and wounding 53 more. One of the young men in my campus ministry group organized a time of prayer and grieving and remembrance at a bar in downtown Monroe. He asked me to come and speak.

I read Psalm 116:1-8 to the gathered crowd. And then I said words to this effect: Bad things happen. Horrific, inexplicably horrific crimes against humanity are committed by other humans. We are left to wonder. Where was God in that? Why those people and not me?

I cannot answer those questions. All I can say is that we, the living, must carry on. Our time, for whatever reason, has not yet come. And that means we have an obligation. We must go on, we must walk in the presence of the Lord, in the land of the living.

Today, we are surrounded by remembrances of the inexplicably horrific crimes against humanity that happened September 11, 2001. And we are caught in a seemingly endless pandemic that has caused much grief and sorrow. Our political life is ugly, divisive. It feels a lot like being in the grip of the grave.

 

And so I conclude again with my final words to the crowd gathered after the Pulse shooting: To walk in the presence of the Lord means, we refuse to hate. We refuse to be divided by race, ethnicity, class and politics. We forgive instead of seek revenge. We are kind in the face of unkindness.

And most important of all, we spread love, God’s love, because God’s love is the only answer. In the words of Mother Teresa, Yesterday is gone, Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin.

Gimme a sign!

Grace Episcopal Church, August 1, 2021 

When I first read the lessons in beginning to prepare this sermon, it struck me as a bit ironic that I was called upon to speak to you about “the bread of life” on this day when we will NOT have communion! 

But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed an opportunity. After all, we Episcopalians are people of the Eucharist. Our prayer book is centered on the rite of Holy Eucharist, so much so that when it is not offered, attendance typically drops. Many thanks to you who showed up anyway! 

So maybe we don’t need another sermon about how Christ is our manna from heaven, our “bread of life” known to us in the breaking of bread. We got that! 

 

Maybe there’s some other point we need to take from today’s Gospel. The story is that some of the 5,000 who had been fed the previous day (last Sunday’s Gospel lesson) had hung around. But when morning came they realized that Jesus and his disciples had departed. They were no longer out there on the hillside. So they—the remains of the crowd—got into boats and went to Capernaum looking for Jesus. 

And they find him and this strange dialogue takes place, “strange” because it is so clear that they sort of talk past each other. The crowd begins with a very literal, earth-bound kind of question: Rabbi, when did you come here? 

But Jesus isn’t interested in getting drawn into a conversation about worldly matters, like “when…?” and “how did you get here?” and so forth. Jesus wants to talk about spiritual things and so he challenges them right away. You’re here because your bellies are growling again, he says, not because you experienced God in what happened out on that hillside. 

And the people respond with another pretty earth-bound request: Ok, then just tell us what to do, they say. Give us a step-by-step, like ‘Go do this and this, and you’ll please God.’ 

I’ve known people like that. I’ve been that person. You know: ‘Don’t ask me to think. Don’t ask me to discern. Don’t ask me to become aware or tune in to other people and what’s going on with them. Just give me a “to-do” list, I’ll do it and we’ll be square. Right, God? 

So Jesus attempts to say again that experiencing God is less a to-do list than a condition of the heart and soul, the awareness of God in the person standing right in front of us, the awareness of God in the world around us. 

And what do the people want next? A sign! Give us a sign, they say. Remember, these are some of the same people who witnessed the feeding of the 5,000 some 24 hours earlier. 

I laughed out loud when I read this line again a few days ago. At this point, we might well ask, What is going on with these people? 

Well, like us, their feet are stuck in the muck of earthly things and earthly thinking. Jesus is talking about spiritual things, things of the kingdom of God. They are occupied with the daily grind of human things, like food on the table. 

Jesus offers spiritual food. They need food for their physical bodies. Jesus offers the presence of God in this world hear and now. They want a to-do list. Jesus gave them a sign. They saw only a miracle. 

So here’s a good place to point out that the word “miracle” does not occur in the Gospel according to John. Not once. The changing of water to wine at the wedding in Cana is there.., but it’s a “sign” according to John. The healing of the paralytic at Bethesda is there, but it’s not called a “miracle.” It’s called a “sign.” And so on, throughout John’s Gospel. 

 

So what’s the difference? A “miracle” is most commonly defined as a supernatural phenomenon of some kind. It’s something we humans cannot explain by any of our usual methods: reason, science, logic, whatever. All we can do is marvel at it. 

And notice that we can leave it at that. Marvel and move on. Not so a “sign,” because a sign points to something beyond itself. A sign says, there’s a greater, larger, more profound meaning that this thing right here points to. 

Ignoring a sign has consequences, like getting a speeding ticket because you didn’t attend to the speed limit sign. Or ending up in the hospital because you ignored the sign that you needed to go to the doctor about something. 

Miracles don’t require action on our part. In fact, they kind of discourage action because we know full well we can’t do them. All we can do is ask God to do one for us. 

A sign, on the other hand, does encourage action. Turn here. Slow down here. Go to the doctor now. Call a plumber before this drip turns into a flood. Etc. 

At the very least, a sign says, ‘Consider the larger meaning here. What is this sign pointing to? What does this sign require of me?’ 

And so the people who saw a miracle ask for a sign. They got their bellies filled, but they missed the point. Now Jesus has challenged their literal, earthly thinking, asked them to think spiritually, and they ask for a sign. To which Jesus rightly and succinctly responds, ‘I’m it. I’m the sign.’

Did they get it? I don’t know. Probably not fully or permanently. Do we get it? Maybe, partially, momentarily. 

So… here’s what I want us to take away from this strange, ships-passing-in-the-night dialogue today. I have two points, and I’m going to tread on the first one kind of lightly because I don’t want to give a wrong impression. 

The first one is this: Have we perhaps gotten so caught up in the rite of Holy Eucharist that we can’t and/or don’t encounter God any other way? 

 I mean, we understand Holy Eucharist as a sign, a sign that points to things far bigger than a wafer of bread and a drop of wine, a sign whereby we experience oneness with God. Hallelujah! 

BUT, if we are only encountering God here, in Holy Eucharist, we are impoverished. We are fetishizing THE sign when we are surrounded by a world full of signs. We are looking for God, open to God, in church and not in the world. 

God IS here in the breaking of the bread. Absolutely and positively. But God is also out there, in the guy standing on the street corner with a sign, penciled on cardboard, that says “homeless, please help.” 

That’s the second point, the one I want to tread on harder. God is out there. God. Is. Out. There. 

I don’t mean only in the homeless guy standing on the street corner, although I do mean that. And, as an aside: Whether he is actually homeless or running a grift is between him and God. Let’s err on the side of helping, rather than risk not helping someone who really needs help. But I mean more. 

 

The homeless person is, him or herself, not merely holding a sign, but a living sign of structural issues in our society, issues that require our attention as followers of Jesus. A few of those issues that person could be pointing to are 1) inadequate access to mental health care, 2) treating addiction like a crime rather than a disease, 3) lack of affordable housing, 4) stagnant wages that relegate essential workers to living in poverty. 

 I’m not going to stand here and spout glib answers as to exactly how we address these issues. As usual, the devil is in the details. But I will acknowledge, I am keenly aware, that it is much easier to hand a couple of bucks to a homeless person, than to confront the systems that create homelessness. 

So let me conclude with this: We are called to encounter God inside these glorious sanctuaries and at the Holy Table. But that’s the beginning, not the end. As followers of Jesus, we are called to encounter God out there, in carrying out the greatest commandment, the “to-do” list Jesus indeed gave us: Love God and your neighbor as yourself.

In the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. AMEN.