Feast to Serve

Grace Episcopal Church, Maundy Thursday, 2018

In the spring of 1995, I encountered a Nigerian writer through the newsletter of the Paul Robeson Cultural Center at Penn State University where I was teaching at the time. Her name is Buchi (“Butchie”) Emecheta.

She made a statement that I copied out of that newsletter, and have used many times since. She said this:

In Nigeria, you are simply not allowed to commit suicide in peace because everyone is responsible for the other person… An individual’s life belongs to the community and not just to him or her.

In contrast, individualism permeates U.S. American culture. We are all about individual rights and individual responsibilities, personal style and personal freedom, property and territory. 

We are suspicious of people who have too strong a sense of community. We really don’t think it takes a village to raise a child. We are quite certain that any nuclear family worth its salt really ought to be able to do it on its own.

We love stories of people who pull themselves up by the bootstraps, and succeed against the odds. We love the idea so much we have turned the noun, “bootstrap,” into the verb, “bootstrapping.” Google it and you will find a veritable invasion of bootstrapping verbs into various fields, ranging from computer programming to physics to corporate finance.

But we are called by God to community. Very soon, Fr. Michael will consecrate bread and wine, and we will share, once again, our communal feast of Christ’s body and blood.

On this holy Maundy Thursday night, we celebrate that event depicted so beautifully in the carving over Grace’s altar: Jesus calls Eucharistic community into being by blessing and sharing bread and wine with his disciples in his last meal with them on this Earth.

But what do we think it means?

Preparing for this homily, I googled the phrase “Eucharistic community.” How many websites would you guess contain the phrase, “Eucharistic community”?

Google is very good at counting things, including how long a search took. So I can report to you tonight that it took exactly .41 seconds for Google to locate 37,700 results for the phrase “Eucharistic community.”

But I ask again, what do we think it means?

I glanced through the first few pages of results, and some of them were mission statements of Christian churches. They said things like this example from a church in Wisconsin:

“We are a diverse and inclusive Spirit-based Eucharist community committed to the message of unconditional love given us by Jesus and to our call to imitate and reflect that love in our lives..,” and so on.

Sounds good, right? But if so many of us believe this, and come together so often to participate in this radical act of community… And that is what I think the Eucharist is: a radical act of community.

And if so, and if there are so many believers, how is it that our world continues to suffer so terribly from lack of community? Right here in northeast Louisiana we are divided by race and ethnicity; by profession and status; by railroad tracks, highways and a river; by politics, by age group, by fear and distrust; indeed, by righteousness itself.

I invite us to consider this evening that perhaps it is because we focus on half of the story. In preparing this sermon, I also googled “foot-washing community.” And what do you suppose I found?

It took Google exactly .26 seconds to find….. (drumroll please) 53 results. 

Jesus initiated two things on this holy evening: Holy Eucharist and love-drenched service to humankind. And please note, he does not make one more important than the other.

To the contrary, according to St. John… during supper… Jesus…got up from the table…and began to wash the disciples’ feet.

Fr. Michael, help me. We serve Holy Eucharist here at Grace how many times a week? Twice most Sundays and twice on Wednesdays—at least when school is in session… that’s four times most weeks.

But we wash each other’s feet once a year.

How did Holy Eucharist become a sacrament and not foot washing? I would be hard pressed to pin that difference to anything in the Gospel message.

Of course, actually washing each other’s feet on Maundy Thursday is symbolic of all of our service to each other and the world. Jesus himself said, I do this as an example of what you are to do.

But given our perhaps disproportionate emphasis on enacting Holy Eucharist vs. enacting foot washing, do we fully understand and embrace the depth of the interconnection between feasting at the Holy Table and love-drenched service to each other and the world?

Holy Eucharist Rite II Prayer C begins to get at the point. It’s at the top of page 372 in the prayer book, if you want to see for yourself. (BTW, a good reason for everyone to come to a Grace School chapel on a Wednesday at 8 a.m. every so often is that we use Prayer C.)

Reading in the middle of the first paragraph on p. 372: Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal.

We feast at the Table for strength and renewal to do the work as Christ’s body in the world.

But not even that fully expresses what happens in tonight’s Gospel story, so let’s go back there for a moment. It seems we can always count on Peter to model the hubris of humankind in a way that enables Jesus to teach us a profound lesson.

He says to Jesus, in what is really a kind of pride cloaked in humility: Lord.., you will never wash my feet.

And Jesus says to Peter: Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.

Please… and I know this has become a catch phrase on social media, but please… let that sink in for a moment.

Outside of love-drenched service, we have no share with Jesus.

I began this evening by quoting Buchi Emecheta on the radically communal nature of Nigerian culture. I want to go back to her now to say something about what we as a Eucharistic, foot-washing community face in our struggle to make community real in the world.

It is this: Emecheta understands the nature of the enemy. Nigerian society, like U.S. society, is divided into “haves” and “have-nots.” She herself is from the class of have-nots, and her books are about the yawning and seemingly insurmountable chasm between the haves and the have-nots. In her stories, poverty is the most divisive factor in society.

In short, Emecheta understands that poverty, in its many interconnections with race, culture, politics, even religion, is a wall, tall and thick, down the middle of the human community.

I suspect that much of the time some of us, and some of the time all of us, have a lot in common with the rich young man in that other Gospel story. We really want to negotiate with God about what the new commandment—love God and your neighbor as yourself—really means.

“Who’s my neighbor?” we ask. What do you mean, “love”? But I suspect the Nigerians have it about right: Everyone is responsible for everyone else. Our lives belong to God’s community.

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

Rock Star Parking

Wednesday of the Second Week of Lent, Church of the Redeemer, Ruston

My son Will and I have a friend who seems to be particularly blessed by the parking gods. Each time as she pulls into the parking space right in front of where she is going, she exclaims, “Ha, rock star parking!”

In today’s gospel lesson, the mother of James and John asks Jesus for rock star parking for her sons. In Mark’s account, mom is not involved. James and John, the Zebedee boys, also known as “sons of thunder,” ask on their own behalf. In both accounts, Jesus is reminded that he is going to come into his own at some point, and the Zebedee brothers want to be there, right by his side all the way.

At this point in his ministry, Jesus attracts crowds everywhere he goes. With the crowds come excitement and attention that spills over and is shared by those of the inner circle. It must have been exhilarating to follow Jesus in his travels as he preached and healed.

I have heard the story of the Zebedee brothers, their mother and their request interpreted as a bare-knuckle grab for power. The sons of thunder were into power, according to that interpretation, and they (or she) ask Jesus for a share of the power in the kind of earthly kingdom they think he is building.

Perhaps. Power grabs are certainly human ways of thinking and acting—yesterday, today and through the ages.

But power grabs imply planning based on some level of political knowledge and skill. In contrast, what I am most struck by today is the utter clueless-ness, not only of James, John and their mother, but of the other 10 as well.

Jesus has been trying to explain to them what is coming, what must transpire for him to come into his glory. ‘We’re going to Jerusalem where I am going to die!’ And the disciples so-o-o do not get it.

But with 2,000 years of hindsight and a written record to consult at will, we don’t get it much of the time. How then could the disciples have gotten it?

Perhaps that’s why I read the story today with sensitivity to the plight of the disciples, and with sympathy for their failings. Perhaps it’s why I’m inclined to think James and John are asking for something more akin to rock star parking.

(After all, wouldn’t “Jesus Christ Superstar and the Sons of Thunder” be a great name for a rock band?)

Or maybe James and John are just asking for the exquisite privilege of being close to this teacher they have come to love. They accept that Jesus will be glorified in some way. They know they want to be there to bask in the warmth and light of his glory.

So they ask for what seems obvious to their oh-so-human minds: Promise us that we will sit next to you forever. And don’t sweat the details, teacher. Of course we are able. We’re with you all the way.

What about the other 10? Well, can’t you just see this scenario playing out in our homes? Our churches? Our workplaces? What we hear in the voices of the ten is the classic human response of jealousy and fear of being left out when we think someone else has gotten the jump on us in getting a share of the goodies.

Jesus responds first, of course, by suggesting to James and John that they be careful what they ask for. Then he turns the incident into another lesson, not only for James and John, but for all.

The real deal, Jesus says, is just the opposite of what you think. In this world, the kings, the stars, the presidents and prime ministers, lord it over the very people who recognize their authority, perhaps elected them to office and look to them for leadership.

But among you, my disciples, the people of God, whoever wishes to be great must be servant, whoever wishes to be first must be slave of all.

What a topsy-turvy world the disciples must have thought they had landed in. I can almost see them looking at each other, shoulders shrugged and palms spread. What is he talking about?

In fact, I think we’re still wondering what Jesus was talking about. We’re still not terribly clear about what Jesus’ call to serve means, either to us personally or to the church.

We tend to think of our lives, consisting of careers, spouses, children, car payments, home mortgages, and so forth, as one thing, and Christian service as something we do on the side, something we are sort of obligated to as a response to these nice lives over here.

Or, in the case of the church, our corporate life consists of maintaining a beautiful space, offering a certain array of worship services weekly, generating enough funds to have a priest and maybe a secretary, and over here we do “outreach” with the left over funds.

In other words, service is that which we “tack on” to life. We donate a Saturday for which we have no other plans to participating in a Habitat for Humanity workday. Our church takes on serving a meal at a shelter. And good on us.  Those things need to be done.

But I don’t think service, defined as that which we do in our spare time or that which we support with our leftover dollars, is what Jesus has in mind. I think Jesus is saying that servanthood is a way of life. Or, better yet, that our lives are to be lived as a service to God. All aspects of our lives are to be imbued with an attitude of concern and caring for others.

We probably all have our favorite moments in the Book of Common Prayer. One of mine can be found in Holy Eucharist, Rite 1, the post-communion prayer (p. 339): And we humbly beseech thee, O heavenly Father, so to assist us with thy grace, that we may continue in that holy fellowship, and do all such good works as thou hast prepared for us to walk in…

Let that sink in for a moment. We are to do the work.. God has prepared for us.. to walk in.

Servanthood is to be our way of life. You’ve heard the saying, “Don’t just talk the talk, walk the walk.” Servanthood as the walk we walk must come from the heart as well as the mind. It’s not just a matter of squeezing another meeting or day at the shelter onto the calendar. It’s a matter of who we are and how we do everything we do.

Servanthood as a way of life means that everything is our business. Yes, I know, we are well taught to mind our own business, to not stick our noses into other peoples’ business, and so forth. But if Jesus had not seen his very life as servanthood and the state of the entire world as his concern, how then could he have given his life as a ransom for all?

Understanding servanthood as a way of life means to experience joy and God’s grace in everyday acts of service, from feeding your own family to serving on the Altar Guild at church. But understanding servanthood as a way of life also means becoming aware—painfully aware—of the hopes and needs of the world. 

It means caring that a good many of the people we serve food to at the shelter are mentally ill and not receiving any medical treatment for it whatsoever.

It means making it our business that some 400,000 working Louisiana families earn so little that they are one major medical bill or car repair away from what one woman I met through Interfaith called the “panic zone”: That moment when you realize, due to one extra expense, the pay check isn’t going to reach this time. It’s a panic zone that drives people into the clutches of payday lenders, making matters worse–every time.

And I believe it also means taking our servanthood into the voting booth with us.

Bernice King, youngest daughter of Martin Luther & Coretta Scott King, said this:  

Louisiana in Winter, by Bette J. Kauffman

I invite each of us and our churches to a Lenten discipline of interrogating our own lives and activities—all of them: every task we undertake, every committee we form, every meeting we attend… How does this moment express our identity as servant of all? How is this thing we’re doing a way to walk the walk of servanthood?

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

Wednesday Happened

Grace Episcopal Church, Monroe, La.

I have a fantasy that one day I will write a perfectly “safe” sermon. By “safe sermon,” I mean one that ruffles no feathers, makes everybody feel good and happy, and perhaps most importantly, makes me popular. Even preachers want to be popular!

I thought for a time that today might be the day. Fr. Richard asked me to preach on this date, I said “sure,” and shortly thereafter checked the Gospel lesson, as is my custom. Right away, I thought, “Cool! I get to preach again about the baptism of Jesus.”

So my plan was to remind you that I had preached on our Lord’s baptism just a few weeks ago, then announce a pop quiz over that sermon… as an appropriate Lent One discipline, of course. After teasing you with that for a moment, I would relent and simply review that handy mnemonic of our baptismal covenant I included in that sermon.

You remember:

1.    Go to church.

2.    Be good.

3.    Tell others.

4.    Love everybody.

5.    Seek justice.

Then, after that review, and with our baptismal covenant in mind, I would turn to the question that came up at Theology on Tuesdays this month. For those of you who were not there: We had an interesting, wide-ranging discussion following up on Fr. Micheal’s annual meeting sermons about why we are here, what we come to Grace for, and what kind of healing force we want Grace to be in our community.

That discussion culminated in someone—I don’t remember who—but someone asked, “So what can we do?”

This deacon’s heart just about went into orbit.

So I was going to use today’s sermon to give you a list—a partial list to be sure, but a list nevertheless—of ministries… Well.., make that a list of ways God is already at work in this community that you could become a part of.

Habitat for Humanity would be high on the list. I am delighted that the director of Habitat is coming next Sunday to speak to you, and sorry I won’t be here to hear him.

I was going to tell you about a wonderful ministry that transforms the lives of girls and young women who struggle with unplanned pregnancy, addiction, eating disorders, sex trafficking…. You name it, they struggle with it. It’s called Mercy Multiplied and I will put some info about how you can check it out in Grace Notes for next Sunday.

I was going to talk about what I do in my not-so-spare time, the ministry that called me to the diaconate: the work of Northern & Central Louisiana Interfaith. But you and I can talk one-on-one or in small groups about that anytime.

So I had this fun, informative sermon planned for today.

Then Wednesday happened. You know, 17 dead teenagers. In a school. In Florida. Not that far from here. Not that far from the Pulse night club massacre. Not that far in time or space from blood in the streets of Las Vegas. Or Sandy Hook. Or Columbine, for that matter.

I still thought for a while I would write that other sermon. And then, along about Friday evening when I got serious about writing, I re-learned something I’ve actually known for some time: If I can’t write, I’m trying to write the wrong thing.

Try as I might, I could not write that sermon. Or, as we might say in Louisiana, that dog just would not hunt.

So now I am left with saying what is on my heart and my mind as I survey the carnage of gun-violence victims before us.. and behind us.. and all around us.

But before I do, I am compelled to declare—and this feels incredibly peculiar, but for some reason it seems important to say: I am a gun owner. I know how to use the guns I own. I have used every one of them.. to shoot targets, to shoot trap, and to hunt and kill game of various kinds. I intend to continue to own those guns.

So what I am about to say in no way conflicts with gun ownership and the safe, sensible use of guns for entertainment and hunting by mentally competent, upstanding citizens.

But my days of silence in the face of specious, politically driven arguments about how we can’t fix this problem because of our “rights” are over.

So do not tell me that “guns don’t kill people, people do,” because you know as well as I do that people with guns kill people—and more of them in a shorter period of time at a greater distance than virtually any other way. And if they have an assault rifle, make that quantumly more, faster, easier.

Don’t tell me how Timothy McVay did it with fertilizer… unless you want to be reminded that today, you can’t walk into a fertilizer store and purchase large quantities of that fertilizer without equal quantities of documentation–who you are and why you need it–because somehow, miraculously, we knew how to fix that.

Don’t tell me about shoe bombs on airplanes because today we all line up at the security check point and dutifully take off our shoes… because of one shoe bomb taken onto an airplane.. that turned out to be a dud.

Don’t talk to me about how we must interpret the 2^nd Amendment in the broadest, most absolutist way possible. We don’t treat any other amendment to our constitution in that way. We cherish the 1^st Amendment as well, but... when was the last time you saw a cigarette ad on television?

Don’t talk to me about how the first regulation is a slippery slope to taking away everyone’s guns. Nonsense! We have a long and proud history in this country of debate between pro-regulators and anti-regulators, and what comes out of it is a slightly meandering but mostly middle-of-the-road path that makes nobody completely happy but keeps us out of the trenches on both sides. We do it with driving. We do it with hunting. We do it with television and business practices and meat products in our grocery stores. We can do it with guns.

How about the argument that no law or regulation will keep guns out of the hands of criminals? That no matter what laws or regulations we enact, the wrong people will still get their hands on guns? Sure. That’s true. But that’s an argument for having no laws of any kind. Because no laws are perfect. No laws are perfect preventers of the crimes they address.

And what if, with reasonable, thoughtful laws and regulations, we cut the number of gun deaths… by half? Maybe by only a quarter? Maybe by ONE? Jesus said he would go to the ends of the earth for one of us! Is that not worth it?

Maybe before we answer, we ought to go face-to-face with the screaming mother of a dead teenager. Maybe we ought to look at our own children and grandchildren before we answer.

And, finally, don’t tell me the problem is mental illness. Every other country in the world has mental illness at about the same rate we do. No other country in the world tolerates the level of gun-wrought carnage that we do.

Some time in the last 48 hours, Bishop Jake published his words on this issue, and one thing he said spoke especially powerfully to me. He said, “My prayers are hollow, even false, if I do not act.”

I don’t know if you needed to hear this sermon today. I know I needed to preach it. Certainly, I know none of you contributes to or promotes gun violence. But as Fr. Michael preached two weeks ago, we’re either hurting or we’re healing. There’s no neutral ground on this issue.

We must demand change. Our legislators are too beholden to powerful, moneyed interests to do this on our own. We must demand it. And if we don’t, we are complicit. The blood of future victims will be on our hands.

Please pray with me: God forgive our past inaction. God help us find the courage to act, to hold ourselves and our leaders accountable. In your Holy Name…

AMEN.

Ongoing Story

1st Sunday after the Epiphany, Grace Episcopal Church, Monroe, La.

Can it be just two weeks since we paused in wonder to gaze at a newborn in a manger? That we sang carols with the angels, knelt with the shepherds, and with Mary, pondered all these things in our hearts?

It always seems to me that time stands still.. and the universe holds its breath for just a moment.. that holy night.

And then, so soon—and especially this year, so soon!—come the words of John: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

Wait. What? I am never quite ready for such grown up words, such an incomprehensible notion, such a mind-boggling truth. I really would rather just play with the baby for awhile!

But.. …the Word became flesh and lived among us… and the consequences are real.

Then, in rapid succession comes 12^th Night—the wisemen arrive with their gifts; yay, party time in Louisiana!—The Epiphany; Jesus is for ALL of us—oh, blessed night! And…

Boom! Here we stand, on the banks of a river.. out in the middle of nowhere.. listening to Wilderness John preach hellfire and brimstone. Although Mark’s account does not emphasize that, we know it from other accounts.

Here we stand. That babe in the manger is 30 years old in the blink of an eye, and we’re about to get a powerful lesson in what it all means, and in those very real consequences.

Jesus is baptized. The heavens open. God speaks: This is my beloved…

And Jesus is catapulted into the world to begin his ministry. To call disciples, to turn water into wine, to preach, teach, heal the sick, argue with the Pharisees, that is, the good church people of his day… That’s the consequence of being the Beloved.

We know where that path takes him. We know how that story ends.

Except, of course, it hasn’t ended yet. Except, of course, that we who choose to follow Jesus into and through the waters of baptism are the ongoing story. That’s the consequence of being beloved.

Did you hear both the connection and the distinction I just made? Jesus, called by God, “the Beloved” with a capital “B,” sets out on a path of ministry that leads to the cross. That’s the consequence for him.

We who follow him are made his brothers and sisters through the waters of baptism. That’s what we say. That’s what we believe. We are “beloved” with a small “b.” And the consequence for us is carrying out Jesus’ unfinished ministry in the world.

What else could you possibly do… with the wonderful and terrible knowledge of being God’s beloved?

 

Daniel Bonnell, The Baptism of the Christ

We celebrate the Baptism of our Lord every year at this time. It is a familiar story. We read one or another version of it, not only the first Sunday after the Epiphany, but also the first Sunday of November, All Saints Day.

We repeat our own baptismal vows—as we are about to do—multiple times throughout the year.

I suggest we think of Jesus’ baptism as his ordination experience. While praying, Jesus is named by God to be God’s own and in response to knowing who he is and who he belongs to, he goes out to do the work he is called to do. Sounds like ordination to me.

And as his baptism was an ordination experience, so too ours.

See, I think we’ve gotten way careless about our terminology and our thinking. Even I, when someone asks, am likely to name the orders of the church “bishops, deacons and priests.” But “laity” is also an order!

I was reminded of this in a striking way a few years ago. I was at a Diocesan task force meeting when Fr. Frank Hughes referred to “the five orders of the church.”

Five? I thought. What is he talking about? Everybody knows “bishops, deacons and priests.” After all, we pray for all of them every Sunday!

And when he then named them, it was a real face-palm moment for me. Of course, “laity” is an order—and the fifth, in case you’re wondering, is that special order of monks and nuns who choose to live out their call through vows of poverty, piety, community and service.

Baptism is an ordination. Some adults are ordained by the church to preach the word and administer the sacraments. But at baptism every person is ordained to serve Christ according to his or her calling. Every Christian is a "minister”—one who does ministry of some kind.

What exactly that might be varies a great deal and certainly changes over time for most people. The specific ministry one is called to in mid-life while raising a family and developing a career is likely to be quite different from ministry after retirement.

One of the special responsibilities of deacons in the church is to bring the needs of the world to the church and to lead lay people in servant ministry. That’s why Bishop Jake wants more deacons—not to DO all the service of the church, but to be catalysts for lay ministry, especially lay ministry outside these walls, lay ministry responding to the needs of the world.

That’s why you see my name linked in Grace Notes to the call for participants in the Episcopal Habitat for Humanity build coming up in February. Helping low income folks become homeowners is diaconal ministry because it changes peoples’ lives. It’s transformative.

And, indeed, that is what we promise to do… each and every time we repeat our baptismal vows.

Now.. NO PEEKING into prayer books! Our baptismal covenant begins with several statements of what we believe. We’re going to repeat those in a moment.

Then… we make a series of five promises. What do we promise? Test yourself. No peeking. I’ve developed some shorthand—an aid to memory:

1. Go to church. (teaching, fellowship, Eucharist) – Pretty easy stuff, right? We’re the good church people. We go to church for the fun of it.

  

2. Be good. (resist evil, repent) – Still no biggie. We wouldn’t be caught dead being bad on purpose… although we might be willing to stretch the concept of “good” a bit from time to time.

3. Tell others. (proclaim by word & example) – A little harder, maybe? Thank goodness, “by example” is one of our options, because telling people about Jesus, well, we kind of prefer to leave that up to priests, right?

4. Love everybody. (your neighbor as yourself) – I admit, this one gives me some pause, and not in the way you might think. It’s not the street person or the immigrant or the Muslim or the whatever. I have no trouble seeing Christ in them. It’s the Nazi. The KKK. It’s the smug, self-righteous Christians who are quite sure they have God all figured out.

5. Seek justice. (strive for justice and peace) – The dreaded liberal agenda, right? I mean, we know this is not just about the U.S. criminal justice system and its requirements of legal representation, fair trials, etc. We don’t have to say “social justice” to know that for God’s beloved, justice must include consideration of things such as access to health care, education, and affordable housing, the ability to care for a family with the sweat of one’s brow. Justice is not mere charity. Justice transforms lives. Justice helps people know they are beloved.

In fact, I don’t know a better way to measure ministry than to ask, Does it help people know that they are beloved?

Brothers and sisters, when we repeat our baptismal covenant, we are accepting our status as beloved.. and committing ourselves to being the ongoing story. More. We are asking to be catapulted into the world to declare God’s love and justice for all  human kind. If we were smart, we just might strap on crash helmets.

In the name of God, father, son and Holy Spirit, AMEN.

Glorious Hope

Christ the King 2017, Grace Episcopal Church, Monroe, La.

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church over on Bon Aire Drive is the first Episcopal Church I walked into 20 years ago. One of the first things I noticed was the crucifix at the front of the church. Grace has one just like it over in the parish hall, and so does St. Alban’s in their parish hall.

I was raised in a very Roman Catholic part of southeastern Iowa. In fact, the county paid tuition for my siblings and me to attend a Roman Catholic parochial school because it was cheaper than busing us, the only protestant kids in the neighborhood, to the nearest public school.

So I was plenty familiar with crucifixes. Moreover, the ultra-protestant church of my childhood taught against them as both idolatrous and emphasizing Jesus’ death over his resurrection.

Thus to encounter Christ the King, crucified but alive; on the cross, but wearing kingly robes and a crown, spoke volumes to me. It was one of those features of the Episcopal Church that invited me in.

Today is Christ the King Sunday, when we celebrate an aspect of Christ’s identity—his kingship—separate from all else.

The majority of references to Jesus as king in the New Testament occur in the Passion narratives in the Gospels. What a sharp contrast—to juxtapose Christ’s kingship with that moment when state and religious authority seems so powerful and in charge.

But of course we know that Christ becomes king—not by the usual earthly methods—but by way of the Cross. Jesus himself made it quite clear that his kingship is like no other. His ministry on earth was one of peace, liberation and above all service. Jesus the Christ radically redefined and transformed the concept of kingship.

So today’s Gospel lesson has Christ the King on his throne with us—the human family—assembled before him. But this king is not concerned with the state of the economy, or taxes, or foreign trade or immigration policy. This king is concerned with one thing alone: Have we been taking care of each other?

Like the lessons of the past few weeks, it contains that disturbing concept of judgment, and the possibility of being thrown into outer darkness with weeping and gnashing of teeth.

So I wonder… where do you locate yourself in this story?

Notice the surprise of the righteous: WHEN, Lord, they ask, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you? 

I am delighted by that. What a lesson in humility and selflessness: to have done the work of the kingdom without even realizing you were doing it. What a moment of joy to hear Jesus say, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me. 

But I am also taken aback by it, for it requires me to come to terms with my own little morality problem. You see, I am both a sheep and a goat.

The problem isn’t wanting to do right, take care of people, feed the hungry, visit the sick and befriend the stranger… I’ve always wanted to do right.

The problem is wanting to BE right—which so often comes with built-in judgment of others who won’t accept my charity with sufficient gratitude, who make poor decisions about money or lifestyle that get them into trouble all over again, or who dare to criticize the system that has served me well.

Or judgment of those who insist on calling God by other names. Or who do good even while insisting that God doesn’t exist! Sooo many ways to pass judgment on other people!

The moment I see myself among the sheep, I find myself glancing over at the goats… and there’s my own face looking back at me.

Looking back over the past few weeks of parables, I am the servant given five talents who doubles them. But I am also the one who gets one talent and fearfully buries it in the yard. I’m even the master who relentlessly punishes the timid one, even though I know Jesus said, The meek shall inherit the earth. And I’m the poor schmuck who shows up at the wedding feast in the wrong clothes, as well as the crazy king who goes ballistic and throws him out over a mere wardrobe malfunction.

We humans are expert at throwing ourselves into outer darkness—and passing judgment on each other is one of our most popular ways of doing it.

But the moment I say that, I must also recognize that we humans are called to bring about God’s kingdom here on earth. And to do that requires resisting evil. And resisting evil requires making judgments.

We must take stands against wrong, even when we do not agree on the definition of  “wrong.” Or maybe we agree that, for example, racism and white supremacy are wrong, but we do not agree on what constitutes an example of it. Or we agree that poverty or people dying for lack of health care are wrong, but we do not agree on the best way to fix the problem.

These disagreements about really basic and important things are high profile today for a couple of reasons. One is the internet and social media, but I’m going to leave that to another sermon. (I sometimes think they should be called “anti-social” media.)

Another is a culture of relativity that says, “All opinions are created equal.” I have done my share over the years of promoting that culture in trying to make room for some of my favorite but unpopular stands.

But it’s not true.

Some opinions are based on data, historical facts, fair and thorough analyses of competing claims and points of view. Others are based on ideology or wishful thinking.

Some opinions are based on the actual experience of being oppressed by virtue of one’s skin color, or gender, or sexual orientation. Others come from the perspective of being mainstream, a member of dominant social groups. That would be me, most of the time.

Some are based on the experience of living on the socio-economic margins, dealing with the panic of a major car repair when the paycheck barely reaches from one to the next under the best of circumstances. Others come from the point of view of a savings account that can be raided on a rainy day.

To evaluate a human opinion, a human perspective.., to take a stand on what is right or wrong and how to fix it, we must—of course—listen to each other. You have heard that before. But we must also examine ourselves. We must ask, Who am I in taking this stand.

I have no easy answers. Welcome to the conundrum of my daily life: How to listen, take stands, show the way of Christ as I understand it—without shutting down conversation—especially when my instinct is to grab people by the shirt front and scream, “What is wrong with you?” Expletive deleted.

Here we are, the last Sunday of the church year, celebrating Christ the King.. and heading into Advent—a perfect season for doing some soul searching.. in preparation for God to come among us once again.

And so I invite you to spend some thoughtful, prayerful time with the question, Who am I in the stands I take? Who am I in this interaction, with this person, at this moment in time? How is my story, my perspective, my challenges and, yes, my privileges, making room—or not—for the other person’s story?

But Advent also directs our hearts and minds beyond the babe in the manger.. to that completely outrageous and utterly glorious hope that Christ is King and will come again in power and great glory to reconcile and redeem us all in the end.

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

Choosing Chosen-ness

Grace Episcopal Church, Monroe, La.

I don’t like this story.

I mean really.., listen to that punch line again: “Many will be called, but few will be chosen” (NRSV, Matthew 22:1-14). What an un-Jesusy thing to say.

And what an awful punishment to mete out to the poor schmuck who shows up at the wedding banquet in the wrong clothes! For those of us with the fashion sense of a turnip, this is not good news.

So let’s go back to the beginning of the story and see what sense can be made of it. Jesus is speaking in parables again, and we know full well that Jesus’ parables telling us what the Kingdom of Heaven is like often turn the world as we know it inside out. This one is no different.

It begins with a king throwing a wedding banquet for his son. A lot of us have been there and done that, and we know that you invite relatives and good friends—people you know and care about—to a wedding banquet.

But, shockingly, in this case, the invited guests do not come—even after being invited twice. Some appear to be just too busy. They go off to work the farm instead, or to the office to take care of business.

Others get downright ill-tempered about it and abuse—even kill—the messengers delivering the invitation. It’s almost as though they don’t trust the king who has sent the invitation.

Perhaps they fear the king will have invited folks they don’t normally hang out with—like people of other political or religious persuasions or socio-economic statuses, and then what would you talk about for two whole hours?

Maybe they’re afraid they’ll get to the banquet and be asked to do something they don’t like doing or don’t feel good at, like share a story from their own life, maybe something the king has done for them.

Maybe they’re worried about what it will cost them in terms of missed work, having to buy a gift, or having to share out of their own plenty with those who have less.

Or maybe they just resent the king’s claim on their time and their life.

Perhaps some of these reasons for not responding to an invitation sound familiar to you. They sure do to me.

Whatever the case, they don’t come. And guess what? You can’t be a guest if you ignore or reject the invitation.

And so the king, being upset as wouldn’t we all be, sends out new messengers to gather up anyone and everyone from the streets and byways to come to the banquet—and they come.

What an odd assortment of characters must have been in that crowd! “The good and bad,” Jesus said; come they did and commence to party.

They became the kings honored guests—not because they were relatives or friends or of the right political persuasion or socio-economic status. And not because they had earned the king’s favor in any way. The king’s messengers invited everyone.

And they became the kings guests because they chose to respond to his invitation.

This story reminds us that “choosing” and “being chosen” are two sides of a single coin. It’s a 2-way street. We can’t be chosen if we don’t choose back.

Think about the people in your life. Can you choose a “best friend,” if that person does not want to be your best friend?

Anyone in this room ever have a crush on someone who didn’t return the sentiment? Doesn’t go very far, does it? Not much fun, is it? Even a business partnership requires a mutual choosing.

If you’re married, think about how that happened. One of you probably initiated the relationship, made the first move. But it was a mutual choosing.

And it didn’t happen just once. To stay together you must choose each other, over and over again. Being in relationship means constant choosing chosen-ness. A million big and little things—annoyance, distractions, “epic disagreements”—will require you to choose each other over and over again.., even when you are not aware that that’s what you are doing.

And finally, think about the pain of choosing someone who does not choose you back. Or, worse, who chooses you for a time, and then un-chooses you.

Losing a friendship, losing a marriage, losing an employer-employee relationship; all are painful un-choosings that can send human lives into a tailspin.

Are you worried about the guy who gets thrown out because he’s not wearing the proper clothes? He chose back, but not really. He came to the party half-heartedly. He’s there, he’s making an appearance.., but he’s sitting in the corner.. or the back pew.. looking to make a quick escape… before anything much can be asked of him. Been there and done that, too.

See, it’s a whole lot easier to go to church than to put on the wedding robe of God’s Love and actually follow Jesus. It’s perfectly possible, even rather easy, to say, “Yes, Lord, I love you, I choose you…” but then to be certain there’s nothing we can do to solve the problem of health care for all of our neighbors.

We can go to church week after week, year after year, and be more worried about the price of produce at the grocery store than about whether the people who pick the produce can feed their kids by the sweat of their brow. We can say, “Lord, Lord,” and never once wonder how many jobs the people who wait your table at the restaurant might be working to make ends meet.

How often have we been too busy, too hurt, too angry, too fearful… to accept the chosen-ness God offers us? How often have we responded, but half-heartedly, or grudgingly.., or with a sort of empty piety?

I am reminded of Jonah. Not responding to God’s claim on us can send us straight into the belly of the beast, where we will surely weep and gnash our teeth.

But here’s the Good New: With all of our faults and limitations, our stinginess, our blind self-righteousnes, we are whom God wants. Jesus says, “The many…” which I take to be inclusive: “The multitude of humankind.” Or, as we might say in the deep south: “all of y’all.”

God chooses us—over and over again. Every minute of every hour of every day, God chooses us. That’s the beauty of it. If we don’t choose back at this moment, we’ll have another chance in the next. If we don’t care for this neighbor in the ditch today, we will encounter another tomorrow….

We are invited to the banquet we call the Kingdom of Heaven—and not just one of some far off future “next life,” but the one Jesus insisted was within and among us, the one we pray for here on earth each and every time we pray the prayer Jesus taught us to pray.

And more. We are invited to be God’s love here on this earth. We are called to become God’s hands and feet responding to the pain of the world. And by the grace and love of God, we become what we choose back.

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