Each week our clergy, and occasional guest preachers, attempt to faithfully proclaim God’s Word in fresh, aspirational, and practical ways. In essence, they explore what it means to live our mission: We seek to love God above all things and our neighbors as ourselves. We hope that audio and text files you will find here will aid your own Christian journey.
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The First Sunday of Advent
Sunday, December 01, 2019
Isaiah 2:1-5; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44
As I’m closing in on the last years of my seventh decade, I’ve been aware that my sense of time has shifted. Initially I thought this was just a momentary emotional blip of acknowledgment that time was rushing forward, that I was way beyond the halfway point, more like I had hit at least the two thirds marker in a reasonable “best case” scenario.
Some years ago, my then 85-year-old father told me that retiring at the age of 62 was the worst decision he had ever made. Now he's 97. He's now been retired nearly as many years as he worked. His comment came at the end of a routine check-in conversation. I'm thinking he wanted to impart this bit of wisdom to me while I still could do something about it. He had been considering how his work-life seemed focused on the day he could retire, the sooner the better, as though retirement was the goal of his life.
A lot of this thinking has changed within our culture over the last decades and I certainly never developed the idea that golf was my destiny. Which reminds me of another small but pithy comment my father made some months after he had told me about the fallacy of his retirement decision. I was visiting my folks in their Florida condominium; awakening in the morning I got a cup of coffee and stepped out onto the lanai. In a short while my father emerged in golf attire and in a quietly wistful and earnest manner said, “You know Steve, there’s something wrong when you wake up and you think to yourself, ‘I’ve gotta go play golf today…’” I took his meaning that golf had become his obligation, his duty, as it were.
Don’t get me wrong: my father has had a long run of now 97 years and most of those years were reasonably fulfilling for him. I remember another time when he was about 60—on the occasion of his last parent’s death. I asked him what he was feeling. His response went something like this: “Well, what I’ve been thinking about is that I’m next in line;” meaning, there was no buffer, no elders to mask the inevitable march of time.
I have a vivid memory from a moment at a high school graduation party when I was all of 17-years-old. I had stepped outside for a break from beer and boasting to fasten onto my own thoughts. It was a warm, clear night in late June and the Milky Way was especially resplendent stretching out in all of its glory. As I looked up into the darkness, I had an overwhelming sense of the span of years that lay ahead of me. I gasped when it hit me, that sensibility of time, its pregnancy, immediacy and potency. The sensation was thrilling and awesome and mysterious. I was blown away. For a long while I just sat there wondering and marveling and eventually said to myself, “Steve, remember this night.” And I have often returned to it as I’ve considered the path I’ve tracked. The memory has been a wonderful gift to me.
And here’s the thing: though it’s now 50 years later, that sense of awe and wonder and mystery still lingers. Oh, I’ve learned a thing or two, of course, like all of us, through peaks and valleys of experience, but what’s emerged is a deeper sense of gratitude for each day, as well as recognition that so much of what comes down the pike, both good and bad, could not have been predicted. At 17 in the backyard of a friend’s house in a suburb of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, I certainly had no inkling of what I’d be up to at the age of 67, that New York City would be the place I’d spend most of my adult years, and in this get-up no less.
I’m guessing that most of you would report something similar, age dependent. If you’re in your 20’s, maybe you’ve had the itch for New York since your teens, or maybe landing here was an accident. If you’re over 60, well, you have your story to tell, and a unique sensibility about the meaning of time in the unfolding drama of your life.
In our reading from Romans Paul said, “You know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep…the night is far gone, the day is near.” The question haunts for young and old alike: “Do you know what time it is?” Or maybe asked this way: “Just what time is it, anyway?”
Time’s a funny thing. We often find ourselves saying we don’t have enough of it, whatever that means. We complain about wasting time, or worse, other people wasting our time. Most people, I think, want to control the outcome of time’s advance. A few things are somewhat in our control, of course, but a whole lot of stuff lies outside our control.
I consider my options at the age of 67, situating my decisions in a lifespan of maybe 90 years. Or not. We play the actuarial tables and plot our finances along a timeline model. Few people will actually follow the model crafted for themselves exactly. Most contend with health or financial reversals, or, sometimes, surprising good fortune.
My good friend Thomas Lane Butts spoke here in 2010 on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the publishing of To Kill a Mockingbird. A close friend of the author, Harper Lee, Tom endured cross-burnings and life-threatening situations in Jim Crow Alabama. At the age of 17 he likely would not have sensed those events in his future. When he turned 82, he called to tell me that he had met a friend for lunch at a local casino. As he was leaving, he dropped a coin in a slot and hit a jackpot worth $2.2 million dollars—just like that. Tom's a great storyteller and he had me laughing in no time. But at the end he said he didn’t need the money and intended to give most of it away.
Of course, all things are relative. There are a lot of folks in this town who make two million dollars or more a year. Lots of others go hungry and homeless. Time passes along at the same rate for people at both ends of the spectrum and for everyone in between. And all of us make choices within the range of our powers. But this question lingers: Do we know what time it is?
My close friend Forrest Church had been the minister of All Souls Church at Lexington and 79th Street for 30 years. At the age of 58 he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. He told me he wanted to make it to the age of 60 because both his father and grandfather had died at the age of 59. He made it with time to spare, but not a lot. I was privileged to be present when he died. And I think Forrest had a pretty good handle on what time it was—I don’t mean that especially as a matter of how many actual days he had, but as a function of being alert to the things that mattered most of all. And as a result he died well. He lived and learned a thing or two, and he died well. That is, he knew what time it was.
I got to thinking about these things given we’re starting a new church year today. The old year has come to an end and we cycle into the season of expectancy for the new thing God has in store. The Advent proclamation could be summed up like this: the future belongs to God! Get ready! That’s what each of our passages exclaimed today. How could swords be beaten into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks unless the future belonged to God?
Paul’s proclamation depends on the same logic: We shall lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armor of light living honorably as in the day—why? Because the future belongs to God. That’s the correct answer to the question, 'Do you know what time it is?' It’s God’s time. That’s the message in Bethlehem’s child, in what we call the incarnation, God taking on frail flesh. God’s time is at hand. Live the truth of it!
However my next years unfold I tell you that first and foremost I will try to remember that whatever days I have are pure gift and that the time zone in which I live and move and have my being is called eternity. There’s a paradox here: perceiving time in this manner makes my decisions simultaneously more important but also less ridden with anxiety. Important because nothing less than the goals of eternity are at stake—less anxious because no matter what, the future belongs to God, and that being the case, what on earth do I have to fear?
I think that’s what I sensed looking into the Milky Way so many years ago. I couldn’t have put it into words like this, of course, but I think I sensed eternity impinging on my life. That may sound grandiose, I suppose, but then I’d say the same holds true for each one of us. In fact, any authentic spiritual experience involves the in-breaking of eternity on our perception of time.
You know what time it is, how it is now the moment to wake from sleep… the night is far gone, the day is near…put on the armor of light…
Reign of Christ
Sunday, November 24, 2019
Sunday, November 17, 2019
So, there are an unusually large number of mayors who’ve expressed interest in the presidential campaign this year: there’s Mayor Pete, of course; there was Mayor de Blasio; former Mayor of Burlington Vermont, Bernie Sanders; and now we’re teased by former Mayor Bloomberg who may or may not join the race. BTW, the last time a former mayor actually won came in 1924 in the form of Calvin Coolidge. Who knows how this resolves by next year.
With Bloomberg’s flirtation I got to thinking about mayors this week, what a critical component of our civil infrastructure they are, and how we judge their competence. In conversation with a friend who lives in Boston about the mayor situation, I was reminded of Boston’s Mayor, Martin Walsh, who first came to office in 2014. I remembered his first campaign attracting attention because of his back story.
At the time the Boston Globe summarized it this way: “In a race that lacked substantial policy differences, Walsh won as an affable everyman with a compelling life story. The 46-year-old spoke often about his immigrant roots, his battle with childhood cancer, his brush with a stray bullet that grazed his leg after a night of drinking, and his struggle as a young man to overcome alcoholism.”
“Evidently bullets, cancer and alcoholism can give a man perspective. ‘Subconsciously, it builds up strong character,’ Walsh said at the time.” That piece of his story connected with a wide cross-section of Boston’s population, and as an active participant in Alcoholics Anonymous, Walsh had the very strong backing of the recovery community which slices across all segments of society, from top to bottom.
I’m a big fan of the various Anonymous programs. Early in my ministry I learned how effective they were in providing context and community for addicts of every sort and the broad range of people they impacted, including extended family members and friends. Many of you may not know that on Tuesday evenings we host one of the largest meetings in the city right here in this sanctuary. It’s often standing room only, sort of like Easter Sunday, only it’s every Tuesday night. This is one of the oldest continuous meetings in New York, its founding dating from the early 1940’s. I’m glad we’re able to offer this hospitality. Powerful stories are shared, and people find hopeful community in support of their intention to evolve into greater health.
Walsh has been sober for over 20 years now, and the thing that I want to highlight this morning, is that this success could not be sustained without his intentional habits of attending to things that matter most of all while contending with issues of integrity, health, wholeness, and compassionate regard.
The first 3 steps of the famous twelve steps into sobriety are these: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable; came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity; made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood God.
Week after week after week, these and other practices are rehearsed, discussed, modeled and supported and then sometimes, someone who intentionally adopts and maintains them for 20 years can emerge as the Mayor of Boston. That’s a pretty successful program isn’t it? You’ll notice in the first three steps that it is very much a spiritual program and the disciplines trace out a spiritual path. People go to meetings to remind themselves of the principles that lead to health, wholeness and integrity and to gather with others for support and encouragement. Then they go back out into their lives, their work and relationships and try to intentionally stay on track. Intentionality is key. Well, intentionality and follow-through.
So, true to the spirit of AA, there are many stories about Martin Walsh helping others. Like this one: “One night 16 years ago, a cocaine and whiskey addict was thrown out of a detox center… It was below zero and he had nowhere to go, so he slipped into Boston Medical Center to get warm. There, by chance, he met Walsh, who was helping [someone else]. Walsh made a quick phone call and got his new friend into a halfway house. Later, he helped him find a job.
“‘This guy didn’t know me from Adam, and he embraced me,’ Jim Taylor said of Walsh as he knocked on doors [on behalf of Walsh’s candidacy]... ‘He’s not a phony, he’s not a fake — he’s kept his word, and he’s followed through.”’ Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if someone said that about me.
In my conversation with my Boston friend I learned that Walsh receives mixed reviews on policy outcomes, but near universal approval of his character and transparency which accounts in part for his landslide win in 2017. In stark contrast to current political conditions, his story reveals the power of intentional spiritual commitment. I suppose I should mention here that Walsh is an actively identified Christian. We should pay attention to how intentional practice builds character and character builds healthy community and healthy politics as well.
There’s a very simple point here for our purposes today. It’s related to this matter of intentional spirituality which is mostly unsupported by the larger culture. That’s right, isn’t it? You’d agree with me that there are now no cultural supports for spiritual practice in New York City today, right? Religious identity is draining out from our urban culture faster than landline telephones. As far as many of your friends and co-workers are concerned your going to church on a Sunday morning is an odd affectation, and I’m guessing you may not talk about it all that much. Maybe the equivalent of CCA, as in, Christ Church Anonymous. Even so, if you take it with any degree of seriousness this requires intentionality and follow-through.
For most here today attendance is not as imperative as it might be for an alcoholic finding a meeting, but honestly, if faith has a claim on our lives, if loving God above all things and our neighbors as ourselves is the ground beneath our feet and the air we breathe, it stands to reason that intentional spiritual practice becomes a true necessity.
As it is with any relationship we say really, really matters--it’s the habits of the heart, the behaviors, the commitments of time and attention and integrity that tell the truth. Here’s where that blunt assessment of C.S Lewis comes in handy: “What you do screams so loud I can’t hear what you say!” Which begs this question this morning: When it comes to our spiritual lives, what is it that we’re actually doing? How do our intentions get exercised in follow-through behaviors?
In today’s gospel lesson Jesus says to the crowds, “You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything but is thrown out and trampled underfoot. You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid... let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory [to God].”
This speaks of developing habits concerning the things that matter most. You’re not going to hear about this in the normal course of a typical day unless you intentionally seek it out.
I’ve learned over the years that addictive behaviors come in all shapes and configurations. Experience teaches that everyone has their own unique set of addictive distractions that keep them from addressing the things that matter most of all. This is true for all of us. The people at AA are only one variation on a theme. But, honestly, is it worse than an addiction to money? Sex? Sleep? Pills? Work? Adrenalin? Pretending we’re someone we’re not? Lying? Ego? Anyone present addicted to technology?
What we say here is that developing spiritual disciplines throws open the bars of our self-imposed prisons. Life awaits! Life in all of its spectacular glory! Stepping out we learn what love really is and how intentional disciplines make lives of meaning possible. We can’t really love well without a bracing set of disciplines.
And here I want to highlight three essential practices: the practice of worship; the practice of prayer; and the practice of generosity.
There are other disciplines we could list of course. But as a simple practical matter, these 3 are essential: worship, prayer, and generosity. I call them practices because they only have meaning if we actually do them. Worship is a large concept that encompasses a fundamental ordering of the cosmos, remembering who’s who and how we fit into the scheme of things, but a component of worship is doing what we’re doing here this morning with the community of faith. Prayer is our explicit and intentional awareness of God’s presence in our lives—it’s the language of spiritual relationship.
The practice of generosity flows out of God’s astonishing generosity towards us including our very lives. Giving is God’s way of entrusting us to make a difference... assuming you want to make a difference...To be salt and light requires the discipline of regularly giving yourself away. In a few minutes you’ll have an opportunity to practice this discipline. There’s a reason we ask for a pledge of support. The pledge becomes a tangible discipline over time—it binds your intention to practice.
Worship, prayer, generosity, practices that will take us the distance, all the way home at last. What are they again? Write them on your hearts and minds…
Twenty-second Sunday after Pentecost
Job 19:23-27a; 2nd Thessalonians 2:13-17; Luke 20:27-38
Some time ago, an old friend of mine, Delmar Chilton, retired southern pastor, shared a magazine article concerning what it called “mysterious traffic stops and starts;” those times when interstate traffic just slows and stops and then speeds back up, though there is no wreck or construction to cause it. We've all experienced that phenomenon. Well, a group of traffic engineers investigated this problem. They tested a number of theories, and here’s their conclusion: they don’t know. They honestly don’t know why it happens. It just does sometimes – for no apparent, detectable reason.
Now maybe you're like me: When I'm on the road and that pattern takes over, I immediately wonder what's going on. I'm wanting to know the reason for the slowdown. Since I learned there may be no specific cause sort of exacerbates the irritation when it occurs. We want to know the reason for why things are the way they are and, short of certain knowledge, we'll fantasize all sorts of reasons. It's our nature to fill in the blanks of life's mysteries.
Take Job for instance. Remember his story? Scholars tell us the Book of Job may be the oldest written text in the Bible which suggests that the problem Job addresses, namely, why do bad things happen to good people? has haunted the human imagination for thousands of years. As the story is told, Job suffers terribly though he is a good man and his friends offer up several different explanations concerning why.
I agree with my friend, Delmar, when he says there’s something within him that rebels against the notion that things can happen with no cause and no purpose. But all of us know that from time to time life feels like that. "There are times when it feels like we’re buzzing down life’s highway making good time, purposefully going about our business, when suddenly things happen which cause life to appear totally meaningless."
That’s why Job's story has captured human attention for as long as it has. When "the book opens, Job’s really making good time on the highway of life; things are great. Wife, kids, job, spiritual life; everything’s wonderful! Then it all grinds to a halt, the wheels fall off, and he’s left sitting on the side of the road in the burned-out shell of his life.
"No rhyme, no reason, no poetic justice, no novelistic irony, no cinematic climax; just meaningless disaster. His friends explore a number of theories as to the why of his predicament. Most of these ideas have to do with either Job’s hidden sinfulness or God’s lack of justice. Even Job’s wife tells him he should just curse God and die."
And yet, it’s at this moment that Job makes his impassioned statement of hope, “O that my words were written down! O that they were inscribed in a book! O that with an iron pen and with lead they were engraved on a rock forever! For I know that my redeemer lives.”
In the midst of his darkest night, Job holds on to hope. And this hope has the ring of eternal truth. No matter what happens, God is still God and just on the other side of a disastrous dead end, there remains a truth that's larger still.
Frederick Buechner wrote, “The worst isn't the last thing about the world. It's the next to the last thing. The last thing is the best. It's the power from on high that comes down into the world, that wells up from the rock-bottom worst of the world like a hidden spring."
That's a pretty good definition of hope, I think. Maybe you know someone who lives from that hopeful space; that despite great adversity of one sort or another they live expectantly, gratefully, and hopefully. People like that have an enormous impact on those who know them. They seem to know something that the rest of us don't.
The gospel lesson takes us for a drive down a similar road. We're told some people approached Jesus with a silly question. As it is today, there were different religious/political factions in Jesus' day. The Sadducees were the conservative, well-off partisans, the power brokers and officeholders. They want to trap the up-start Jesus using his own teaching against him. They perceive he believes there is life beyond death; the Sadducees do not.
They concoct a fanciful fiction about a childless woman whose husband dies. According to Jewish law her husband's brother is bound to marry her. In this case her husband has seven brothers and each dies in succession leaving her vulnerable and childless when she dies. So, “In the resurrection,” the Sadducees ask smugly, certain that they’ve ensnared Jesus, “whose wife will she be?”
Now they don't really care about the answer. They're simply trying to trap Jesus into saying something objectionable; the way news reporters ask leading questions today trying to get public figures to say something that will offend somebody enough to make news. That seems the go-to methodology for most interviewers especially in these highly partisan times. And the Sadducees' question is offered like a joke to show how absurd it is to believe in resurrection.
As usual in these confrontations, Jesus doesn't fall for the trap and, in this case, answers their question as though they meant it. He tells them they're not thinking big enough...they're trapped by their own cramped opinions. When we die we are no longer conformed to the patterns of this world. Yes, there is resurrection because God is a God life, but this life shatters our puny constructs.
His answer likely offended some, even as it does to this day. Or if not exactly offend, at least confound. I mean how many people attending Easter services aren't simply perplexed by the idea of resurrection. It is perplexing. The fact is, the Sadducees are at least partly right, resurrection makes no sense on strictly human terms.
But hope makes sense. Hope in the God of life is a rebellion against everything that's points toward death. Resurrection is the ultimate expression of hope rooted in the revelation that God is the God of life.
When Job finally exclaims at the depth of his misery, “O that my words were written down...that they were inscribed in a book...[that] they were engraved on a rock forever! For I know that my redeemer lives,” he's rebelling against all the foolishness of his friends and everything that runs in the direction of death because he knows God is larger than death itself.
We can't say much more about the specifics of resurrection except, following the conclusion Jesus draws, we learn all are received as equals. Here's the thing: the Sadducees ask their question from a privileged position using an unfortunate and vulnerable woman as their foil. That's the way of the world to this day. That's how privilege works--unconscious of its corruption. Remember that in first century Palestine, widow was a code word for someone in need, a less-than person in bondage to a greater-than person. Jesus turns that upside down which would not have been lost on his listeners. The woman no longer needs a man to justify her existence.
The God of life receives everyone equally. Human distinctions of greater and lessor, of privileged and oppressed, of those that belong and those that don't, disappear in the realm of the God of life. As Jesus says, they are children of God, after all... "he is God not of the dead but of the living, for to God all of them are alive." Each one, child of God. The God of newness, forgiveness and liberation. So when we pray, "your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven," you can see that this was actually a call to arms for resurrection to take root today.
You know who came to understand this very well? The African American slaves and their descendants. Their theology was embedded within the spirituals, songs written in slavery, that were forward looking, hopeful about what lay ahead for them. Song after song long for the justice that will one day be theirs. As Nancy Westfield observes, "In these songs we hear the profound hope of a people who knew personally and passionately the good news of Jesus' resurrection and who understood themselves to be children of God, even while the world told them they were two-thirds human." (Feasting of the Word)
Like the spiritual, "I've got a Robe" that goes like this:
"I've got a robe, you've got a robe,
All of God's children got a robe.
When I get to heaven goin' to put on my robe,
Goin' to shout all over God's heaven."
I've got shoes, you've got shoes,
all of God's children got shoes.
When I get to heaven goin' to put on my shoes,
goin' to walk all over God's heaven.
From out of their miserable condition they clearly got the simple but profound message somehow, much more satisfactorily I might add, than their white owners who had more in common with the too-clever Sadducees than with the man they were trying to trap. And this wisdom was rooted in recognizing that God was the God of the living who infuses a spirit of hope in the midst of everything that reeks of death.
Reverse Mid-Life Crisis
November 3, 2019
Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost | All Saints Sunday
2nd Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12; Luke 19:1-10
Some years ago, an older middle-aged man sat in my office reporting a lifetime series of failed relationships with his several wives, children and business partners. He had lived life to the fullest, he said, made a whole mountain of money, and though he should probably feel more guilt than he did, he wasn’t entirely displeased with what he had experienced. Interesting experience after all, is what gave zest to his life. He loved the freedom to do whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased--he was something of a modern libertine.
"So, then what we should talk about," I asked. With that he fell silent for a moment, eventually offering that a gnawing emptiness had crept up on him over the last months. Among other things he realized he wanted a relationship with his children who wanted nothing to do with him. Of course, he’d been absent for much of their lives. While he had many other sorts of relationships, he realized none of them deeply mattered all that much, and he felt adrift despite his wealth.
Maybe it was a kind of mid-life crisis, he offered, but of an opposite variety from what we normally hear about, like some middle-aged guy acting out, stepping out of a rut in some big-time way. With a smirking laugh he added that he had been acting out his whole life.
What brought him to my door was a kind of awakening, or, well, he was hard-pressed to say just what exactly had whomped him on the side of the head. A couple of weeks ago he awoke with a start in the middle of the night with two words in his mind: “Come home.” They still felt as fresh today as they did that morning. He didn’t remember anything else he had dreamt—just those two words.
Often walking by this church on his way to work he stepped through the doors a month earlier and sat down. He hadn’t consciously connected any dots to cause this short step from the sidewalk to sanctuary—just a spontaneous decision. But here’s where it got a little silly, he added.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had been to a church. Long ago he’d thrown off any sort of interest in religion. Thought it was mostly a lot of baloney and anyway, would likely interfere with the sort of life he wanted. And like he said, it wasn’t that he was feeling especially guilty, just empty. Really empty.
And teary. Now that really shocked him. When he sat down in here and looked around his eyes welled up with tears. Something like that had never happened before. He rarely cried. Couldn’t remember the last time. Tears weren’t part of his normal experience. But somehow they linked up with that short phrase, “come home,” which now clobbered him with a headache.
For the next several mornings he stepped into this space and then on the following Sunday made a completely counter-intuitive decision to go to a worship service. He was stunned when the message that morning was all about our existential and spiritual experience of finding our true home. He said that in the sermon I even mentioned that many who stuck around this place reported how they felt at home here when first crossing the threshold. That’s the track that brought him to my office.
Stories like his keep me humble and alert to the fact that I’m at my best when I recognize God is already three steps ahead of where I might think I ought to be. I can suffer from feeling this spiritual quest is all about my effort and forget that but for God’s graciousness all my effort would mean nothing.
Here’s another confession. I wasn’t initially sure how to take this guy, and I told him so. Of course, I was intrigued and sort of blown away by his story which seemed completely guileless. That was the challenge—by his own admission, this was a man who was normally full of guile, but through his recent experience had been disarmed. He wouldn’t have come to speak with me, an anonymous minister, if this disarmament hadn’t taken place. And I’ve learned over the years that when this sort of disarmament happens, I need to disarm as well. I have to let go of my judgments and biases. In fact, disarmament is an essential spiritual discipline if we seek to have an honest relationship with God or anyone else.
It’s hard to say what makes someone open up to a truth that’s larger than they've known. What cracks them open? Has that ever happened to you? Have you ever been cracked open with the rush of a new truth? One of the first things that’s acknowledged, I suppose, is that there actually is a truth that’s larger than we've known.
I know by personal experience and reasoning my way through our tradition and scriptures, that there is a Truth larger than what I know, that this Truth should be spelled with a capital “T”, and that the best language we have for this Truth is what we refer to as religious, or spiritual/mystical language—language that reaches beyond material experience. And I've discovered that our scriptures remain relentlessly valuable in helping us unlock the meanings of our lives even in the 21st century.
Take the famous story of Zaccheus Violet read for us. We heard about a certain rich man, a chief tax collector. Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem and Zaccheus wanted to catch a glimpse of him. In Roman times, tax collecting was rented out to the highest bidder who could extort whatever he could from the general populace. As a Roman lackey and a greedy profiteer, Zaccheus was a much despised man as well as too short to see over the crowds gathered to see Jesus enter Jericho.
He might have been pelted with stones had he tried to approach the crowd following Jesus. But Zaccheus just climbed the tree so he could have a better vantage point to see Jesus as he passed by. Was he becoming vaguely conscious of the deep loneliness his profession had created? Did he have the faintest beginnings of a guilty conscience? Or was he feeling empty though he was very rich?
Zaccheus was captured by the moment and oddly guileless. Yet this was a man who was normally full of guile; I'm thinking that in his desire to meet Jesus he had been disarmed and he wouldn’t have received Jesus into his home if this disarmament hadn’t taken place.
For his part Jesus saw a man awakening to a truth he hadn't acknowledged before. Although he risked being ostracized himself, Jesus sought this man out, inviting himself to the man’s house for a meal. Interesting, isn’t it, how the idea of home comes into play here. In effect, Jesus made a home with this man that everyone else reviled. No word about whether or not he liked Zaccheus. But he surely loved Zaccheus. His history was irrelevant in the moment.
We're told this encounter shook Zaccheus into a grace-filled response. In the excitement of what had happened to him, he promised to be more than generous and repay many times over whatever he had taken by fraud. And Jesus praised him as a son of Abraham, the Jewish ideal of a faithful servant of God. In other words, Zaccheus came home, as it were, and his life took on a very different character. We might say he had a reverse mid-life crisis.
Suppose as you went home today Jesus invited himself over for brunch. Play out that little fiction as a kind of home-work. Could you imagine him saying, “Today salvation has come to your house; for the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost?” or maybe, the homeless, or the empty…
This being All Saints Sunday we might consider that Zaccheus could be accounted among the saints. He had been lost but found his way home. It strikes me that some of us are likely somewhere on that particular journey. Like the guy that showed up in my office wanting conversation. Eventually he re-focused his energy on re-engaging with his children. He had to be patient and open. Required adapting a different set of priorities of a number of months and he met with some success before an untimely heart attack. And I’m thinking the work he did with his kids was preparation for the homecoming he finally received.
Note John Shearman’s paraphrase at: http://seemslikegod.org/lectionary/archives/twenty-third-sunday-after-pentecost-october-31-2010
October 27, 2019
Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost
Joel 2:23-32; 2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18; Luke 18:9-14
What does it mean to live a good life? If you knew you were coming up on the end of yours, what do you suppose would matter most of all in the living of your days? And would that equate with anything we might call “good” in here? If you haven’t asked these questions of yourself for a while, you could try this little exercise on your way home today, or sometime this week with friends or family. If you’re in a connection group you could give it a go at your next meeting. Ask the question of one another, What makes for a good life?
In a letter to his friend Timothy, the apostle Paul shares something of a last will and testament, evidently sensing his approaching death. He wrote, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is a reserved for me the crown of righteousness…” Those are somewhat famous words, often recited at funerals and memorials, as they were at the service for congressman Elijah Cummings on Friday. Good timing since they were assigned for today.
They struck me with poignant force this week. I wondered if I could say something similar about my own life and actually mean it. And as with Elijah Cummings, these phrases are announced most often postmortem on behalf of another, whether or not the deceased would have claimed the sentiment for him or herself.
What do you suppose Paul meant by the “good fight”? We’re likely inclined to think of it as the amount of time we’re able to endure on this earth, as though endurance is the greatest good we can think of. I suppose there may be circumstances where that’s true. Endurance can be virtuous. But Paul had something more specific in mind, something that actually had to do with doing good, promoting good, advancing good in a world that didn't readily recognize it, then spending out his life on behalf of that good.
By the way, you’ll notice that he didn’t say anything about winning the fight, only that he had fought it. And that he had kept faith. By that, I think he meant keeping faith with the good as he had come to understand it. And the crown he references isn’t one reserved for monarchs, but for athletes. As he said, he finished the race and now would receive his crown, that is, his runner’s award.
Another way to ask the question I started with might go like this: To what end are you spending your life? Is there some equivalent of a crown of righteousness for you at the end of life? We all have jobs and so forth, develop reasonably responsible habits for self-maintenance and so on, but beyond these rudimentary conditions, at the end of your days, what most of all would have captured your attention and focus? With which undergirding principles, or truths, or “good” would you have kept faith? And what does keeping faith actually mean, anyway?
Paul kept faith with the good he came to know through Jesus. That’s an obvious conclusion. But it's useful to consider what that actually meant for him in his day. I thought it might be interesting to briefly reflect on Paul’s actual situation.
The first thing to reiterate is that Paul is writing from prison, likely in empire’s capital city of Rome. The circumstances are intense and dangerous because these are the days of Emperor Nero’s ruthless persecution of Christians following a catastrophic fire that burned down much of the city. Many Romans suspected Nero of starting the conflagration because of an ambition to rebuild the city, but the fire grew out of control.
Nero was among the most ruthless and cruel of the emperors. He came to the throne through murder and he would retain power by having his former counselors killed as well as his wife, even arranging the assassination of his mother who was the very one who plotted his ascendancy to power. His depravity and corruption were over-the-top. Whenever anyone references the decadence of the Roman Empire, Nero’s reign serves as an archetype. He instituted daily contests for gladiators which became increasingly violent and bloody in the Roman circus. After attending one of these contests, the famous philosopher, Seneca, who had been Nero’s tutor wrote, “I felt as if I had been in a sewer.”
Following the great fire, Nero blamed the Christians and began a ruthless pogrom. The Roman senator, Tacitus, reports what happened:
To get rid of the rumor of the fire, Nero set up as the culprits and punished with the utmost refinement of cruelty, a class...who are commonly called Christians. Christus, from whom their name is derived, was executed at the hands of Pontius Pilate in the reign of Tiberius. Checked for the moment, this pernicious superstition again broke out, not only in Judea, the source of that evil, but even in Rome, that receptacle for everything that is sordid and degrading from every quarter of the globe... Accordingly, arrest was first made of those who confessed [to being Christians]...
Besides being put to death, they were made to serve as objects of amusement; they were clad in the hides of beasts and torn to death by dogs; others were crucified, others set on fire to illuminate the night when daylight failed. Nero had thrown open his grounds for the display and was putting on a show in the circus where he mingled with the people in the dress of a charioteer.
All this gave rise to a feeling of pity…for it was felt that the Christians were being destroyed not for the public good but to gratify the cruelty of an individual.
This was the capital city of the known world in which Paul was keeping faith, fighting the good fight and finishing the race. We know from his letters that he worked among the guards, some of whom, at least, were captured by the same good Paul had been captured by—the grace of a loving God.
We don't have direct knowledge of Paul’s death, but piecing the sources together he was likely martyred in Rome. That’s what keeping faith entailed for Paul.
Now his story is not our story, of course. On the other hand, it does illuminate the meaning of his words. It gives us a context and a frame of reference for understanding what he meant. And as you can see, he meant something substantial. It was no mere gloss of words about things that sort of mattered but not really within a context of easy pleasures, lots of money, and physical well-being, as it is for many of us.
A couple of thousand years later, we’re now gathered in a different environment in another city, although most of us here still claiming some allegiance to the same gospel. In fact, we’re very dependent upon Paul for our knowing about this Jesus.
Interesting, isn’t it? He couldn’t have known what would come of his work. But here we sit. His keeping faith in his context has brought about our own faith, such as it is, in our context. The manner in which he spent out his life has impacted us directly. And not only us, but billions of others. Billions. By keeping faith, by fighting the good fight, by finishing the race.
So, with that as a prime example, I come 'round to ask you again: to which good ends are you keeping faith? What is the principle race you’re running, and which prize do you covet most of all? How would you wish to be remembered?
You know Friends, I think I’ve been hired by you to ask questions like this. To find as many different clever, and not-so-clever ways to slip these questions in over the transom of your consciousness so that they might lodge somewhere inside and noodle around, poking here, agitating there.
Of course, these questions can be found beyond these walls, in fact, encountering those questions out there, might be the cause that coaxed you in here—we certainly have no patent on the big questions. But we do have something to offer by way of answers. They’re the same ones Paul discovered. The same ones he committed himself to. He kept faith with the answer he found and by so doing we have access to this answer as well. He valued keeping faith. Do we?
Our circumstance isn’t nearly as raw and life-threatening as Paul’s. In some ways, our situation is more akin to the Pharisee’s problem in the little parable Jesus told; he had just enough religion for establishing a self-righteous piety, and a narcissistic cult of one, but not enough to take him all the way into humility which, according to Jesus, seems the essential ingredient for keeping faith with the God of grace who is pleased to offer himself, in love, for our sakes and for the sake of the world.
Paul caught hold of that same humble grace and spent out his life on its behalf. That’s the good for which he fought and kept faith and ran the race. Bracing to think about, isn’t it? Bracing, demanding, inspiring. I want my life to mean something finally. And I don't mean that like I need monument. And I want to be satisfied that I kept true to the things that matter most.
1. 2 Timothy 4:7-8.
2. as recounted by Earl Palmer in The Lectionary Commentary, Eerdmans, 2001.
3. Tacitus, Annals 90.44.
Whoever Knocks Persistently, Ends by Entering
October 20, 2019
Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Jeremiah 31:27-34; 2 Timothy 3:14-4:5; Luke 18:1-8
Several years ago my son, Luke, served as a hospital chaplain at Westchester Medical Center about 30 miles north of here. The Center is an advanced medical care and referral hospital serving nearly 4 million people covering Westchester County, Hudson Valley, parts of metro New York and Fairfield County, CT. And it’s the major trauma center for this territory with helicopters regularly ferrying desperate victims in severe medical crisis.
That can be a pretty intense environment for a chaplain—those of you that know the classic sitcom MASH about an army field hospital will remember how the humor was punctuated and framed out by severe war trauma. And you’ll recall that a chaplain was part of the core team. A major trauma center duplicates that kind of dramatic life and death scenario.
Recently, Luke was remembering this environment of running between neo-natal intensive care and emergency room crises when he interrupted himself and asked what I thought about intercessory prayer. In particular, those desperate prayers people ask for that are logically and obviously impossible—wanting some seeming magical intervention—and the chaplain’s obligation or responsibility is exactly what? What do you think, Dad?
But without taking a breath he then recounted how he had been in neo-natal intensive care one day and got a page from emergency—they needed a chaplain quick. Racing down he entered a room filled with wailing, nearly uncontrollable family and friends of a man lying on a stretcher whose body and face were covered with stained linens. He had been in a severe motorcycle accident and Luke was informed the man’s face had been nearly destroyed and he suffered massive, inoperable brain trauma.
Stepping into this situation Luke offered that he was a chaplain. The family wanted prayer. He quickly surmised they were Afro-Caribbean Pentecostal Christians, who were accustomed to very aggressive and ecstatic praying—something had to be done to save the victim. Those of you who know my son will recognize that this prayer vocabulary was outside his experience and that fact evidently became clear to the family who determined they needed a better pray-er and so called a distant relative on the hospital telephone. The phone’s speaker was then held above the victim as ecstatic prayer was offered on his behalf somewhere at the other end of the telephone connection.
Luke understood that what the hospital needed and what was in this man’s best interest was a DNR—a "do not resuscitate" directive, and the family’s permission to remove intravenous life-support that had been deployed on route to the hospital.
Eventually the presiding matriarch cut off the praying and as it came to an end another man again asked Luke his reason for being there. Luke replied that he was prepared to provide whatever support they might need. The man then said that the victim was actually not Christian despite all the invoking of Jesus’ name, but Rastafarian. Did Luke know anything about Rasta? Admitting ignorance Luke said he would try to discover if there was a Rasta ritual that might be useful. Still, what needed to happen for this poor man’s sake and the sake of the family was removal from life support, to prevent a suffering death.
He left the room to do a little research. By the time he returned the room had emptied, someone in the family had finally provided the hospital with the permissions they needed. (And by the way, Luke found no useful Rasta ritual under the circumstance.)
Do I believe in intercessory prayer? Well, yes, I do, if by “believe in” is meant that I do it. Even the disembodied prayer coming out of the phone from some distant believer has authenticity. The heart of that person was likely right for sure. She wanted what she thought was best for the victim. It’s just that she didn’t have all the facts.
But honestly, I'd say that captures my own personal experience over the years…that is, throwing passionate prayers at God that are somehow off point since I’m not entirely aware of all the facts, including the facts of my own deepest need.
Of course, come to think of it, much of the time I’m off-point expressing myself to my wife, Melissa. It’s only in the on-going engagement that clarity begins to emerge over time if I’m willing to be quiet every now and then and listen to her, if I’m willing to learn a thing or two and not simply ask or demand a thing or two. I have to trust she has good things, useful things, important things to say to me. I need to trust that.
Eventually in that emergency room a prayer was expressed in some form that this family would find courage to accept what needed to be done out of love for the victim. And it was accomplished. That prayer was likely never said out loud, but I can feel its presence in recounting this story because I felt it within Luke for certain. God was in the mix there, just like God is in the mix here, among us. A larger wisdom prevailed. And if we’re wise, we’ll ask that a larger wisdom prevails in here as well in the midst of all of our prayers.
I note that at the end of Jesus’ little parable about persisting in prayer his point seems focused on the matter of faith—that’s how he ends: “when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” From this perspective, the woman’s persistence is evidence of faith—she will be heard, she will have her justice. And by the way, it’s not a small matter that justice is what she’s demanding, since the widow in her culture would have been among the most vulnerable in society. “Widow” was a code word for the most vulnerable and defenseless. She had no position, no leverage, no clout. She had nothing but her dogged perseverance to gain her justice.
Even atheists are known to offer up a prayer in a desperate moment of spontaneous forgetfulness. Afterwards they might chide themselves for their knee-jerk childishness for throwing themselves on God’s mercy. But as Harry Emerson Fosdick once put it, “the instinct for a relationship with a Divine Ally, with Someone who cares about our race in its conflicts and defeats, persists.”
If God is, and if we know God relationally the way in which we propose in here, it stands to reason that prayer would become as natural as the air inflating our lungs.
To complain we don’t know how to do it, how to communicate with God, is just a bit like saying we don’t know how to communicate with our spouse, or partner, or children or friend or co-worker, which, of course, generally has at least a germ of the truth, and often is the truth. We don’t know how to communicate with them. But even in those relationships, if we persist in trust and faith we stand a good chance of deepening the relationship, discovering ever greater means for expressing the yearnings of our heart. It is only in persistent trying that a relationship advances.
“Patience is the companion of wisdom,” St. Augustine wrote. Whoever knocks persistently ends by entering. That’s something you may want to jot down on a post-it note and stick to your computer screen: Whoever knocks persistently, ends by entering. Jesus told a parable about the need to pray always and not to lose heart.
We have prayer cards at Christ Church that are meant to be deposited in a small box in our entryway. Recently, walking out of the church a rather desperate and harried looking man asked me where the prayer box was, where should he put his card? I saw the box was missing so I told him to give it to me. Later I learned that the box had been broken – occasionally this happens on the mistaken assumption it’s a donation box. A replacement was on its way. In the meantime, I held on to this man’s request…a prayer for someone named Marilyn. I didn’t mind holding her before God. I assumed God already held her close but perhaps my willingness to participate in her care shared in God’s gracious intention for her, and for the man who also held her in heart and mind. I said a prayer for him as well. He looked as though he could use a bit of care himself.
For years cards have appeared each week for a trio named Priscilla, Kyle and Raney. We have no idea who these three are, but consider that generally every week for more than a decade these three persons have been on the heart and mind of someone who enters this space to pray, perhaps on the way to work, lifting them before God. Twelve, thirteen years of prayer for Priscilla, Kyle and Raney.
Does this seem an impotent bit of wasted effort? After a while one becomes bemused by the relentlessly recurring names. But not so very much time passes when a different attitude sets in, an attitude forged by the patient persistence of the earnest sentiment of the one who writes the names on a card week after week after week. God bless Priscilla, Kyle and Raney.
Some cards are written by those who have obvious psychological issues; some are written by the homeless—those that have no power, no position, no clout in our society, and often, no justice. Their prayers are instructive. One cannot pray with them and not be changed.
Some cards are written in languages we can’t read, some in the characters of Korean and Chinese, some in Cyrillic, some in Arabic, others not as identifiable. It doesn’t matter. In this small gesture of hospitality we’ve accumulated the universal human longing for connection with that Divine Ally, packaged in highly individualized containers, each container important, cherished.
And friends, that includes all of you...
Sunday, October 13, 2019Read MoreLess
World Communion Sunday
Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4; 2nd Timothy 1:1-14; Luke 17: 5-10
As I mentioned in my Faith Matters blog on Friday, in my work I have been privy to crucial moments in people's lives. Births, weddings, various life events, and, of course, death. I have always considered this a very, very great privilege, an honor, really. It has kept me close to things that matter most, close to a wide arc of profound human experience.
Recently I was speaking with someone whose good friend was in the final stage of an advanced cancer. My acquaintance had been emotionally attentive and caring. A reflective person, she said that her friend's premature end was causing her to think about her own life, and it occurred to her that if she herself were to die today, that she could honestly say she had, in her words, "taken care of business." That is, she had addressed and accomplished much of the personal, emotional and relational work that had been presented to her in her lifetime thus far. Not perfectly, she added, but sufficiently. I said that must give her a great sense of peace. She said the awareness came as a little gift in the midst of her grief.
We sat quietly for a while.
Afterwards, I began my own inner reflection, wondering how sufficiently I had "taken care of business." In a deafening silence I realized this was a very mature perspective. She had recognized something of very great importance that many will miss as they blunder forward into the days of their lives.
I concluded my Faith Matters reflection by observing that healthy religion arises between the dynamic poles of being born and having to die. And living well in the meantime requires taking care of the business that is uniquely ours to accomplish in the limited days we've been given.
Which is all well and good but, given the brevity of the piece, there were things I left out the short story. For instance, I didn't tell you my acquaintance was an only child from a dysfunctional family where she never received the nurturing love we all crave as children due to absent and damaged, highly narcissistic parents--the love that convinces us of our essential worth and beloved-ness.
Nevertheless, as she grew into her adulthood, she had been captured by a divine lure that brought her into relationship with a loving God and along with this came relationships in which she was able to practice the kind of love she had not received from her own family, but that she now understood was part of creation itself.
This didn't come easily, but her commitment to the practice of love ultimately allowed her to see things in a fresh way, to experience life as a gift that came with an obligation to treat it, and the lives of all others, with compassionate respect.
Her life could have gone differently than it has. She doesn't readily speak of it like this, but I observe that faith saved her. That is, faith gave her a place to belong to herself, and to others, and to God. And it was faith that revealed to her the importance of taking care of the business that is uniquely ours to accomplish in the limited days we've been given.
Like I said, I've always found my work with people a very great privilege since I end up having conversations and relationships involving things that actually matter. And among the things that matter a whole lot is this matter of faith.
This past week while looking for something else, an old tattered volume fell out of my bookshelf entitled, The Meaning of Faith, written by Harry Emerson Fosdick in 1917. Fosdick was the favorite of John D. Rockefeller who built the Riverside Church on the upper west side in the same era Christ Church would eventually be planted on this corner. It was the day of the high profile learned preacher; the day when New York City papers published front-page articles on Monday summarizing the content of one of the big steeple stars from Sunday. Hard to imagine that today.
Here’s how he began: “A book on faith has been for years my hope and intention. And now it comes to final form during the most terrific war men ever waged, when faith is sorely tried and deeply needed... Since the conflict had to come, I am glad for this book’s sake that it was not written until it had Europe’s holocaust for a background.”
Given the copyright, the war he’s referencing is the 1st World War, one that he will later call, “The Great War.” And the holocaust he mentions predates the devastation of the Jews in the 2nd World War, which came several decades later capturing forever the meaning of that word.
The War was Fosdick’s present circumstance stirring him to consider the meaning of faith that, as he said, “is sorely tried and deeply needed.” We’re a more diverse audience today than he had, but this matter of faith remains core to human necessity; we still yearn for that robust connection to something larger than ourselves that reliably organizes and empowers our lives, something we still call faith.
If I were to write a new volume on the meaning of faith today the human struggle with hardship would still figure prominently. Even a brief engagement with the Bible reveals that human hardship and struggle frames it out, frames the human cycle of birth and death; the anvil upon which faith is forged. That's how it is for all of us, I think.
So, it’s not surprising that Paul, writing from prison to Timothy, should mention that he remembers Timothy’s tears as he also fortifies Timothy’s faith. “Timothy, my beloved child…I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day recalling your tears…I am reminded of your sincere faith…rekindle the gift of God that is within you…for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love…”
Sprung from the fragile human condition, tears express the universal human yearning we all have for a place to belong to ourselves, and to others, and to God. It’s no wonder that Jesus’ friends exclaim, “Lord, increase our faith!”
Fosdick put it this way: Don’t we hunger for the confidence that Someone cares about our race in its conflicts and defeats? Don’t we hunger for an intimate Friend, a Divine Ally, who, in the midst of the world’s darkness and our own, assures us that life is not chance and chaos, but rooted in a Great Design and don’t we yearn for the gift to live our lives with confidence and joy no matter what, capable of true grace and real love?
I have felt these needs vibrating my heart and soul my whole life. God, if you’re out there, or in here, increase my faith! Surely you have shared this experience in some form. …So this is where you help me write this sermon. This is where you insert your own story, your bit of the larger human drama, the part that matters deeply and desperately to you. Bring your story, your heartache, your struggle, your concern, your faltering steps at love and forgiveness and courage and integrity…bring that to mind. Consider the business that is uniquely yours to accomplish in the limited days you've been given.
Maybe you’ve never said these words out loud: “Lord, increase my faith!” It’s an important prayer. The disciples give us permission to say it insistently. It reflects the deep hunger that wells up from within. You may feel that hunger now, or perhaps you will on your way home, or when you wake up tomorrow morning, or the day after that. It’s an honest hunger. I say, let it come. Feel your stomach rumble for real food. Feel your need. Lord, increase my faith.
And Jesus says, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this tree, ‘be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” Ironically it would seem that by asking their question the disciples reveal they already have faith the size of a grain of mustard. They think that’s their problem—what they have is too small. Jesus says that the faith they have is already the faith they need. A tiny bit in the hands of God is the same thing as a whole lot.
Locked within the confines of an impossibly small and dead-looking thing lays the potential for abundant, triumphant life. Like a kind of cosmic spiritual genetics, imbedded within the tiny speck of our embryonic faith is the complete code of everything we might become as we nourish ourselves from God’s bounty.
And on this point, it does not matter who we are. Age, life circumstance, gender, race, favorite sins—at this most basic level we are alike. The biblical drama could use all of us for its source material. We’re the last act currently being written. The biblical story continues to write us, as it were, as the latest testament to faith. Our tears could express the biblical lament, our bit of faith, our fledgling courage and faltering love could be the seeds that Jesus nurtures into transformed life. We’re now the stumbling, bumbling disciples who learn about the things that matter most the hard way, but learn we will, and we will thrive in love for love’s sake
That’s really the point of all this, friends. That’s why we come here, isn’t it? Isn’t that why we come to this reunion table month after month, to feed our souls on rich food that will sate the deepest hunger? And imagine, it’s open to everyone who will come. Everyone.
Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15; 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31
“Steve, who am I?” I had never heard this question so fiercely and baldly asked within the first minutes of a scheduled conversation. This 40-something woman possessed a PhD in physics but by her 30th birthday had made a career decision for investment banking. She had opted for the money thing instead of the science thing. And she had made a lot.
But over the last couple of months she was feeling dry as dust about her life. Sure, she had succeeded way beyond her initial goals but somehow that didn’t satisfy a growing inner hunger, or desire, or—well, she didn’t really know how to describe what she was feeling. A kind of emptiness, I guess.
Recently she awakened in the morning with that question looming in her consciousness and it wouldn’t let go. She said it boomed in her inner being as in, Who the hell am I?!! She couldn’t shake it. That’s why she wanted some conversation. She didn’t know where else to bring the question.
I learned that as a child her parents practiced a kind of lukewarm religion for several years that never really stuck or meant anything. Eventually she became a scientist, and then, a practical, no-nonsense achiever believing that was the route to a life worth living. I observed that she must feel very much at home in New York City since that kind of mindset predominates here—the Great Attractor of over-achievers. We talk about that from time to time in here.
Well, she snorted at that comment and said that didn’t give her much comfort. The truth was, she didn’t really have all that much respect for a lot of the people she had worked with over the years. Initially the ones she found most intriguing and most helpful were those who had mastered certain traits like dogged determination, focused attention on tangible outcomes, and a well-organized, disciplined life targeted for success. Success, after all, was the coin of the realm. “Everyone wanted it, didn’t they? Don’t you, Steve?” Her tone at that point was competitive, confrontational.
Sure, I replied. Nothing wrong with success as far as it goes. I’m all for it. But here you are, hounded by sleepless nights so I guess it doesn’t go as far as you thought it might. And anyway, this conversation isn’t some kind of competition. It’s just two people thinking aloud about things that matter most. Right?
In his latest book, The Second Mountain , David Brooks reports that after having achieved “far more professional success than I ever expected to” his life came unglued. His marriage fell apart and he awoke to the realization that he had lost sight of himself becoming “aloof, invulnerable, and uncommunicative sidestepping responsibilities of relationship.”
2013 is the year it crashed in on him. Brooks didn’t frame it this way, but he might just as well have said he awoke one morning and thought, “Who the hell am I?!?” then falling into the valley of despond, in his words, “unplanted, lonely, humiliated, scattered.” He spent the next five years thinking and reading about “how to give your life meaning after worldly success has failed to fulfill.” The book emerges from this search.
Brooks recounts that he’s a product of his time, our time; a time idolizing narcissistic hyper-individualism where people are disconnected from one another, living fragmented lives in the pursuit of self-actualized achievement of one sort or another. That’s the grand cultural expectation, anyway. We’re each on our own making a lonely journey devoid of an overarching moral framework binding us together in common cause.
But hidden within this formulation lies a two-edged sword slicing up both those who do achieve some measure of success as well as those who secretly believe they’re losers because they haven’t achieved enough. Sometimes that’s one in the same person. That’s because success, however it’s defined, is a false god for a life’s ultimate purpose. And sometimes the false floor falls away like it did for Brooks and my new friend, leaving them lost, ungrounded, floating and unmoored.
Organizing frameworks based in rich and thick relationships don’t matter as much in these days, the frameworks that used to stimulate our meaning-making. Things like family, community, religious faith and belonging—things that weave a moral structure with dense layering of relationships. Nope. We’re all on our own, baby. And what have you got to show for yourself…
Brooks writes: “In a hyper-individualistic society, people are not measured by how they conform to a shared moral code. They are not measured by how fully they have submerged themselves in thick relationships. They are measured by what they have individually achieved. Status, admiration, and being loved follow personal achievement. Selfishness is accepted, because taking care of and promoting the self is the prime mission…
“Researchers at the Harvard Graduate School of Education recently asked ten thousand middle and high school students if their parents cared more about personal achievements or whether they were kind. Eighty percent said their parents cared more about achievements—individual success over relational bonds.” How might you answer the same question…
This reminds me of another conversation I had a number of years ago with a young man preparing for college. He asked me if I thought he was foolish for not taking advantage of an opportunity to cheat on the SAT. He said the proctor was very encouraging of the students to take more time than officially allotted to be sure they had done all they could on each of the sections. “Go ahead, help each other out,” the proctor said. The majority availed themselves of the proctor’s offer, but he stuck with the formal time restraints and was now wondering if that was really, really stupid given the cutthroat competition of the college process.
On a very baseline level he was asking me whether a so-called “success” was more important than integrity rooted in a shared moral framework. At the time I was impressed he was questioning this at all because the current cultural climate is so heavily weighted on the side of success-at-all-costs… Do whatever you need to do to get ahead, for god’s sake…
And now several years forward from that conversation we have the specter of parents investing hundreds of thousands of dollars to fraudulently misrepresent their children’s college applications to get them into prestigious schools. You’ve seen those news reports, right? That’s a great snapshot defining our current cultural moment.
Earlier you heard Paul urge his protégé Timothy to pursue “righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance and gentleness.” Man, does that ever sound retrograde in these days. But it is the true antidote for the current malaise. “Fight the good fight of the faith,” he wrote; “take hold of the eternal life… tell the people who are rich and successful to set their hopes on God who richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment. All are to do good, rich in good works, generous and ready to share, thus storing up for themselves the treasure of a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of the life that really is life…
Taking hold of the life that really is life. That could be the motto of Christ Church. That’s the business we’re in—helping, encouraging, prodding everyone to take hold of real life.
Though she didn’t have words for it at the time, that’s why my new friend came to talk with me when she had a crisis of identity and purpose. And that’s what David Brooks sensed when the bottom fell out of his life that had been so very successful up to the moment of crisis when the floor fell away and he realized that nothing truly meaningful was under his feet after all.
That’s where a place like this comes in. We keep our focus on the things that matter most. Jesus distilled this down for us into a single sentence since we’re so dense. Luckily Christ Church has made his wisdom our mission: loving God above all things, and loving our neighbors as ourselves. That’s how we take hold of life that really is life. That’s it.
Amos 8:4-7; 1 Timothy 2:1-7; Luke 16:1-13
The manager of a wealthy man's estate is about to get fired. The owner calls for a complete audit of his manager’s affairs to be handed in at his exit interview, and that would be that. Too lazy or weak for manual labor, too proud to beg, this man has to think fast. Since the boss wants one last presentation of the ledgers before he gets canned, the manager decides that now is as good a time as any to cook the books in such a way as to feather his own future nest.
So he calls in a number of the boss's wealthier clients and cuts their debt-loads in half. When they ask why, the manager winks at them and says, "Don't ask, but just remember I did you a favor once, all right?" In this way the man curries some goodwill with people who could lend him money, give him a new job, and maybe even house him when he finds himself out on his ear.
Surprisingly, when the boss gets wind of these shenanigans, he’s not angry! He actually seems to approve, clapping the manager on the shoulder saying, "Hey, you've done well for yourself, man!" And we’re left wondering whether the manager ended up retaining his job after all. The owner recognized a fellow wheeler-dealer when he saw one, and he liked what he saw! Anyone this shrewd, this clever at working the angles, was just the sort of character he liked. No doubt, he saw himself in the manager’s quick thinking.
In the world of work and business this kind of ethically ambiguous story is not uncommon. What is uncommon is what Jesus says about it. We might expect him to say something like, "Verily I tell you, cheats like this will one day find themselves alone in a very hot place…" Instead he finishes this little story of corruption, takes a breath, and says to the disciples, "You see! There's something to that approach. Folks like this are a lot shrewder at dealing with this world than you guys are!"
As you heard Eugene Peterson put it: “Streetwise people are smarter in this regard than law-abiding citizens. They’re on constant alert, looking for angles, surviving by their wits. I want you to be smart in this same way---but for what is right--using every adversity to stimulate you to creative survival, to concentrate your attention on the essentials, so you’ll live, really live, and not complacently just getting by on good behavior”.
Jesus is having some serious fun with his disciples here. Heard within the context of his entire teaching he’s hardly throwing ethics out the window, but he is playing with their heads in a twisty logic that could also translate as, “It’s better to be a resourceful rascal than a saintly schlemiel.” They should use all of their shrewdness, skill and finesse to advance the cause of God’s kingdom. There was nothing passive about God’s intention for the world, and for their lives. Passive piety didn’t reflect a realistic appraisal of their circumstance. God was moving among them—God was moving among them! Passive piety alone just doesn’t cut it…
Consider this: Given market upheavals over the last ten years, Wall Streeters, bankers, financiers of every type and at every level have been jumping and jiving as fast as they can, bringing to bear every shred of shrewdness they have to maximize their situation as we emerged from the great recession into our current unsettled time of tariffs and income inequality. Those of us who have investments, own a home, or aspire to, are counting on brokers and financial counselors to advance our relative positions. And this matters a whole lot to us.
Imagine if this level of intensity was brought to bear on matters of the spirit, matters of the heart, and the tangible matters of the kingdom like justice and the common good we say we honor in here. That, I think, comes close to the point Jesus makes with this parable.
Or consider the energy our current crop of political contenders put into their campaigns. We could imagine a parable about the slippery politician wending his or her way through an election—at the end, tweaking us with the candidate’s cunning. Jesus might conclude that the people of this age are shrewder in dealing with their own generation than are the people of the light, meaning people like us, since we’ve chosen to sit in these pews. Could we emulate their decisiveness responding to shifting political dynamics? Could we do this on behalf of the crisis that the coming of God’s kingdom of love and justice always provokes?
Jesus certainly provoked a crisis for his disciples, and the record shows that it was at least a political crisis—the manner of his death gives this away; he was arrested by the authorities, hauled off to prison and executed as an enemy of the state. He was a political prisoner crucified for treason.
Now still following along the path he blazed reveals that the crisis was much larger than one generation’s struggle; it pervades every time and place, confronting every heart even to the present day. And this crisis has everything to do with what we might call kingdom values based in the commandment to love one’s neighbor as oneself. How committed are we to that as it works out in the world’s political and economic structures? Or just in our own daily commitments?
Fred Craddock says, “Most of us will not this week christen a ship, write a book, end a war, appoint a cabinet, dine with a queen, convert a nation, or be burned at the stake. More likely the week coming will present no more than a chance to give a cup of water, write a note, visit a nursing home, vote, share a meal, tell a child a story, go to choir practice,” give a bunch of money to worthy causes …
Yet every one of these activities requires a set of decisions rooted in the core values of our lives. How did Luke report it? “If you’re honest in small things, you’ll be honest in big things. If you’re a crook in small things, you’ll be a crook in big things. If you’re not honest in small jobs, who will put you in charge of the store?”
You see how these pithy bits of wisdom cleverly twist human experience. Luke has them climax with that famous blunt aphorism, “No slave can serve two masters… You cannot serve God and wealth.” —which is a variation on the first of the Ten Commandments: You shall have no other Gods before me.
This boils down to asking a rather basic set of questions: How does our faith in God, in Jesus, show up in the actual, tangible commitments of our lives? What on earth are we doing? Having claimed God’s grace, how and what are we actually doing in the departments of loving God above all things and our neighbors as ourselves? It’s all well and good to claim God’s grace as our own. The question then becomes, now what?
Ten years ago Bernie Madoff was sentenced to prison for 150 years for perpetrating the largest Ponzi scheme in world history, and the largest financial fraud in U.S. history, thought to be worth about $65 billion. What, do you suppose, was the animating focus for his life? He cleverly disguised his essential character. Ostensibly a family man who sustained a lengthy marriage and relationships with his sons; he was quite generous, wonderfully affable, big man around town, even had a modest religious practice. When the dust settled all that remained was a simple fraud and a hell of a lot of broken lives, including his sons and their families—a fraud remarkable in size, but stupid and banal at its core.
Still, we can be impressed by the amount of energy Bernie brought to bear over four decades amassing an immense fortune. By comparison, consider the energy necessary to create and sustain healthy communities of compassion, care, fairness and respect, values that reflect citizenship in God’s economy. That requires a far greater level of commitment from a whole lot of people; their small, mundane decisions and actions accumulating into a way of life reflecting the best of what humans might manage. Imagine if all of us brought to bear the same level of commitment to that as Bernie Madoff did to his hoax.
Mature Christians finally come to realize that the fate of the world actually does rest within their hands—it always has. Indeed, if not us, then who steps into the fray for the sake of love and justice? That’s the nature of the crisis the kingdom of God presents. Jesus says, “for God’s sake get to work with the same level of energy and intensity to advance the cause of the kingdom that the world gives to matters of far less importance.”
Paraphrased from the paraphrase of Scott Hoezee at: http://cep.calvinseminary.edu/thisWeek/index.php.
Eugene Petersen, The Message.
Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC, Harper and Row, 1973. 67.
Fred B. Craddock, Luke, Interpretation, Westminster/JohnKnox, 1990, 92.
Isaiah 40:28-31; 1 Timothy 1:12-17; Luke 15:1-10
I had been chatting with my son and daughter and their friends about the relative merits of Facebook. I was surprised to learn that a number of them, including my kids, said that they had never signed on, or had recently signed off, although everyone had a highly curated group of friends and family on Instagram. Following the conversation my daughter pointed me to a blog addressing the “7 Ways to Be Insufferable on Facebook” in which the blogger describes how annoying statuses reek of motivations like: Image Crafting, Narcissism, Attention Craving, and Jealousy Inducing.
…Which got me thinking about all the ways we market ourselves. After all, what’s shared in social media projects a personally constructed presentation of oneself—a photo-shopped picture. And, as the blog suggests, this picture can reek of hiding-in-plain-sight, a somewhat bogus image masquerading as authentic.
Of course, we don’t need technology and social media to reveal that we have an innate tendency to hide behind projected images of ourselves. We humans have played the game of masquerade forever. That we’re all liars and pretenders to varying degrees can hardly be denied, can it? We let others see what we want them to see and we hide the rest.
Take me, for instance. I’m an okay minister and have achieved a certain station as evidenced by the address of this modest house of worship, accumulated academic degrees, participated in assembling a diverse and talented staff and congregation. And you know, left to my own devises I’m inclined to take credit for all of it. Not only that, but credit for growing up in a reasonably loving and stable home in the wealthiest nation in the world; credit for the astonishing opportunities I was presented with; credit for your presence; credit for this place. I take credit for speaking the word of God, even on those days I know for certain I speak for no one but myself.
Actually, wearing this robe is something of a two-edged sword. On the one hand it serves the useful purpose of minimizing the individual and accentuating the long history of the robust tradition I represent. That's the point of this outfit. On the other hand, I tell you for certain that it’s a disguise, a masquerade. Will the real Stephen Bauman step out from behind the pulpit please.
But if instead I were to wear faded jeans and a flannel shirt like many hip preachers today would I be more fully disclosed to you? Or in the guise of a humble aw-shucks, just plain 'ol me persona, had I simply exchanged one costume for another with no one the wiser about the inner person?
From the perspective of our spiritual tradition--there’s a good one-word descriptor for me. And it’s a word I rarely ever use in reference to myself. Sinner. That word has fallen out of fashion, of course. I don’t know if that’s because we feel as though we’re beyond it, or that we’ve concluded sin was part of a faulty theological system. Certainly it’s a word prone to abuse.
In these last decades we’ve been weaned on more positive ideas such as people are all basically good. We emphasize the importance of positive self-esteem. That’s a useful psychological concept up to a point—the power of positive thinking and so forth. Buit it’s hard to make complete sense of the gospel without making some sense of sin.
For one thing, Jesus is frequently accused of hanging out with people that are referred to as sinners. They seem to be his friends. That’s what the righteous types were saying about him in today’s lesson: “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them." And I bet he drinks with them, too, since on another occasion he was accused of being a glutton and a drunkard. Lots of eating and lots of drinking going down with the wrong sorts of people.
What’s interesting is that those who are identified as the sinners are the ones who get Jesus’ attention as opposed to the men of the temple. Evidently the scribes think hanging out with the riffraff taints Jesus. These righteous types have already determined who’s in and who’s out of God’s favor. And true to form, Jesus overturns their suppositions.
The Apostle Paul in writing to his friend Timothy referred to himself as a blasphemer, a persecutor, and a man of violence. But the Spirit of Jesus hung out with him for a while which eventually led Paul to write, “The saying is sure and worthy of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the foremost.”
Now as I stand here today I would not go so far as to say that I’m the foremost sinner present. But I will say that I think I’m in good company. And the use of the word “good” here, has an ironic sensibility. We’re all in the same boat. While I have my disguises, without even knowing what yours are I would bet the house that you have them. And while I suspect that a pretty good sampling of the varieties of human weakness is represented here this morning hidden behind our screen identities, from one perspective, that’s all to the good.
I mean, there’s very little that actually separates us from those who are outside these walls other than we know who our real friends are, friends who can see behind the disguise and still love us, and we know for certain that among them is this man named Jesus. If anyone sees us as we are, he does.
You might recall that, John Newton, the composer of that famous hymn we just sang, Amazing Grace, was a slaver who eventually renounced his profession and became an active abolitionist. His tombstone epitaph sums up his experience: “John Newton, clerk, once an infidel and libertine, a servant of slavers in Africa, was, by the rich mercy of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ preserved, restored, pardoned and appointed to preach the faith he had long labored to destroy.”
John Newton is part of the good sinner company. Jesus evidently hung out with him and probably sat at his table sharing food and drink. I find some comfort in that.
Here’s the good news of the gospel: no masquerade artist stands beyond God’s reach. This is called grace. Amazing grace. There is no so-called sinner, no outcast, no unworthy person, no one who falls beyond the pale of God’s love.
The wonderful if maddening truth is, there is nothing we can do to make God love us more and there is nothing we can do to make God love us less.
This sort of God makes us uncomfortable, edgy. Grace throws out our measurements of fairness. Aren’t we often very sure about those who don’t deserve the same as us? We can be quite clear about who belongs and who doesn’t, who’s up and who’s down, who’s our equal and who isn’t. The righteous types in the gospel lesson knew these things for sure. But then, that was part of their disguise…their righteousness…
Tellingly they weren’t part of the good company of friends. They could have been included, of course. All they had to do was pull up a chair and join the party. After all that’s what the wayward do according to the parables. When the lost are found they throw a party. No wonder there’s so much eating and drinking among Jesus’ friends…they’re constantly partying. Those of you that know me know that I find this behavior quite inspirational…
Now there are some persons sitting here disguised who believe they don’t deserve such unconditional love, they know they are beyond God’s reach, or want to remain so, so they’ll hold this grace at arm’s length. Of course, to be beyond God’s reach would make them larger than God. It’s an inverted form of arrogance. Silly, really.
Others sense that to accept such love would result in radical change in their lives, like removing their disguise for good, and so out of a kind of fear they’ll keep the gift wrapped, unopened on a closet shelf, comforted every once in a while by remembering that it’s there, but strangely disquieted by harboring such spiritual dynamite, living a much smaller life than they might, spending out their days exchanging one costume for another.
I’ve said it before, and I will say it again: theologically speaking, I’m a radical grace man. How else to account for the elevation of a criminal loser into the sparkling golden dome sitting on a throne up there? That’s the sort of startling reversal that lies at the heart of the culture of our God. Human’s tried to kill it—radical grace—they still do try to kill it—or ignore it—but it wouldn’t, couldn’t die. It’s stitched into every inch of creation fabric...
Jeremiah 18:1-11; Philemon 1-21; Luke 14:25-33
“Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself cannot be my disciple.”
Melissa and I have had a lot of Bauman family activity the last couple of months. Started with my officiating the wedding of a niece in Massachusetts, which, as you know, creates an opportunity for family reunion, champagne toasts and all; and this led to a trip to Ft. Myers to celebrate my father's 97th birthday who is still in remarkably good shape, still driving even. One of my brothers lives near him, as does his daughter and three grandchildren, the newest of which Melissa and I were pleased to meet for the first time. And just a week or two ago my other brother and his wife came and stayed with us for a few days. This is way more family stuff than normal for us, but honestly, it's been rather nice. And of course, we get to see our children and grandchildren all the time since after college they stuck around the city to fashion their lives.
All this was on my mind as I read the gospel text assigned for today and I discovered that rather than continuing in my summer celebrating mode on the first Sunday after Labor Day, I read that I should hate my father, mother, wife and children, brothers, sisters (if I had any), even life itself.
I’m betting that most of you, if given a choice, would just as soon linger in summertime mode, wanting to wring out a few more days or weeks of diverting activity filled with decisions no more demanding than where to have dinner or whether to indulge in a mint chip or butter pecan ice cream cone. (I recommend both, by the way.) Yet here we are, pushed to pondering what theologians refer to as “the cost of discipleship.” And from the sound of it, this is the opposite of summertime sentimental.
Checking my records I noted that in the lectionary cycle, as in this year, this scripture was read the Sunday after Labor Day in 2001, on September 9th. You will remember what happened two days later on a spectacularly beautiful Tuesday morning… on September 11. Summertime sentimental—if it ever had a chance of lingering in 2001—came to a horrifyingly abrupt end on that day.
Of course, life’s fickle like that, isn't it? One day you’re giddy with your fill of wedding champagne and the next day the sky falls down. I know that sounds like an awful downer for the first Sunday after Labor Day when everyone wants the good times to roll on a little bit longer. But with our infamous memorial date less than 72 hours ahead, maybe sobering up isn’t such a bad idea. I mean, we’d all have to agree that 18 years later, the world has become a much more complicated place and we Americans have some pretty important decisions in front of us that still partially emanate as a response to that terrible day. Eighteen years later that event seems the marker for how the 21st century would evolve.
Still, I as thought about all of this, what came up for me was how grateful I am. Very, very grateful. I have wonderful friends, live in a magnificent, if noisy, congested city; I’m supported by a loving family, worship in a glorious spiritual home and share vital community with talented, committed and generous faith siblings who attempt to follow a difficult, but truthful path in the world. Things aren’t perfect, but even so, gratitude and joyful reunion are the feelings I have this morning.
So, here we are in this snapshot moment in our lives, drawn together again, representing a variety of mixed motives and emotions, each of us having brought along a sidecar full of personal baggage that we packed ourselves. We would-be followers of Jesus have plopped ourselves into our seats on this 8th day of September, 2019, in the middle of one the most popular cities on the planet to offer words and songs of praise and to hear what God might say to us from out of the ancient texts.
I’m intrigued how our gospel lesson began this morning: “Now large crowds were traveling with him…” I don’t know if we constitute a crowd, but I take the text to mean that by this point in his ministry Jesus had developed quite a following, created a stir, developed some buzz. He’d been gaining in popularity. Makes me think he must have had a popular message. Amazing grace, and all that.
That’s how it works, right? We’ve talked about this before. The trick is to figure out what the people want and then give it to them. Do that and you’ll get the crowds, the followers, the large audience and the celebrity notoriety.
Look to our current crop of politicians. They can seem prone to multiple personality disorder as they twist into pretzel shapes while accommodating themselves to those whose votes they need.
Jesus is at the height of his popularity. It won’t be long that he passes through the gates of Jerusalem as the conquering hero, friends clinking their champagne glasses in celebration of his imminent triumph. Of course, a few days later the sky falls down on him. Life’s fickle like that. But at this moment as he’s reaching his peak, with his biggest crowd, he pulls out his “cost of discipleship speech.” And I want to ask, Where’s his copy editor and handlers? He’s a smart guy, so doesn’t he know enough to give the people what they want? And he follows it up by saying that whoever does not carry a cross and follow him cannot truly be his friend. I guess he doesn’t really want all that many friends, then. He’s a pretty confusing character. Doesn’t follow the typical script.
Surely whatever the people think they want has nothing to do with hating every important person in their lives. Same could be said of every subsequent generation right up to the present one, right up to us, even me. In fact, you’ve got to wonder if it wasn’t just this sort of statement that twisted his popularity into it’s opposite during that last week of his life. Up to a point he was extremely compelling, but then he had to wreck his advantage by saying things that just went too far, or crossed the wrong people one time too many.
But after his death and continuing year after year after year, attentive people discovered something crucial about his witness: Jesus was never motivated by desire for some personal advantage. He was genuinely and uniquely motivated by the needs of the people around him, by the deepest needs they didn’t even know they had. From start to finish Jesus was relentless in his commitment to the things that matter most, and chief among these were matters of love and justice.
He constantly yanked people, well-meaning people--even those who came out to hear him--out of their complacency. He was on a mission to awaken the better angels of their nature, and more, to literally help them evolve into something closer to the heart of God. And he knew instinctively this would not be easy and might very well cost him his life.
So, Jesus walked the razor’s edge and spoke the truth. And the truth was that above all other commitments, one was paramount. And here we should probably clear up a problem translating an ancient language into the modern. The word “hate” in this passage is not really our emotionally laden word for personal disgust, but a Semitic idiom that expresses detachment, freedom from undue regard. The phrase is hyperbole concerning relative allegiances, not aggressive loathing, as in, I absolutely hate you!!!
In this sense Jesus simply states the obvious: if the God of love and justice is, then nothing else can supplant this love and justice. This would be a logical impossibility even if we wished something other than the God of love and justice was the most important truth or pretended or behaved as though something else mattered more. Claiming the moon is made of green cheese, even intensely believing it were so, would not change the geological facts. Jesus is always laying bare the real facts. Hard to hear in today's cluttered environment of fake news so-called and relentless lying, Jesus was a truth-teller. Truth was his number one methodology for communicating. Remember how he said, "I am the way, the truth and the life..."
So, he tells his admirers that if they wished to follow along the graceful path of love and justice, they had better know the real deal. The real deal was going to cost them something. Something important. It would make demands upon their lives and perhaps they should know that before signing up. He’s a truth-teller. He doesn’t sentimentalize its ramifications, doesn’t dress it up as it were to make it more palatable.
By the way, this creates a significant dilemma for the preacher. Experience reveals that people generally like their truths very palatable, tasty, served creatively with an interesting sauce and a great dessert, in a warm atmosphere, in timely fashion, by friendly people. They like their truths to go down easy causing no indigestion. And they like to be entertained in the meantime.
Carrying this metaphor a bit further, like most preachers, I would like to be known as a pretty good chef who knows how to serve up a wonderful meal that people will love and then tell their friends about it so they might try the cuisine at Bistro Christ Church. But that’s not how my mentor did it. And there was no prior model for the truth he bore.
People could ultimately silence him, but they could not silence his truth about love and justice, because truth can never go away. The great Indian author and close associate of Mahatma Gandhi, Rabindranath Tagore wrote, “Truth comes as conqueror only to those who have lost the art of receiving it as a friend.” Have you ever been conquered by a truth you were unable to receive as a friend? I have. Jesus invites us into truth as a beloved friend might, who loves us more than we love ourselves.
The Danish philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard complained about the petty preachers of his day who preached artistic sermons, “whereby Jesus…obtained admirers rather than followers.” Friends, here’s the thing: I don’t want to be a petty preacher, and I’m counting on the fact that at least some of you don’t want to be simply admirers of Jesus, but actual followers. So, as the fall season advances, let’s take hands and help each other live into the truth of our God of love and justice. And let’s do this with gratitude for the gift we are to one another. Gratitude abounds…
Jeremiah 2:4-13; Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16; Luke 14:1, 7-14Read MoreLess
Jeremiah 1:4-10; Hebrews 12:18-29; Luke 13:10-17Read MoreLess
Jeremiah 23:23-29; Hebrews 11:29-12:2; Luke 12:49-56Read MoreLess
Genesis 15:1-6; Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16; Luke 12:32-40
It's been quite a news cycle, hasn't it? Maybe like me you're feeling especially agitated, disorientated today. We were already stumbling around in a season of dis-ease, right!? I became aware of my own disorientation when the news of Jeffrey Epstein's suicide scrolled into view on my computer screen yesterday morning, a stunning development in an already overwrought story of power, privilege, great wealth, and child abuse dusted with political glitter. We surely haven't heard the end of this sordid mess that describes another dollop of deadly decadent decay in American culture.
Questions gurgle up from the pit of our stomachs like these: How does something this dark and sinister fester as long as it has? Who are these supposedly elite people, really? Where's the moral compass among Epstein's friends, acquaintances, business partners, lawyers and everyone else who joined the party? What a rotten, stinking mess all around.
But then nothing overshadows the carnage in Dayton, Ohio and El Paso, Texas and Gilroy, California...not to mention Chicago and over 250 other towns and cities that have experienced mass shootings this year--that's more than one a day. The fact that the Dayton shooter accomplished his murderous rampage in just 30 seconds boggles the mind and stuns our conscience over the national lust for military weapons.
And the emergence of the El Paso gunman's manifesto shatters any lingering naivete anyone might have concerning the unambiguous white tribalist anxiety in our culture. Sure, he's an extremist. But he's part of a cultural continuum of white supremacist demagoguery that stretches back at least 4 centuries when the first slaves arrived on our shores. It so happens that 2019 is the 400th anniversary of that inglorious, contemptible event. Some have mistakenly believed our racist past had largely dissipated. Surprise! Or, we might say, Wake up!
Many of you received a Pastoral Message from me this week in response to these mass shootings. If you'll indulge me, I feel the need to "read it into the record," as it were. Here's what I said:
"Among recurring lessons accompanying the horrific news of mass shootings is this: the common bonds of our national identity are fracturing. We are losing the sense of common cause that binds us together, 'one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.' Perpetrators may be described as agitated loners, but they are also harbinger of a larger malaise in our land. The increasing frequency of these acts of terror coupled with white supremacist ideology and massive capacity weaponry sounds the alarm that each of us has a role to play in how our common life shall proceed.
"Up and down the ladders of privilege and power it matters how we speak of one another; if our words and actions reveal a commitment to either building or sundering community. This is as true in each of our houses as it is in the White House. All of us share responsibility for the health and vigor of our national character in providing a safe and wholesome environment for every person and family in our land. The emanations from the El Paso manifesto should send a chill down our spines, insisting violence is the solution to solving white tribalist anxieties.
"Our nation's original sin of racism remains the go-to weapon-of-choice for those bent on fear-mongering. And fear remains our great enemy; it lies behind every sort of tribalist anxiety. Our scriptures lay down the gauntlet on this by proclaiming, 'Perfect love casts out all fear!' (1 John 4:18) Ah yes, love of God above all things, and love of neighbor as ourselves (Matt 22:36-40; Mark 12:28-34; Luke 10:27) remains our core value at Christ Church--the perfect-seeming antidote to the tenor of our moment, a resilient bulwark in the face of many adversities, and a call for us to grow into the people God intended in the first place.
"Out of loving concern for those who have died and those who grieve we offer humble, earnest prayers of support. We yearn for their eventual healing. 'Holy God, bless these innocent victims.'
"But let's be very clear that prayer is just a beginning. Prayer also serves as a call to rejoin the ranks of those who are seeking to build wholesome community for all of God's offspring, while standing against tribalist racism of every sort, every sort of fear-mongering of the dreaded 'other.' In this I hope we stand hand in hand, our work of love to the benefit of the common good.
"As always, I persist in gratitude for the community of Christ Church. I find strength in our common bond to love well while standing against the forces that seek to divide and demean and deny human dignity. Joining our hands, hearts and voices amplifies our individual intentions. May God bless us in this continuing endeavor."
This morning it seems to me we have 2 principle tasks in front of us. The first one is to be very clear-eyed about the truth of our situation; to make an unsentimental assessment of our national malaise, to forthrightly identify the rise of white supremacist demagoguery, how tribalist ideas tempt our own allegiances; and to confess our own complicity in separating people into categories of better and worse based on entirely ridiculous criteria, always discovering our own superiority. Holy God, forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.
But secondly, and importantly, let's be very clear that followers after the way Jesus blazed are bound together in hope. We're anchored in resurrection. We believe we are loved by God beyond our wildest imaginings, and that nothing in life or in death can separate us from God's great love in Christ Jesus our Lord. We align our values with his. We strive to love in the manner that he loved. Listening to God's voice we step out in faith, as we heard Abraham did in our readings this morning, not knowing exactly where he was going, but confident in God's abiding presence and leadership.
And friends, this faith isn't simply an internal self-help program. Sure, there are tangible personal benefits that accrue to those who welcome Christ into their lives, but the most important benefits aren't based in success as described by motivational and prosperity preachers. That's largely a distraction from the real spiritual program. The most important benefits relate to learning how to love well--God, ourselves, and others--and then growing into the people God intended in the first place. From that vantage point, faithful Christianity resembles a character formation project.
We're all works in progress. We're all amalgams of good intentions and bad, but throwing our lot in with Jesus, we're staking a claim on listening to the better angels of our nature, joining hearts and hands with others who struggle to do the same. We listen hard to the wisdom of scripture and the Spirit that whispers in our inner being.
Among the inescapable conclusions we draw is that God is God of all things, all people, everywhere. Everyone shares the same sacred DNA. How could it be otherwise? We are all creatures of the same earth and universe, all dependent upon the same air and water and food. This truth provides the context for understanding God's justice; how justice is an aspect of God's love. When we strive for justice, we're also striving to love well.
And as I've underscored lately, this means that justice should inspire our politics. John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, was an ardent abolitionist, which in his day, was a minority opinion. Being an abolitionist meant he relentlessly advocated for political outcomes for the sake of the enslaved. Why? Because of his faith in the God of love. Like Abraham, he died before he would see the complete vindication of his conviction.
We now take this position for granted, but look at the residual mess that remains...the white supremacist mindset does not die easily. That's now our work, our responsibility for the sake of love and justice. From where I stand it's impossible to draw any other conclusion as I try to follow the pattern Jesus set before us.
There's an obvious connection to why the 20th century's Civil Rights movement drew its inspiration and strength from within the African American Church. The movement was driven by spiritual energy that led quite naturally to dynamic political engagement.
Wesley famous said, "Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as you ever can." In other words, there's no compartmentalizing here. We're either all in on this matter of following Jesus, or we're not. We can't sequester the law to love into one precious aspect of life and leave it at that. All in. All the time. Everywhere.
As we baptized little Alyana earlier, did you not sense the faith and love that was present? We were privileged to share with her parents their joy and their hope for their life together. They are like Abraham holding God's promise for their future in their hands and hearts. They have no way of knowing what lies ahead for each of them, but they anchor themselves in love for the sake of love with a confident expectation of God's providential care. That’s what we Christians do. That's where we draw our strength. And that's what we take out into the world...
Ecclesiastes 1:2, 12-14, 2:18-23; Colossians 3:1-11; Luke 12:13-21Read MoreLess
Genesis 18:20-32; Colossians 2:6-19; Luke 11:1-13Read MoreLess
Genesis 18:1-10a; Colossians 1:15-28; Luke 10:38-42Read MoreLess
Deuteronomy 30:9-14; Colossians 1:1-14; Luke 10:25-37
I doubt there’s anyone present who hasn’t heard of the Good Samaritan. It’s right up there with the story of the Prodigal Son in terms of notoriety within our culture. Typing "Good Samaritan" into my search engine brought 25 million hits. Among other references, it serves as the name of many medical institutions and a wide variety of Christian organizations devoted to helping others. It’s an important parable, one that every would-be follower of Jesus should know, especially as it follows up the great law to love.
And by way of understanding the parable’s challenging meaning, I think every American Christian should also know the story of the French village, Le Chambon-sur-Lignon. It shines a bright light on how we're to understand Jesus’ radical call to love.
Primarily a town of French protestants, the village of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon became a haven for Jews fleeing from the Nazis during World War II. Early on in Hitler’s advance on Europe, France became a vassal state of Germany and a sympathetic government was installed. Over the course of the war it’s estimated that French collaborators delivered around 83,000 Jews to the Nazis, including 10,000 children. Even now, from this distance of seven decades, it’s hard to make sense of the numbers and even harder to make sense of the vast number of ordinary persons who collaborated in such a mass transfer of fellow humans.
But Le Chambon-sur-Lignon defied the Nazi regime and French government and over the course of the occupation took in 5,000 Jews, as many as the entire village population. Most homes and farms held strangers—not just for days, but for years. So deep was the villagers’ humanity that it is believed that no resident ever turned away, denounced or betrayed a single refugee. They helped provide forged identity documents and ration cards; and helped the Jews over the border to safety in Switzerland.
Such large-scale resistance was known to the Nazis, but whenever patrols came to the village word spread and villagers hustled the Jews into nearby woods. One of the Chambonais later recalled: “As soon as the soldiers left, we would go into the forest and sing a song. When they heard the song the Jews knew it was safe to come home.”
This subterfuge was led by the village pastor, André Trocmé and his wife, Magda; under their leadership villagers acted on their conviction that it was their duty to help their “neighbors” in need. They didn’t attempt to convert them, they simply saved them. Eventually some of the residents were arrested by the Gestapo, including Pastor Trocmé’s cousin, Daniel, who subsequently was killed in a concentration camp. Loving in this radical manner was a dangerous proposition.
After the round-up and deportation of Jews in Paris in 1942, Pastor Trocmé delivered a sermon to his parishioners and said, “The Christian Church should drop to its knees and beg pardon of God for its present incapacity and cowardice.”
Once the war came to an end and the villager’s activities became known, the Chambonais rejected any labeling of their behavior as heroic. They said: “Things had to be done and we happened to be there to do them. It was the most natural thing in the world to help these people.”
“Things had to be done and we happened to be there to do them. It was the most natural thing in the world….” There are other sorts of stories we could share with one another, stories on a smaller scale, perhaps, that would also model how Jesus’ teaching can become embedded within the hearts and minds of his followers. But, for me, the story of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon stands out within modern Christian history. It bears repeating and internalizing and teaching to our children and to ourselves.
Because the parable of The Good Samaritan has a tendency to become so sentimentalized as to lose the true scope of the love Jesus lived and taught. Love can be reduced to a schmaltzy lesson about treating people we know decently, which isn’t bad, of course. Or it can be used as a prod to get parishioners to sign up for an occasional romp in doing a bit of good.
But the real stakes in the story are made clearer when quoting the Chambonais, “Things had to be done and we happened to be there to do them. It was the most natural thing in the world to help these people.” Considering the duplicity and complicity of much of the Christian world, not to mention government and the incredible risk involved, this simple response seems to defy reason. Because, after all, even in our doing good we want to be reasonable about it, don’t we?
Consider the lawyer’s intention in quizzing Jesus. The real set-up of the parable comes when Luke says that the lawyer wanted to justify himself with his question, “Who is my neighbor?” In other words, he wanted to know the exact limits of the meaning of the word, neighbor. Clearly, he thinks there are limits, thus his need to justify his position on the matter. And we could surmise that what he’s after is a debate about the finer points of the law, a debate that leaves him well satisfied that he’s got it right. If you happen to be a lawyer or have ever worked with one, you know how this might go.
Frederick Buechner reasoned that the lawyer in our story was looking for a legal outcome that sounded something like this: “A neighbor (hereinafter referred to as the party of the first part) is to be construed as a person of Jewish descent whose residence is within a radius of three statute miles of one’s own residence (hereinafter referred to as the party of the second part) unless another person of Jewish descent lives between the party of the first part and the party of the second part, in which case, the intervening person shall be considered the neighbor to the party of the first part, hence relieving the party of the second part of any responsibility whatsoever.”
Instead of debating, Jesus told a story that had nothing to do with law, and everything to do with grace. Or we could put it this way: there was only one two-part law that transcended all others—love God with your whole being; and love your neighbor as yourself. But this law was not subject to legal analysis, only the response that love dictated. And if this love was embraced and internalized it would wind up expressed in words like those of the villagers in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon. “Things had to be done, and we happened to be there to do them. It was the most natural thing in the world…” We could hear the Samaritan in our story saying something just like that had a reporter shown up at the inn to ask him about his motives in coming to the aid of the stranger on the side of the road.
The lawyer in our story would not have understood this sort of behavior. Indeed, Jesus himself was ultimately not understood, or, maybe, understood only too well, to be embraced. For his sort of love would upend the prescribed order of things, considering all the ways he expounded on the theme, “the first shall be last and the last first.” In first century Palestine, the lawyer was among the first and the Samaritan among the last.
The Samaritans were despised by the Jews. That this outsider is the one extending the aid is a radical aspect of the story with both the privileged priest and the Levite passing on the other side of the road. Note Jesus does not say why they passed by. Surely, they had a good, solid reason. Like fear for their lives, for instance. Suppose it was a trap? Or, suppose it was someone other than a Jew? Someone outside their tribe? Some dreaded other?
Of course, by the time of the Second World War, it’s the Jews who are largely beyond the range of neighborliness in western civilization. There’s much to be said about the American silence pertaining to the Holocaust as it evolved in Europe, rooted in an endemic bias within Christian culture. But then, this wasn’t the first time so-called Christian culture failed to learn Jesus’ radical lessons.
About twenty years ago I had a startling awakening about our collective tendency to miss the obvious turning my faith inside out. A large team from Christ Church had traveled to Ghana, West Africa to build homes with new partner neighbors. At one point in our travels we visited the slave castles on the so-called Gold Coast of Africa. These were the points of embarkation for the trans-Atlantic slave trade where millions were bound and held prisoner crammed into dank cells. I have a searingly vivid memory of standing in the chapel of one of the castles when a cold chill swept through me as I realized the floor of the chapel doubled as the ceiling for the men’s dungeon. It occurred to me in a flash that the story of the Good Samaritan was read in that place.
Inscribed on the chapel wall was a verse of Psalm 132: “For the Lord has chosen Zion; he has desired it for his habitation.” If you look that up, you'll find that passage continues with these words: “This is my resting place forever. I will abundantly bless its provisions; I will satisfy its poor with bread.” This experience remains one of the most powerful and disturbing metaphors of my ministry.
Had I thought of it at the time I might have remembered to share the story there of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon and Pastor Trocmé’s words: “The Christian Church should drop to its knees and beg pardon of God for its…incapacity and cowardice.”
We begin to see the enormity of the stakes in our beloved parable this morning. It strikes at the heart of our essential commitments as persons who claim to be followers of the way Jesus walked. It prompts us to consider the sort of community we wish to become.
Here’s what I hope: I hope and pray that increasingly we become the sort of family that does the work of love Jesus inspires. Remember, after the lawyer gave the correct answer about loving God and neighbor, Jesus said, “Do this and you will live.” I yearn for all of us to have this inscribed within our hearts so that like the Chambonais our response to having provided courageous and generous loving care anywhere to anyone would be like theirs: “Things had to be done and we happened to be there to do them. It was the most natural thing in the world to help these others.”
2 Kings 5:1-14; Galatians 6:7-16; Luke 10:1-11, 16-20
When I think back to my seminary days, they’re mostly a blur. I learned the basics, but a lot of details have escaped long-term retention. My decision to attend divinity school at the not-quite-ripe age of 21 and my general state of confusion at the time about my life’s direction has a lot to do with my foggy memory. Still, there are a few moments that have stuck with me.
Dean Harry Adams, a professor of homiletics, was a warm, thoughtful man who was something of a mentor. He had a home-spun manner that belied a quiet wisdom.
One day in the midst of a lecture on sermon preparation Dean Adams suddenly stopped short and became quite still for a long minute. Then he said, “I want to interrupt this lecture with a word about interruptions. They will inevitably happen to you. A day will soon come when you believe you are preparing your most erudite and important message upon which hangs the very souls of your congregation or at least your future ministry among them, when a difficult individual barges into your office or a crisis finds you at home and you will need to drop what you’re doing and attend to the interruption. Let me tell you now that your ministry is all about interruptions.
He continued, "Odd to say in here, I suppose, but your ultimate effectiveness will have little to do with what you happen to say on any given Sunday. And it will have everything to do with interruptions.” After another long pause holding us in his gaze—as if to punctuate and underline what he just said—he picked up his lecture right where he had left it. I don't know why, really, but I distinctly remember that gaze.
This bit of wisdom lodged in my mind that day and over the years it has focused my thinking in ways I couldn’t have initially understood. While in the midst of advancing some aspect of my own agenda, I've discovered that if I'm attentive, interruptions have a way of focusing priorities that my own frail powers can’t get quite right.
What’s the worn cliché? Life is what happens when you’ve planned something else. Such bits of wisdom reach the status of cliché precisely because they’re true. Tracking the course of our lives, many of us could say but for the interruptions to our plans, we would not be the persons we’ve become.
There is deep theological truth here. As I’ve heard a lot of persons tell their tale, most spiritual awakenings come as interruptions, as surprises. That’s why they’re awakenings. After the fact we might see them woven into the fabric of our lives, but at the time these spiritual interruptions occur, they couldn’t have been predicted. In fact, it seems that the most spiritually mature persons are those who are in a constant state of expectation for the surprising new thing God intends regardless of circumstance.
From one vantage point we could say that Jesus was a great interruption to life in ancient Palestine. He remains so today. The only difference now is the range of his impact. He interrupted people’s lives then, he does so today. He stirred up political controversy then, he does so today. He challenged the standard social mores of his day, he does so today. I’m thinking we wouldn’t remember him at all if he hadn’t interrupted the status quo.
As his story is told, Jesus interrupted established norms upending social conventions to create a new sort of community. Everywhere he went announcing the arrival of God's Kingdom, he shattered social expectation and cracked the barriers of inclusion and exclusion, of unclean and clean, of who had access to God’s love and who was considered a part of God’s own family, of who belonged to whom.
He interrupted established religious hierarchies and theologies. Some of you will recall that during his last week alive he interrupted the activities at the temple in Jerusalem by overturning the money-changers tables--a religious, social and political scandal.
Remember how he summarized the law--love God above all else and love your neighbors as yourselves. For the sake of love, he broke religious statutes. He taught that everything was interpreted through that supreme law of love. We might say that Jesus went around interrupting religious and cultural mores with love. That was the engine of his intervention.
Of course, he and his closest followers learned that interrupting the established flow of social and religious conventions – even for the most compassionate ends – could be a dangerous proposition. At the time the power brokers thought they could put an end to this interruption. You know how that went down... arrest, crucifixion and all. But here we all sit, nevertheless. So, you can see how the content of much of our theology is found in the wake of a massive spiritual interruption that continues to ripple around the world.
In our gospel lesson we heard how Jesus gathered up 70 followers and sent them out as his advance-men. And what's interesting is that he warns them that the message they will bear, a message of peace expressly, won't necessarily be well received. "I'm sending you out like lambs in the midst of wolves."
In effect, these disciples will physically embody the great law of love which means they will not follow the common rules of the day of slicing up the population into those who belong to God and those who don't; those who should receive God's grace and those who shouldn't; those who deserve compassionate care and those who don't.
A new day is dawning, a new kind of community is being born where no one will fall outside the bounds of God's grace. Jesus sends them out with that message interrupting the status quo. And this message has personal, cultural, religious and political consequences. Such is the transcendent effect of divine love.
And this transcendent ethic catapulted Christianity from obscurity, ultimately sweeping the Roman Empire. Justin Martyr, the first great Christian apologist in the first century, a Roman who was introduced to the Christian path at the age of 30 about a hundred years after Jesus' crucifixion, sketched out Christian love this way: We who used to value the acquisition of wealth and possessions more than anything else now bring what we have into a common fund and share it with anyone who needs it. We used to hate and destroy one another and refused to associate with people of another race or country. Now, because of Christ, we live together with such people and pray for our enemies.
A generation later, another Christian apologist named Tertullian reported that the Romans would exclaim, "See how the Christians love one another!" This was a radical interruption to Roman social order.
It’s in this tradition that Christ Church has established as one of its four core values, the value of dynamic hospitality, which we mean as an extension of this same barrier-breaking compassion Jesus exhibits. If one loves the way Jesus did, one can’t help stepping out of bounds every now and then, stepping on some toes every now and then, interrupting the status quo.
For instance, we couldn’t help but have a contrarian point of view about what’s going on at our borders among desperate immigrant families whose children have been taken away. We might have disagreements about specific policy tactics, but followers after the way of Jesus would begin by acknowledging our common humanity, our common desire for security, safety and dignity for our children. Starting there leads to a different set of outcomes than what has evolved and we should be engaged.
But now I want to interrupt this sermon with the following announcement. No matter who you are, where you’ve been or what you’ve done, no matter your current condition, you are God’s own child, daughter or son. Reaching out with whatever sort of puny faith you might have, there is no prior condition that is a permanent barrier to your inclusion within God’s family. Nothing separates you from God’s astounding heart of love as revealed in Jesus Christ. Absolutely nothing.
This was a radical, demanding message then, and it remains so now. This truth is fuel for the engine that drives this church. This truth interrupts all other seeming important matters. This truth shatters expectations about how we think about ourselves and how we think about the other persons sitting in our pew and those who will interrupt our walk home or in countless other moments as this week unfolds.
Friends, hear Jesus say to you, “Go in peace. Be healed of your dis-ease, whatever form that takes. Come, see your true family. Find your true home. Love well.”
2 Kings 5:1-14; Galatians 6:(1-6) 7-16; Luke 10:1-11, 16-20
All of our difficult political and societal problems involve our struggle with the meaning and limits of freedom. Consider: abortion; affirmative action; taxation; gun control; deregulation; environmental concerns; the rights of LGBTQ persons – in all these public issues we grapple with the bounds of freedom within our democracy.
In western culture the Judeo-Christian traditions have greatly informed the philosophical underpinnings of political freedom. Our religious heritage affirms the innate dignity of every individual. As you hear repeatedly within these walls, each person is a child of the Creator, graced with uniqueness worthy of encouragement, even worthy of love. In their innate givenness, no one is less worthy than another. We can pretend or behave otherwise, but send your saliva to be examined for the source of your spiritual DNA, and you’ll learn you are related to the people sitting around you today.
We hear an echo of this sensibility in the words Thomas Jefferson penned in our Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” Of course, we know that in Jefferson’s day, “all men” pertained only to white male property owners, which was a distinct minority population-- Jefferson, himself, a slaveowner. Still, the political intent was planted there nevertheless, spilling forward in a cascade of awakening insight about the breath-taking scope of such an audacious claim.
Our Constitution and resulting body of law were meant to mediate the conflicts that arise as citizens attempt to exercise their prerogatives of freedom. The evolving understanding of "all men are created equal...endowed by their creator with unalienable...rights," eventually led to the abolition of slavery; Women's suffrage and the right to vote, holding equal standing in the eyes of government and employers; and today, the rights and inherent dignity of LGBTQ persons. Later today Christ Church participates in the Pride parade as a testament to our belief that differences of gender or sexual identity do not mitigate our fundamental identity as children of God... worthy of full political standing.
But political freedom is only one of many sorts of freedoms we value. For instance, as popular culture has it, freedom can also be described as the ability to act without restraint. In this sense, we are free from things and exist within a world without many rules in which we are accountable to no one but ourselves.
As many reflective commentators point out, this sounds a lot like the period of time we call adolescence.1 Adolescence is a borderland time between carefree childhood and responsible adulthood; often an experimental time, a breakout time, a time for doing what we please, when we please. A time for challenging rules and proscriptions.
“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” is the popular cliché. The idea is, you are free to do pretty much whatever you want there. Of course, the truth is, you are free to do pretty much whatever you want to do here, or nearly anywhere in this land.
But as you well know from experience, once it sinks in that we really are free from most every restraint, we have the problem of choosing what we will do, and every time we exercise a choice, for the time being, we eliminate all other possibilities. So the question really becomes less about what we are free from and more about what we are free for.
Consider the talented young person choosing a life path who, regardless of initial circumstance, has arrived at a point where life appears to be a smorgasbord of options. Lawyer, singer, doctor, banker, actor, teacher—and then a choice is made. In choosing to become a teacher, say, is she suddenly less free?
If she’s alert, she will discover that freedom has led her to a place of choice. Without the choosing, freedom would have little meaning. And if she’s psychologically robust she’ll know that no choice is ever the last. In fact, if she remains a teacher and wishes to achieve a level of excellence at her craft, she will need to re-choose teaching continually—the choosing is never finished.
Or consider committed relationship. When we reach the so-called age of consent, we are free from officially sanctioned restraints concerning when, where and with whom we’ll have sex. If we choose a permanent partner then, do we become less free? Popular culture suggests that is most definitely the case (part of the backdrop to the Vegas slogan). And there is a sense in which that’s true.
But the fully alert adult understands that only by freely choosing the path of commitment and fidelity in all manner of relationships (marriage, parenting, citizenship, employee, employer, neighbor, etc.) can mature human capacities evolve and blossom; much the way a tree can only grow by putting down roots.
This means the tree is going to be in this place and not that place, and to that extent no longer “free”. Were the tree to wander forever looking for some mystically perfect location, or revel in never landing anywhere, it would never grow into its true nature. And the deeper it sinks an anchoring root system, the stronger, more vital tree it becomes.
The only way to become good at anything is to choose something which releases, we could say “frees up” our innate potential, and every single day provides a refreshed opportunity to choose well...
Paul wrote to his friends in Galatia, “For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.” The context for this proclamation concerned the blending of Gentiles and Jews together into a single family and deciding which rules and laws would guide their lives together. But this led Paul to point to the over-arching principle guiding the church community, and state the ultimate point of human freedom, namely, to love our neighbors as ourselves. That’s what he wrote. "For you were called to freedom, brothers and sisters; only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become slaves to one another. For the whole law is summed up in a single commandment, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself’”.
That’s what the Christian church, at its best, claims as the true focus of a faithful life. We are made free in Christ to love. That’s Christian ethical teaching stripped down to the nubs. That’s the point of freedom. We are made free to love. If, in our freedom, we choose to love, we will grow into what God intended in the first place, much like that healthy tree with its roots planted deeply in rich soil.
Friends, from one vantage point, this Christian thing is remarkably simple. We make it really complicated, and I don’t deny that there are a whole lot of confusing matters that we have to contend with, matters of grave consequence, but if we wanted a short, easy to remember, summary of an organizing principle for the living of our days, for focusing our lives, for directing our energies, for employing our human freedom, Paul states it clearly right here: Christ sets us free that we might love our neighbors as ourselves.
If someone were to ask you why you were a Christian, or what was the point of all that religious mumbo-jumbo, or why you wasted a great Sunday morning going to church, here’s part of the answer: Christ sets me free to love; that’s what I celebrate; that’s what I’m learning and practicing; in my freedom, that’s what I’ve chosen as my principle focus; every thing else in some way or another serves that end.
Now I’ll grant you that not every Christian or Christian church embodies this. Some churches would even seem to turn freedom’s gift into its opposite, yet one more way of condemning our neighbor, excluding our neighbor, or as Paul said it, biting, devouring and consuming our neighbor.
But then, if we’re confident in our freedom, we’re free to admit that the church, though the bearer of this remarkable message, is nevertheless a fragile, human thing, just like you and me, that exhibits much of the weaknesses that are otherwise everywhere within our culture. In fact, in confessing this to one another, we help one another sink our roots ever deeper into freedom’s soil.
1 Kings 19:1-15a; Galatians 3:23-29; Luke 8:26-39Read MoreLess
Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31; Romans 5:1-5; John 16:12-15
Several weeks ago, I attended a meeting in Kansas City along with 600 other United Methodist leaders to address the schismatic situation in our denomination caused by the adoption of the so-called Traditional Plan at General Conference in February. You may recall this plan doubles down on our Church Discipline's proscriptions concerning homosexuality (and by implication, the entire LGBTQ community) creating an untenable outcome for very many United Methodist congregations in the US, and certainly for Christ Church.
As you might imagine, a meeting with 600 participants is an unwieldy body to make decisions, and indeed, no specific plans were adopted. We did, however, agree to 4 principles as we returned to our local geographies to organize specific strategies for likely group disaffiliations from the new denominational norms.
1. We long to be passionate followers of Jesus Christ, committed to a Wesleyan vision of Christianity, anchored in scripture and informed by tradition, experience and reason as we live a life of personal piety and social holiness.
2. We commit to resist evil, injustice and oppression in all forms and toward all people and build a church which affirms the full participation of all ages, nations, races, classes, cultures, gender identities, sexual orientations, and abilities.
3. We reject the Traditional Plan approved at General Conference 2019 as inconsistent with the gospel of Jesus Christ and will resist its implementation.
4. We will work to eliminate discriminatory language and the restrictions and penalties in the Discipline regarding LGBTQ persons. We affirm the sacred worth of LGBTQ persons, celebrate their gifts, and commit to being in ministry together.
Along with Christ Church member Karen Prudente, I'm now participating in conversations in the New York region to create opportunities for structural outcomes that provide unfettered welcome, acceptance and empowerment of all persons, period. There's nothing concrete to report on that front yet, but all roads will eventually lead to the next General Conference in May of next year.
But here's the small personal matter I want to report today. Ever since that February meeting that led to such a disastrous outcome orchestrated by a minority of the US delegation in concert with a majority of the international delegation, I have surprised myself with renewed, focused and positive energy.
I'm coming in to the last segment of my professional life as I turn 67 in August. 72 is mandatory retirement; a majority of clergy leave before that point. Over the last year or two I've been chewing on how these latter years should flow with Melissa retiring officially at the end of next school year.
But here's the thing: since February I've never been clearer about my faith and work. I've never been clearer about the mission of the church; about the radical implications of loving God above all things and our neighbors as ourselves; about my particular gifts and skillsets at this particular moment; and about faith's redemptive power. I'm feeling relevant and keyed in to what matters most in a very fresh way. And honestly, this has come as a bit of a surprise. It falls into the category of "life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."
I don't want to overstate this, but it seems the disastrous turn of events has renewed my call. Now I can't say for certain what this means, but on the short run it seems to mean that I want to see this thing through, to help steer the church to the other shore over the perilous rapids below.
Now Christ Church is stable and well-positioned as a local congregation. But in the meantime, the Christian church in its many forms in the United States is facing a cultural tsunami. You've heard and read the statistics of decline of interest in organized religion. Battles for denominational identity like we're experiencing in the United Methodist Church exacerbate the problem. Still, I've never felt clearer about the essential necessity of following after the way Jesus blazed, the gospel of grace, truth and love. It seems the message we bear matches the need of our current moment exactly.
Life is funny in this regard, isn't it? Often, when we hit a roadblock or obstacle or stumble into a difficult set of circumstances, we have to make a path without clear sight and in the making we're reshaped by the hardship and emerge renewed, empowered, more competent and capable. As the old cliché has it, no pain, no gain--the engine of resilience.
In here we affirm what we heard Paul write to his friends in Rome. "...since we are justified by faith...we...boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us." I believe that. Paul has this right.
As many of you have discovered firsthand, this has personal meaning in the cancer ward or police station; in the aftermath of an employment fiasco or divorce or death or financial setback. And it has great meaning for those suffering injustice and deprivations of every sort. Faith in our God of grace--who knew suffering himself firsthand--is also faith in the God of resurrection hope and that hope reveals that nothing in life or in death can separate us from God's great love for us. Nothing. We are God's. Always have been. Always will be. And this truth dignifies our lives no matter our age or condition.
When describing her faith, poet and civil rights activist, Maya Angelou, said, "I believed that there was a God because I was told it by my grandmother and later by other adults. But when I found that I knew not only that there was God but that I was a child of God, when I understood that, when I comprehended that, more than that, when I internalized that, ingested that, I became courageous."
She ingested the truth the Apostle Paul wrote about. That sort of faith seeps way down into our cellular membranes where a kind of awesome alchemy occurs, transforming frail flesh with resilient courage no matter what comes at us. That's why Paul says we can actually boast in our sufferings. Now in Maya Angelou's case, much of what she expressed was nurtured in the struggle for America's soul as a result of its original sin--racist slavery. A struggle we have not yet finished with.
One of her highly prized poems, “I Still Rise,” was read at Nelson Mandela's inauguration as President of South Africa. You will remember he was elected after serving 26 years in prison during apartheid. Somehow during those years his suffering produced endurance, and endurance produced character, and character produced hope that in turn produced an astonishing capacity for forgiveness, reconciliation and a gracious magnanimity.
In Proverbs Wisdom is presented with a feminine voice, another image of God. Here’s another woman’s voice of wisdom:
I Still Rise
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
Now in the main this was not a message expressly about America's original sin, although, that's a topic that necessarily recurs for American Christians. Instead, it’s a message about resilience, about the life energy that's available to us in the midst of many difficulties. And it’s about faith, resurrection faith that calls us into a future imbued with hope. I am very hopeful! Go figure…
Acts 2:1-21; Romans 8:14-17; John 14:8-17, 25-27
Janice told her story this way: A number of years earlier she had fallen into a defeating depression. No amount of work or therapy relieved the bleakness of her days. Slipping into a spiraling pit and feeling she was pulling her family into it after her, she thought suicide would be her escape. Failing in the first attempt she tried again, only to be saved once more.
She was hospitalized. A once competent woman; a teacher and mother; unable, or unwilling, or…she wasn’t quite sure the reason, except she was utterly powerless over the enveloping gloom. Until the visitation, that is. As she described it, a vision of a celestial being. An angel, she thought. And she was healed. From the moment of the vision the crushing hopelessness lifted and it had not returned now many years later.
She had no personal or cultural context for understanding what had happened to her. But it did awaken her faith in God. It changed her life. I was a minister. She hoped I would receive her story at face value; she hoped there would be understanding and acceptance.
She was a credible, thoughtful sixty-year-old when she spoke to me some years ago now, sharing a very important part of her life’s story—actually, I suppose it was the most important—a transforming moment that brought life from incipient death. She said she didn’t tell most people about it for fear of ridicule or rejection. Honestly, I felt privileged to receive it.
A healing angel? Or, perhaps a symbolic vision of a psychological breakthrough? Or both? Who knows? I’m guessing I hear more edgy stories like this than most people. Often there’s little evidence to suggest anything but indigestion caused a restless night…or maybe too much alcohol. But I had enough experience to respect Janice’s understanding of these events. The outcome was clear. She was gifted with hope and faith. She was a woman who was stalked by death and then, surprised by joy. How do we explain something like that? How do we make sense of spiritual events that defy rational description? – that don’t conform to standard forms?
As it’s reported in Acts, on the Day of Pentecost, God’s spirit filled the early disciples who were gathered in Jerusalem. And 21st century people are hard pressed to make logical sense of what happened that day. It’s a wild story. Peter quoted the prophet Joel: “God says, I will pour out my spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions, your old men will dream dreams. I will show wonders in the heaven above and signs on the earth below…”
As the story is told, the disciples were, in fact, accused of having drunk too much wine. But something much more interesting than a morning hangover described their condition; something brought life where there had been death. You remember the plot line: the betrayals, the humiliation, the fear and cowardice, leading to crucifixion. Out of this death state with just a handful of fisher folk, a brand new thing was launched in the world.
The proof of it resides in the outcome of more than two billion people who now claim some relation to these first recipients of God’s holy fire. People like Janice and many of us gathered here. This can seem a very tenuous thread, I suppose. On the other hand, here we are, no denying that, despite our doubts and reservations. Here sits this glorious geode of a sanctuary dedicated to telling the story of astonishing grace, on what realtors proclaim is one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in the world. I mean, what’s up with that?
Remember in the story how the spirit-wind caused people from all over the known world to hear and receive the good news of God’s gracious hospitality. If you pay attention to who shows up here over several months you’ll see persons from all over the world. There’s a very good chance you might meet someone with roots in Benin, Ghana, Romania, Korea, Japan, Canada, Mexico, Sierra Leone, Zimbabwe, Germany, England, Liberia, Nigeria, Sri Lanka, India, Pakistan, Brazil, Philippines, Panama, Jamaica—too many countries to name, not to mention every corner of our nation.
It’s awesome, really. Communion stewards at the 11 o’clock service frequently comment on how powerful it is to serve such an incredible array of people; and to think we’re all connected somehow, all fed by the same spiritual food. It flies in the face of what is otherwise experienced beyond these walls. When you stop to think about it, there really is no accounting for it other than an in-breaking spirit that blows open locked minds and ignites frozen hearts.
We are not terribly large in numbers, but we are a true Pentecost family, reflective of the international unity gifted on that day 2000 years ago. The only difference between them and us is that we’ve tamed the spirit a bit. When was the last time you were accused of being drunk because you were full to overflowing with the spirit of life? I’m thinking we could benefit from such an accusation every now a then.
It’s no small miracle that in this place wildly diverse people gather together to give thanks and praise to their God who is far larger than any tribal loyalty—a God who will not be constrained by our attempts at taming, caging and chaining him.
Thankfully, the spirit of life breaks in over and over again. That’s what Janice discovered… I’ve discovered it, too, in my own way. That’s why I’m here in this odd get-up. I can’t tell you how many others have told me their own idiosyncratic versions of the same story. No two persons ever have the same spirit-tale to tell. God seems to speak in every language there is. I’m thinking there are as many spirit languages as there are people in the world. The trick is in the hearing. Then, if we hear, when we hear, when we really hear, we become part of the message. We become bearers of the same spirit of life.
Friend of Christ Church, Becca Stevens, the founder and executive director of Magdalene, a two-year residential program for women with a criminal history of prostitution and drug abuse located in Nashville, Tennessee, published a collection of meditations entitled, Sanctuary. This one speaks of how broadly and powerfully the spirit wind blows.
She writes, “I was standing in a small office with Clemmie after her son’s funeral. The office was lit by a fluorescent bulb that made the place look sallow and closed-in. There were two chairs and a laminated desk that was peeling. The walls were a dingy off-white. The room reflected the mood of the day: sad and broken.
“I had known Clemmie for almost four years. She was a loving and compassionate mother. Her son, Rodriguez, was the victim of a senseless homicide in the middle of the night by someone he didn’t even know.
“Rodriguez had been born when Clemmie was only thirteen years old. Both of them had been in and out of the prison system. Mother and son had spoken at Magdalene’s fund-raiser the previous year to talk about finding strength together in their journey toward wholeness. Now, nine months later, Clemmie and I were standing in a borrowed office after burying her only child.
“We exchanged thoughts and feelings about the day. Clemmie said, ‘I wish I could talk to the boy who shot my son. I want to hug him for a long time and tell him I forgive him. I know that he will probably spend the rest of his life in prison, but I want him to know that God has not abandoned him.’
“When you tell people that you would never kill somebody, they often ask, ‘What if someone killed your child?’ Clemmie answered the question as beautifully as I have ever heard. She had suffered more for her faith than even a martyr; she had suffered the death of her son and survived to love the enemy.
I asked her if she would offer a prayer, and we knelt together in front of the desk in the sacred space that love had created.”
I don’t know of a way to adequately account for such a story other than Pentecost. On the one hand, there is deep sadness here, and yet, on the other hand, you also hear the story of Pentecost, don’t you? A story about how far and wide the spirit-wind blows, crossing boundaries we normally don’t cross, touching lives we don’t normally touch. And it’s a story about life in a place scarred by death. That’s the story of the Gospel. It’s a story about grace and love where by all rights there shouldn’t be any. How and when did Clemmie ever hear God’s voice? How did it give birth to such a forgiving heart?
It’s a mystery. Or maybe a miracle. I don’t know. But I imagine when Becca and Clemmie knelt in front of that desk, those with the eyes to see would very likely have witnessed tongues of fire dancing on their heads.
And I’m thinking that maybe, just maybe, if we tuned our eyesight just right, we might be able to see the same thing glancing around this room. If you do see it, chances are better than even, that a flame is dancing on your head as well.
Acts 16:16-34; Revelation 22:12-14,16-17, 20-21; John 17:20-26Read MoreLess
Acts 16:9-15; Revelation 21:10, 22-22:5; John 14:23-29
Among the underlying assumptions I hold about the context of my work is this: I believe that everyone seated here has a deep craving for intimacy, love, belonging and community. Men and women, young and old, rich and poor. All of us share a deep longing for intimacy, love, belonging and community. It seems this longing is part of the defining characteristic of what it means to be human and explains why we’ve been drawn together here.
Within common parlance we often assign the category of “home” to the places and people with whom we experience these good things. And while a sense of “home” can be experienced in a variety of contexts we normally think of it as that nexus of geography and family that nurtured us into life and set us on our way. Of course, for some, that place doesn’t now exist in real time, if it ever really did.
Over my formative years I never had a geographical place I would call home. There’s no Bauman homestead. There’s no one house in which I grew up, no one set of people who predominated beyond my immediate family. I didn’t have close contact with extended family. Our mobility prevented the establishing of on-going neighborhood associations. In that sense, my parents and brothers were my only home, my only “location.”
So, I'm the product of few tangible, material associations that conjure nostalgic notions of home. But, like all of you, I still crave intimacy, love, belonging and community. I’ve learned these longings don’t disappear with age—in fact, they deepen and gain nuance and poignancy.
No doubt there are some here this morning who have conflicted feelings about their homes of origin. The very word “home” might awaken painful memories of loss or dysfunction.
Still, others have had the good fortune to have experienced a nurturing place and people that were vital and healthy. For these fortunate ones, home means something warmly physical. It’s a place to which they like to return, and if not possible in literal fact, then at least in their hearts and minds. And gratitude is the essential word of grace to offer.
But regardless of our backgrounds here we are in New York City, of all places. Very few of us in this sanctuary today grew up here. Some have stayed for decades, others have only just arrived. For the Baumans it became the place my children came to know as home. And over the course of my life I’ve now been here 8 times as many years as anywhere else.
As culture has evolved for post-moderns, the idea of home has become somewhat ambiguous, I know. But the deep cravings continue. Our cultural context changes and evolves, but the deepest, innate needs remain.
Some years ago, while in conversation with a member who had conflicted feelings about her home of origin, she related an unusual dream in which she experienced a vision of the risen Christ. It seemed rather bizarre she would have this dream. But awakening she recalled that it came from an 18th century mural painted in an old church from her hometown in Pennsylvania Dutch Country. She described the painting as a particular favorite of hers growing up; it depicted the resurrection with Jesus suspended above the ground, arms outstretched with little but a loincloth covering him. Inscribed on the painting was a phrase in German: “Friede sei mit euch,” (freeda zi mit oich) “Peace be with you.”
She explained that “euch” was a plural form of the pronoun “you” but in the familiar case. This was important she said because especially at the time the painting was commissioned, this pronoun would have been reserved only for the most intimate of family members. The point being that Jesus was intimate family for all who gazed upon this resurrection. And this specific realization seemed the important focus of the dream cementing her profound, personal and intimate spiritual associations. As I’ve observed her evolving over the years this interpretation has seemed true and real, manifest in her life.
Her experience is consistent with my belief that our cravings for intimacy, love, peace, belonging and community are at root spiritual yearnings. They transcend time and place. Yes, these are important aspects of our emotional, psychological selves, but the things we often refer to as constitutive components of home, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, are manifestly longings of our spirit and no matter the status of our hometown experience we have an instinct, something we might call a homing beacon, for what will bring us our truest fulfillment. You may not have thought of it like this, but I suspect that for most of us that homing beacon led us here this morning. I mean, why else, really, are you here?
In our gospel lesson we heard a beautiful sequence spoken by Jesus to his disciples as they gathered in the upper room for their final meal together. They don’t quite know it’s his last farewell at this point, but as John tells the story, Jesus knows his time is very limited. In a spirit of compassion he yearns for them to know that though he will no longer be with them physically, they will not be left bereft. In fact, his intimate presence will be more available than they now can comprehend. He says, “Those who love me will keep my word, and my Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them.” And then adds, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” I don't give as the world gives...
“We will come to them and make our home with them.” It’s a striking statement and tremendously powerful when we allow it to sink way down into our depths. If we do allow that to happen, this home Jesus and his Father makes will settle into our foundational experience of life, securing our undergirding superstructure, providing the surest sense of our place in the grand scheme of things.
When Paul sat in a Roman prison, he wrote an astonishingly hope-filled letter to his friends in Philippi. Towards the end of it he said, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
This peace is of the same character as the peace Jesus spoke about. Clearly, God has made a home with Paul as he sits in prison awaiting his trial—of all places! Even there, home can be found. And that promised peace that comes by way of God making home with him is a gift that Paul wishes to share with his friends. When you have something this precious, this valuable, the only thing you can do is to share it.
We might ask, well how is it that someone can make a home with us? And the answer is supremely obvious: someone makes a home with us if we let them enter; if we open the door and extend a welcome. I’ve been asked many times in many different ways over the years how a robust relationship with God can happen. And the answer is really rather simple. It’s done by opening the door to the one who is already there knocking.
I make no apology here for perhaps sounding a bit simple-minded, overly basic, or piously naïve. I know this message doesn’t sound especially hip or snazzy/snappy this morning. But then, the things that really matter, the things that transcend time and place, the things that define our humanity at its best are more homespun.
Do you remember several weeks ago when we read the story of the resurrected Jesus appearing on the seashore with his friends sharing breakfast over a campfire? That also came from John’s gospel; it’s an image of Jesus and his Father having come to make a home with them. It’s a small-scale scene that held within it the power of life abundant. Intimacy, love, peace, belonging and community fulfilled right there on the seashore as they shared a bit of bread and fish. That picture of breakfast is like a seed full of potency sprung from God having made a home on earth in the lives of those who would receive God.
So, here’s a simple little prayer mantra for you to jot down, stick to your computer screen and generally keep in mind throughout this week. “Lord, come and make your home with me.”
Acts 11:1-8; Revelation 21:1-6; John 13:31-35Read MoreLess
Acts 9: 36-43; Revelation 7:9-17; John 10:22-30
This week my son, Luke, put me on to a recent Atlantic Magazine article by technology writer, Franklin Foer, reflecting on our virulent problem with mental, emotional, and spiritual distraction. In particular he was reminded of poet, Mary Oliver’s relentless focus on “paying attention.” Luke remembered that she is a favorite poet of mine. Sadly, she died in January of lymphoma.
As Foer explains, “In the age of surveillance capitalism [BTW, are you aware that all the sidewalk WIFI towers have cameras in them? Do you know who holds the data these cameras collect? Google], the biggest corporations redirect the gaze, exploiting the psyche’s vulnerabilities for profit. Even silenced phones light up with notifications that break eye contact and disrupt concentration. YouTube plays videos in an endless loop, queued on the basis of intimate data, so that the emotional rush of one clip stokes the desire to watch the next. Facebook, the ultimate manipulation machine, arrays information to exploit the psychic weaknesses of users, with the intent of keeping them on its site for as long as it can. The hand touches the phone upon waking, even before it can rub the eye or reach across the bed to wake the spouse.
“While society has grown a little wiser to how the technologies can be exploited by foreign governments..., the costs of allowing our attention to be commandeered remain drastically understated. It was not Mary Oliver’s intent to critique this new world—and it’s hard to imagine she even owned a flip phone—but her poetry captures its spiritual costs.”
Reading this hit me hard. Yes! I said aloud. The spiritual costs! This is what I wrote back to Luke: “I have very vivid memories of being alone in the woods as a boy completely captured in wonder and the emergence of a self-aware spirituality, or as in this article, attention, to the sacred mystery, to God. Oliver had a bead on that like no one else. And what a critique of the catastrophe of current tech conditioning!
“I’ve been thinking about this more and more of late, finding time in the woods a real respite and antidote to current conditions. I like to sit on that porch outside the kitchen silently observing and listening, or walking nearby trails. Just this week I was thinking about all of this while sitting in the gazebo at the lily pond on the trail we’ve walked so often when the tree bark in front of me began undulating. Looking more closely I realized it was several moths that were utterly matched in color to the mottled bark, clearly genetically “selected” for this matching — I mean, when they stopped moving, they utterly disappeared—and it hit me like a thunderbolt of wonder...like that small boy sixty years ago…
“The thought occurred that most people miss this sort of thing—and I would too had I been checking texts and Facebook and whatnot (my phone was in my pocket after all, I'm rarely without it) .... oh my, what catastrophe of time and attention and the loss of wonder and joy and grace...” That's what I wrote to Luke.
So, consider this Mary Oliver poem entitled, The Summer Day:
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
"I do know how to pay attention," she writes. This matter of paying attention lies at the heart of the spiritual quest. And at the moment we are culturally bound up in chronic distraction with technologies designed to keep our attention focused where their owners direct. For the time being we're mostly willing dupes in this subterfuge; we haven't yet understood the full ramifications of the problem. But I feel it gnawing away at our ability to embrace the things that matter most of all.
In the church's calendar the fourth Sunday of Easter is known as Shepherd's Sunday because the gospel text references Jesus addressing us as his sheep and we'll read or sing the 23rd psalm, which we did in the hymn we just sang. Calling this Shepherd's Sunday is poetic metaphor, as is referencing Jesus as The Good Shepherd. Honestly, this sounds so remarkably misaligned with current cultural trends and norms, so oddly old-fashioned, or not-of-the-moment. To "get it" requires some spiritual imagination--and spiritual imagination is fashioned by paying attention, real attention to what's right in front of us at any given moment. Paying attention is most often accompanied by periods of silence, not speaking, not texting or whatever. That’s the price of admission to paying attention.
One form of paying spiritual attention involves showing up to what matters most, building habits and disciplines that foster our ability to pay attention. Things like regular attendance at worship, building bonds of human connection, that is, in-the-flesh connection and not just in the cloud as a disembodied projection of what you want people to know or think about you. Re-discovering that a poem, like the 23rd Psalm holds more spiritual muscle than any Twitter thread, Facebook post, YouTube flash, Candy Crush contest or other tech distraction.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
That we can access this on a device anywhere in the world at any time of the day is a marvel. But will we actually pay attention if we do? That requires turning off the device while we consider what it is that we've read, fully alert with open mind and heart. Best if we've cast it to memory so we can avoid the tempter's snare.
These are really tough disciplines today. When I was a boy out in the woods alone, the opportunity for discovery and wonder was unencumbered. Today, I have to work at the opportunity, that is, make a conscious choice, an intentional decision that I will be alert to the present moment because otherwise I have an umbilical connection to an electronic thing in my pocket that wants to own my attention.
You had to do a variation of that to make it here today. You chose a counter-cultural activity. If you scan your phone during the service, you likely believe you're successfully multi-tasking. But the science is clear on this fact. That's why it's illegal to text and drive. Alert parents discover the seduction of multi-tasking parenting. It's a diminished state. And it teaches diminished potential for building robust loving bonds.
The 23rd Psalm concerns our fundamental identity. In a sense, it’s a naming poem—in the ancient imagery, a naming of shepherd and sheep, although the word “sheep” is never used. More deeply it’s a poem about rock bottom reality and concerns our essential security in a wondrous but dangerous world where life is tenuous and fragile. It locates our true home.
And oddly, here is where post-modern people find great difficulty—finally identifying who they really are, determining what truly has ultimate importance, where life derives its elemental energy and then coming to understand the relative value of stuff and things in our overwhelmingly materialist culture now fashioned by addictive distraction.
We spend a lot of energy on secondary matters, leaving the fundamental question unasked: Given I had nothing to do with my being born and having to die, can I be secure that my days on earth mean something?
Makes good sense why we encounter this psalm at funerals. Death has a way of awakening us, sometimes in a startling manner, to the shallowness of our thinking and choosing. As Mary Oliver asked, "Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?" The Lord is my shepherd addresses this directly and those who have been paying attention, allowing these words to seep into their hearts and souls, fortifying their foundation into a diamond hardness, this psalm will feel like their quiet breathing as they fall off to sleep on a still, and peaceful night, knowing that come what may they are held in the arms of God with whom they dwell secure their whole life long.
The thing is, this deep and beautiful wisdom comes only with a steady discipline of paying attention.
Acts 9:1-20; Revelation 5:11-14; John 21: 1-19
Thelma Harrison died at the age of 96. When she was 73, the great-great-
grandmother founded the “Mama I Want to Read” preschool initiative in one of
Norfolk, Virginia’s poorest neighborhoods. This free program prepped children for
kindergarten, a precursor to what we now know as universal pre-K. “I saw the
need for this,” Thelma said. And she acted.
Thelma’s greatest love in life was helping others to help themselves
ultimately drawing local and national recognition including an honorary doctorate
from Old Dominion University and a Martin Luther King, Jr. Award for Service to
Humanity. Hearing that makes you think a bit differently about the whole idea of
retirement, right? For that matter, Thelma’s commitments make you think about
what really matters today.
Consider the story of Chad Pregracke who by the age of 23 had become
disgusted by the trash and debris accumulating in his beloved Mississippi River
along which shores he had grown up. One day he said to himself, “I’m going to
do something about this whole deal.”
Snubbed by the state of Illinois, Chad started up the Mississippi River
Beautification and Restoration Project. That first summer he single-handedly
picked up forty-five thousand pounds of trash in a hundred mile stretch. His
success led to the founding of Living Lands and Waters, a 501c3 that has now
worked on 24 rivers in 21 states with the help of more than 100,000 volunteers to
remove more than 10 million pounds of debris. Along the way he began the 1
million tree project to help further the mission to preserve and restore our nation’s
major rivers and watersheds.
I’m reminded of Margaret Mead’s famous bit of wisdom: “Never doubt that
a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed it’s
the only thing that ever has.”
I don’t know anything about Chad’s spiritual perspective. But his embodied
commitments place him firmly on the side of all that promotes life, dignity and
freedom. You hear his story and you wind up just feeling better, more hopeful.
And that it really does matter what one person decides.
I can tell you a bit more about the details of Thelma’s life. Though born in
Norfolk, she moved to New York City when she was a child, ultimately becoming
active in the civil rights movement as a congregant in Harlem’s Abyssinian
Church, Violet’s old stomping ground. She worked in nursing for thirty-five years
at Lenox Hill Hospital, just up Park Avenue, before returning to Norfolk. It took 8
years of retirement before she launched, “Mama, I Want to Read.” The God of
resurrection hope had formed her life.
And hope is what inspires in each of these stories. Both unassuming, and
in some ways surprising, persons to wake up one day and decide to make a
difference. And initially, not a huge difference—in the sense of the size and
scope of their early efforts: one man hauling garbage out of a river; one old lady
helping some neighborhood kids. Small gestures leading to very significant
How does that happen? Why are some people life givers and others life
takers with so many more of us situated somewhere in-between? And is it
possible to change from taker to giver?
And there you have the essence of one of the tenets of healthy
Christianity sprung from resurrection faith, which reveals that no dead-seeming
thing is the last word on life. I’m supposing that’s what draws the crowds out on
Easter Sunday—that particular message—and it’s a humdinger of a message.
That’s the message that whacked the death-breathing persecutor Saul
from his horse on his way to Damascus you heard JP read about earlier. It’s a
famous story: the persecutor Saul becomes the great apostle of resurrection
Towards the end of his ordeal, having been temporarily struck blind, the
storyteller says that something like scales fell from Saul’s eyes, and his sight was
restored. Meaning, he saw the truth. He finally got it—a dramatic example of a
life-taker transformed into life-giver, someone in the thrall of death given over to
the vitality of life. It’s a resurrection story. That’s why we read it in the season of
It’s a fair bet there are a few present this morning who might say they
know something about this sort of transformation; maybe not as dramatic in the
details, but nevertheless, have shared something of the experience of thralldom
to lesser, dead things when a new sight was gained on the more excellent things
and a new way was opened to them; as the beloved hymn puts it, they might
sing, “I was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.”
A number of others of us have said to ourselves, “I wish I could have such
a moment of clarity. I wish I could know for certain about these things.” Here’s
what I think though: everyone has access to breakthrough moments. As Christian
Wiman says “It may be falling in love, or having a child. It may be the death of
someone you love, or a thwarted ambition. It may be just some tiny crack in
consciousness that deepens so slowly over the years that, by the time you notice
it, it only takes a spilled drink or missed flight to tear it—and you—wide open.”
And something like scales fall from our eyes.
The hope that resurrection releases is a very powerful attractor, even for
Still, the razzle-dazzle, tympani thundering, trumpet proclaiming
celebration on Easter Sunday inevitably gives way to the Monday following and
then Tuesday, Wednesday and every other day of the week after, collecting into
months of ordinary daily life. We return to old patterns and habits. Same jobs,
same friends, same family and so on.
Which, as we heard in our gospel this morning, is the way it was for the
disciples as well. As John told the story, all the excitement of Easter had
evidently worn off. They hadn’t yet absorbed what it all might mean. Peter,
Thomas, Nathaniel and some others were at the seaside when Peter, without
anything better to do, says, “I’m going fishing.” And the others join him.
That’s what they knew, resurrection or not. And why not go fishing? But
here’s the thing—they were going back to do what they had always done, but
nothing was really the same as it was. It looked the same, felt mostly the same,
yet, they now knew something that could never be unlearned, something wild
and profound. It was as though scales had fallen from their eyes in the days just
That’s ultimately how they recognized Jesus as they did their work. There
he was on the shore, helping them fish. And they shared breakfast. Not very
dramatic, is it? Mundane, earthy, human. They did what was before them to do,
but now Jesus was among them, or should we say, risen life, manifest hope, was
there with them as they shared a bit of fish around a charcoal fire.
It was breakfast, but then again, breakfast would never be the same. It
was fishing they had been doing, but the fishing would never be the same. And in
that pregnant-with-life, exceedingly hopeful space, a three-times statement of
love reverses Peter’s three-times-betrayal in the courtyard of Jesus’ trial. It’s
quiet by the seaside; a little fishing, a little breakfast, and Peter is more alive than
he’s ever been in his life.
What strikes me about the stories of people like Thelma and Chad is that it
seems they awoke one day into the same set of circumstances in which they had
fallen asleep the night before, but with the morning light came a hopeful resolve.
It was the same river that had always been friend and neighbor; the same
children in need of a hopeful start. What was different?
From this distance it seems that hope framed out their priorities. Hope
caused them to act, right where they were…not on some road to Damascus that
was someone else’s backyard, but right in their own backyards, along the shores
of the Mississippi and in the neighborhoods of Norfolk.
This is why Christ Church invests in projects like Nido de Esperanza in
Washington Heights—which means “nest of hope.” This is a tangible expression
of resurrection hope in our own backyard; our version of practicing what we
preach. As is our Sunday sharing table, and our partnership with the Methodist
Church of Colombia…and a number of other projects we’ve spawned and
supported over the years.
When worshiping the God of life, we wind up becoming life-givers
ourselves. This very time and place is like that seashore so many hundreds of
years ago where the disciples went fishing. We got up, had a cup of coffee, or
tea, made our way to church, which from a certain vantage point turns out to be a
pregnant-with-life, hope-filled space where persons can wake up to what has
been right in front of them all along—risen life, manifest hope—restoring,
cleansing, and calling us out of everything that has the stink of death about it.
Imagine if we acted upon this truth. Just imagine. The possibilities honestly blow
Acts 5:27-32; 1 Corinthians 15:19-26; John 20:1-8; Luke 24:1-2Read MoreLess
Acts 10:34-43; John 20:1-18
Good friends, again, I extend a warm welcome to you. It is so good to be together in this exceptional space on this special day. What a gift we have here at Christ Church, bequeathed to us by prior generations—a sparkling geode encrusted with 14,000 square feet of Venetian mosaics, 34 varieties of marble, and 17th century icons all collected and assembled in the name of the criminal carpenter of Nazareth. That’s what Jesus was, after all. The last week of his life made that clear, what we now call Holy Week. A lot of bad stuff went down in those last days winding up in crucifixion.
A lot of effort went into building this place. It cost a lot and it took 30 years to finish. At the time the money could have been spent on other things, of course. Good things, useful things, things related to our mission here to love God above all else and our neighbors as ourselves.
But then, this has been a useful and beautiful place of spiritual refuge for decades. I can’t recount how many times people have either told me in person, or written, or messaged their gratitude for this place in the heart of the city in the heart of the world. It’s hard to put a price tag on that over decades, and hopefully centuries, of its continuing presence on this corner. You’re here because it's here. And we can imagine another assembly 100, 200 years from now.
I got to thinking about this place in a fresh way as seven days ago I watched a much older, grander and storied cathedral consumed in an awesome and terrible conflagration. All media saturated our senses with images of iconic Notre Dame in the heart of Paris transformed into a glowing inferno. Rosy flames leapt higher and higher eventually consuming the roof and spire that finally collapsed into a smoldering heap below.
Over 850 years old, the cathedral is one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture, the site of many historic moments, and featured prominently in art and literature. For nearly a millennia it has survived revolutions in France as well as bombings in both the First and Second World War. It sits in the middle of the city, on an island in the Seine River; the most visited monument in Paris.
The destruction reverberated around the world. Honestly, I was initially surprised by the international outburst of anguish. And how moving to hear the stricken throngs in the street joining their voices in a hymn, of all things, that clearly lingered in the collective psyche of an otherwise majorly secular culture.
I agree with the sentiment of Rich Lowry who wrote that the cathedral “stands for so many qualities that we now lack—patience and staying power, the cultivation of beauty, a deep religious faith, a cultural confidence and ambition that could create a timeless monument of our civilization” (https://www.nationalreview.com/2019/04/notre-dame-cathedral-fire-distressing-message/). I think that accounts for the anguish.
That this devastation took place during Holy Week ignites the spiritual imagination. A metaphor for catastrophic loss of every kind in these days—the crucifixion of beauty, as it were, of life-enhancing institutions, of human dignity and honesty, of the noblest aspirations of collective human community. All these seem under attack in our dyspeptic age. The fire felt resonant with the energy of Good Friday.
Reflecting on the stabilizing grandeur of the cathedral Victor Hugo, author of the famous, Hunchback of Notre Dame said “these greatest productions of architecture are not so much the work of individuals as of a community; are rather the offspring of a nation’s labour than the out-come of individual genius; the deposit of a whole people; the heaped-up treasure of centuries…” (As quoted in ibid.) It took over 300 years to build. An incalculable treasure of the best of what we humans are capable. I think the fire tweaked a massive unconscious recognition that this treasure is under attack.
But then all this renewed my appreciation for what we have here at Christ Church in the meantime, for the foresight and generosity of our forebears, and the recognition of the importance of sacred place. One doesn’t have to worship God in a jewel box like this, of course. Most won’t. Any place will do. On the other hand, a place like this does serve an important purpose with its solidity and beauty, an emblem of the historic dimension of our standing on the shoulders of others and an implicit sense of responsibility to pay it forward. You can feel that, can’t you?
Despite the very strong headwinds facing the church today, even the United Methodist Church facing its own Good Friday moment, here we all are having gathered from, well—I can tell you for certain when considering everyone who has attended here—from around the world, representing all of the continents, save Antarctica, and many, many nations and ethnicities. Think of the extraordinary diversity of background, perspective and life experience gathered here. You’ve brought all of that in here with you—all of your hopes and dreams, all of your doubts and fears, all of your tears and anguish.
We’ve come because despite present conditions we hope there’s something at the heart of human existence that has fashioned us in love for the sake of love—in other words, for a life that actually means something. Still, the energy of Good Friday might seem to have the day. Moments come to all of us over the course of our years, in our physical, emotional and spiritual health, in our marriages, with our children, our career, our politics, our justice, the state of our world, or just plain recognition of our eventual death, and the thought occurs, “The whole damn thing’s burning down! Oh my God!”
But the story didn’t end on Friday. Did you see that astonishing photo from Notre Dame of the glimmering golden cross shimmering through the smoke and rubble, a harbinger of hope in the midst of destruction? That cross was an emblem of a man’s execution. An enemy of the state they said. By the time they cut him down from the wooden cross beams his body was too broke to mend. That fact alone accounts for the bewilderment and confusion of those early resurrection witnesses we read about.
How could they comprehend resurrection when the world they knew seemed defined by days like Good Friday? Indeed, didn’t they live in a Good Friday sort of world? Wasn’t that the truest thing to be accepted? Didn’t Good Friday win the day? And didn’t that suggest that killing your threat was the way to go forward? Isn’t that what defined the future—just more of the same old, same old, BS?
Saint Paul finally put words to the astonishing turn of events when he wrote some years later—after he had fallen in love with the God of love—the God of Jesus is “the one who can make the things that are, out of the things that are not, and the One who can make dead things come to life again” (Romans 4:17). I can’t help thinking he knew something of this firsthand. It was personal. Very personal. He was dead, and came back to life. I think that’s what happened to him and what his words meant.
But this speaks of a universe we hardly dare believe exists. It speaks of the power of the One who made the universe in the first place, brought life to this planet, and inflated our lungs with breath. Consider the miracle of your existence, that you think and feel and have awareness, and that you can know and experience love. Your very existence gives tangible evidence of the One who can make the things that are out of the things that are not. There was a time when each of us “was not.”
I vividly remember my wife’s agony in childbirth with my son and daughter. But after the agony a beautiful little boy was born, and then a girl. They’re now in their mid-thirties. And what an incredible journey it’s been to share. And I think: God makes the things that are out of the things that are not. God brings life out of the place that can feel like death. Reality sinks in and I tremble. The mystery is awesome.
Frederick Buechner put it this way: “Resurrection means the worst thing is never the last thing.”
I don’t know how one comes to say such things except through the eyes, ears and heart of faith. You can’t force anyone to say such a thing. It can only be invited. Like, please come to dinner and share our hospitality. Which, by the way, is exactly what we’ll be doing in just a few moments. We’re going to invite you to Easter Sunday dinner, right in here. We’re going to say that everyone is welcome. Everyone. No one excluded from the invitation. It’s a dinner that participates in resurrection. And as we say, we are what we eat.
Here’s the thing: Easter creeps up on us in the darkness, in the confusion, in the despair, in the sense of failure and profound loss, in the smoke and aftermath of devastation. Easter comes for those who, like Mary, find themselves crying their eyes out some days, maybe many days, and then astonished by a hope that seems the very creative power of love itself.
Good friends, Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed!