The Rev. Gary Brower
The Twenty-Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

A few weeks ago The Living Church, one of the Episcopal Church’s long-running magazines arrived in the mail. Every two weeks, it delivers news from around the Anglican Communion, reports of ordinations and retirements, etc. And, of course, there are articles and opinion pieces. In this particular issue, there was a title that caught my eye: “Bring Your Bible to Class—or Church” (https://tinyurl.com/r3d6bzs5). The author—Wesley Hill—is an Episcopal priest and seminary professor of New Testament. He begins his article this way: “As I prepare [for] my 10th year as a seminary professor, I’m going to begin the biblical capstone class I’ll be teaching by recommending that my students consider taking up a habit they’re likely unfamiliar with: bringing an actual, physical, printed-and-bound Bible to class”.

The Twenty-Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

The Twenty-Fourth Sunday After Pentecost

The Rev. Cn. Carl Andrews

For the Veterans who served us, and for the families, and loved ones who stood by them...Thanks be to God. Amen.

Sermon – 12 November 2023

The word from Job:

“As for me, I know that my Redeemer lives and at the last he will stand upon the earth. After my awaking, he will raise me up; and in my body I shall see God. I myself shall see, and my eyes behold him who is my friend and not a stranger.”

“My friend and not a stranger.”  Those in uniform have a special relationship with their Redeemer, for in one way or another they will face the wrong end of a weapon.

We, military, know that we must have a strong spiritual element to our lives, something that gives us meaning, meaning in the face of death and meaning in the face of life.  

The internal scars I gathered from pulling the trigger are noteworthy and the scars I carry from someone working systemically to kill me, are another.  

Now let’s put another twist to this…. 

A slightly difference version than everything I needed to learn about life I learned in Kindergarten – everything I ever needed to learn about life I learned in Vietnam.

  • Once you are in a firefight, it is way too late to wonder if this is a good idea.

  • Never get into a fight without more ammunition than the other guy.

  • Helicopters are cool.

  • The madness of war can extract a heavy tool – please have exact change.

  • If everything is as clear as a bell, and everything is going exactly as planned, you’re about to be surprised.

  • It does too, get cold in Vietnam.

  • Combat pay is a flawed concept.

  • Having all your body parts intact and functioning at the end of the day, beats the alternative.

  • Air superiority is not a luxury.

  • Loud noises will get your undivided attention.

  • No matter what you do, the bullet with your name on it, will get you, and so can too the one that is addressed “To whom it may concern.”

  • Cover your buddy, so they can be around to cover you.

  • A box of cookies from home must always be shared.

  • Always make sure someone has a P-38.

  • C-4 can a make a dull day fun.

  • There is no such thing a small firefight – unless you were not there.

  • Thousands of Veterans earned medals for bravery everyday, a few even got awarded.

For them it was yesterday -- Veteran’s day:

  • You might be a veteran; if your spouse or children responds to “hooah” and understands what it means regardless of the context you present it in.

  • You might be a veteran if: you have no problem when a two year old you don’t know, grabs your legs when you are in battledress uniform and says  “Daddy or Mommy” 

  • You might be a veteran if: if the history channel is your favorite channel.

  • You might be a veteran if: If Pork Chop Hill or Hamburger Hill, Kabul or Omaha beach is not some exotic location.

This is Remembrance Day, Armistice Day, Veterans Day. It is not a feast of any church or synagogue or temple or masque.

And was set aside to mark the end of the Great War, the First World War, the war that was to end all war. 

But wars came back to haunt us, and war haunts us still. And so we ask men and women to serve our country, and it doesn’t matter whether in time of war or in time of peace. That is why the day honors veterans and reminds us that those who serve must trust that their lives will not be spent needlessly.  All give some, but some give all!

Today’s gospel speaks to the five wise and five foolish — it speaks about preparation and planning ahead for the timing of the bridegroom — military can do all the planning we want, but there is one thing that you are really not prepared for — war.  It is not the time to ask your buddy for his/her ammo — it is time for your own planning.

I grew up with a vet -- except he did not retire from the Air Force till just before I put on a uniform and went to Vietnam.  Dad flew Spitfires in the Royal Air Force and P-47s, USAAF in the second WW 11, and served with Patton.   I did not realize till late in my life that my father grew up with another vet -- my grandfather, who homesteaded near Carbondale CO, but still died from wounds from the WW1.  After my father was an orphan at age 6, he was sent to live with my great-grandfather, yet another Vet from the Spanish American war.  And his father was in one of Ohio Regiments for the Civil War. And we have found in family history that there were others that go back to wearing a blue uniform at the time of General Washington.  

I personally have I guess done four wars, Vietnam, Serbia, Iraq and Afghanistan.  Probably you could count being in the Pentagon on 9 -11 for 86 hours as just another day. 

Then there is my daughter, once  in uniform another Vet as well.

Those in uniform know the bottom-line, we are there to protect our nation, our loved ones and the one beside us.  All of us give some, but some give all!

One of things that I have grown to learn in war, is that it is hell.  No movie, no medal can glorify it, but we the US military still do what our country asks.  We step into the breech.   Yes, we are patriots, and we do what is necessary.  It is not one of those jobs when we say, I have had enough and want to go home.  Whether you are Coast Guard, Navy, Marine, Army, Air Force, or Space Force you just do it.  All of us give some, but some give all!  

Some vets today will be thanked for their service to country; some will be ignored, some of us will see signs by schools like I did yesterday on University Blvd thanking vets.  One of the signs even said “Freedom is not Free -- so thank a Vet!”

Let’s pause for a moment and reflect on just what it means to be a veteran.

Some veterans bear visible signs of their service.  A missing limb, a jagged scar, a certain look in the eye.

Others may carry the evidence inside of themselves, a pin holding a bone together, a piece of shrapnel in the leg – or perhaps another sort of inner steel – the soul forged in God who saved them, both in both body and soul on the field.

Except in parades, and then only rarely, the men and women who have served their country wear no badge or emblem.  You can’t tell a vet just by looking.  But most vets recognize another vet.

Most veterans live quietly and anonymously among us.  They are our grandparents to some, parents to their and brothers and sisters to many.  Just who is a veteran?  

A veteran might be the elderly gentleman at the supermarket – palsied now and aggravatingly slow – who helped liberate a Nazi death camp in W.W.II and who wishes all day long that his wife were still alive to hold when the nightmares come.  

He is the retiring businessman whose co-workers never guessed that behind his quiet demeanor is the hero of four hours of exquisite bravery against near impossible odds, -- 50 plus years ago Friday in the bitter cold, near the 38th parallel of Korea.

She – he is the nurse who fought against the futility and went to sleep every night for a solid year in the heat of Vietnam, crying.

He is the POW who went away one person and came back another – or didn’t come back all.  

The knock code, that was taught between US Prisoners of War in the Hanoi Hilton. It was three letters -- G B U.  God bless You!  The POWs got it, and understood the need for that spiritual element, that spiritual fitness that was the corner stone of them surviving day-to-day.  

Veterans – both in and out of uniform.  Thank you.

Some time ago, my bride and I were on Omaha beach, and visited the national cemetery there, there were bus loads of kids there from France and England.  I expected there would be noise and running around, after all they were pretty young.  But in all cases, I heard a school teachers, who were no more than 30 themselves, saying in French and English, “Respect these, remember these, honor these -- you are free today due to their willingness to die for you, me and our countries.”

I have held the hand of a number of our brothers and sisters in uniform, I have buried a number of those as well.  But when, we bury them with words we use the words from Job:

As we honor the men and women that have gone before us, who have serve and given their lives, we must also honor their faith, that gave them the courage to so do.  I pray that our relationship with our friend who is not a stranger to us, our redeemer, will give us all the courage in the face of death and life.  

All of us give some, but some give all! So as we honor those who have gone before us, we thank them, we thank God for them, but we also thank God for walking with them, giving them the courage in their Spiritual life, to do the impossible, to reach so far beyond themselves, in their sacrifice.  So yes, we need to thank a Vet today for their service, but also we need to thank God for His presence with them and us to do the impossible.  G B U! G B U the Vets and thank you God for walking with us through the valley of the shadow of death and for walking with us today.   Amen

All Saints

Lesbia Scott’s “I sing a song of the saints of God” probably is being sung this morning in more Episcopal churches than any other All Saints hymn—well, maybe “For all the saints” would give it a run for its money. And that popularity runs beyond All Saints’ Day! In a 2003 survey of ‘desert island’ hymns run by the website Anglicans Online, the hymn was voted number 14! (Full transparency: “For all the saints” was #6!) But there are some good reasons for “I sing a song’s” popularity.

1. It has a catchy melody. (John Henry Hopkins, also composed the tune for “We Three Kings!”)

2. It has fun, while oh-so British, references: “You can meet them in the lanes or at tea”. (By the way, I would hope we would never “update” that verse, as has another hymnal: “You can meet them in school, on the street, in the store, in church, by the sea, in the house next door” [The United Methodist Hymnal, 712]).

3. Singing about a “fierce wild beast" makes most of us smile—the more so when some jokester’s changes in word order linger in the backs of our minds: “And one was a soldier, and one was a beast, and one was killed by a fierce wild priest”.

“I sing a song” is also a good teaching hymn. Ms. Scott thought her children could learn about some of our notable forerunners in the faith. In the first two verses we sang of a “doctor” (St. Luke the Physician), a “queen” (St. Margaret of Scotland), a “shepherdess on the green” (St. Joan of Arc), a “soldier” (St. Martin of Tours), a “priest” (the poet—and Dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London—John Donne), and that poor fellow “killed by a fierce wild beast” (St. Ignatius of Antioch). “And I mean to be one too”. Really? I’m not sure that I’m up to that “fierce wild beast” thing.

But the hymn’s most important teaching, it seems to me, is found in that third verse which, in some ways, runs counter to the idea that “being

slain by a fierce wild priest/beast” is the entry-ritual to the club of sainthood. “They lived not only in ages past; there are hundreds of thousands still . . . for the saints of God are just folk like me, and I mean to be one too”. We’ve gotten so used to the idea that “to be a saint is do something remarkable, or die horribly” that, I think, we’ve lost something critical. We’ve lost much of what it means to be a saint.

In a few minutes, we will join together to renew our baptismal covenant. Our baptism—and what we promise, or what is promised on our behalf—is our entry-ritual into sainthood; we are baptized into the household of God. (And to those of you have not been baptized, you will get a sneak-peak into what sainthood is really all about). “Sainthood”—at least in the broader biblical understanding—is not primarily about what we do. It is about Whose we are; it is about our relationship to the One who grants us the status of being a “saint” and how we live out that relationship. So what does it mean that God declares us “saints”?

“Saints” translates two different words in the Hebrew Bible (I’ll try not to get too geeky, but bear with me—you know I’m a teacher at heart!). The first is “chasidim”—a phrase, today, associated primarily with an extremely orthodox/observant group of Jews. But the word—in general—has to do with faithfulness to the Covenant. The“chasids”—the “saints”—then and now— are those who are bound closely to God in love. The second word translated “saints” is “kadoshim”. Kadosh is the Hebrew word we translate as “holy”. “Holiness” has to do with being set apart and dedicated to the service of God; the kadoshim are those individuals with that mission. In the Hebrew Bible, then, the “saints” are the faithful of Israel; their “sainthood consists in the relationship they bear to the God who has destined them for righteousness and salvation” (Harper’s Bible Dictionary, 892).

The same idea carries over, of course, into the New Testament (e.g., Ac 9.13, 32; Rm 15.25-31; 1 Co 1.20; Hb 6.10; and Jd 3), where “saints” translates the Greek word for “holy ones” (hagioi). But in the New Testament, “saints” simply refers to Christians, as distinct from non-believers. That is, those who have bound themselves to—or, who have a relationship with—Christ—they are the hagioi, the saints. That central

importance of relationship is what we heard in our reading from 1 John,: “Dear friends, now we are God’s children . . . .and all who have this hope in him purify themselves even as he is pure” (1.1, 3). (And just to point out, it isn’t until we reach the last book of the New Testament—Revelation—that we find “saint” referring to martyrs [Rv 5.8, 8.3, 13.10]).

“Sainthood”, therefore, is based on our relationship to God. That has to do with baptism. A declaration of relationship was central at Jesus’ baptism. All of the Gospels report God declaring that Jesus is God’s Son (Mt 3.17, Mk 1.11; Lk 3.22). We, who are baptized, are brought into a similar relationship through adoption (Rm 8.15, 23, Ga 4.5, Ep 1.5). As Jesus was bound closely to God in love, so are we. As Jesus was set apart and dedicated to God’s service, so are we. It is that entry into the household of God and that mission— that is, the description of who we are—being one of God’s “saints”. And that has implications.

Those implications are suggested in the “Beatitudes” we just heard. (I’ll save the translation of the Greek word makarios . . . is it “Blessed”? “Happy”? “Fortunate”? . . . for another time.) The Beatitudes are not addressed to the crowds “from Galilee, the Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea, and from the areas beyond the Jordan River” . . . to those who came to Jesus, because he “[taught] in their synagogues . . . [announced] the good news of the kingdom . . . [healed] . . . every disease and sickness among the people . . . [demon possession, epilepsy, and paralysis]” (Mt 4.23-25). The crowds flocked to Jesus because of what he promised them, and what he did for them—especially those in dire straits. The Beatitudes are addressed to those who had chosen to answer Jesus’ bidding to follow him—to be Jesus’ first “saints-in-training”.

The Beatitudes help define our relationship to the Kingdom; they don’t establish the relationship. Saints are not called to be hopeless, grieving, doormats, or only longing for right to prevail. Saints—by virtue of being saints—are merciful, exhibit pure hearts, make peace—we hear echoes of that in our baptismal covenant. In Matthew’s recounting of the Beatitudes, there is a distinct future cast to each one: “Happy are the people who . . . for they will . . . “ “Blessedness” or “happiness” is not “happy-clappy”, though it may be. It is a state of being fortunate, of peace,

of being rooted in God at the deepest level, in the most challenging situations. The Beatitudes describe an on-going, living, relationship that begins at baptism and continues through the remainder of the saints’ life.

Sainthood, bestowed by our baptism, really defines the ideal for all of us. I’m reminded of something we learned a few weeks ago in our discussion of hymns . . . in particular the contribution of Martin Luther. Luther firmly believed in the “priesthood of all believers” (I Pt 2.9): "The priest is not made. He must be born a priest; must inherit his office. I refer to the new birth-the birth of water and the Spirit. Thus all Christians must became priests, children of God and co-heirs with Christ the Most High Priest” (“First Sunday after Epiphany" from Complete Sermons of Martin Luther, vol. IV [Grand Rapids, MI: BakerBooks, 2007] p. 9). Because of that conviction, he believed that all church attendees ought to sing the hymns; not just the “professional musicians”. All members of the “household of God” have a role to play as singers, priests, and as saints.

The Feast of All Saints reminds us of some Christians who, through the particular graces given to them, were able to bear witness to their relationship to God in notable ways. But I believe that the Feast of All Saints also ought remind us—normal folks—of who we are, and then invite us into a living out of that relationship—through everyday acts of service, generosity, hospitality, mercy, peace-making and more.

“There’s not any reason, no not the least, why I shouldn’t be one too” concludes that beastly/priestly second verse. All Saints is not asking us to become who we aren’t yet, but to claim who we are now. At our baptism, we are added to the “countless host” that “goes marching in” “through gates of pearl”. March on!

Amen.

The Twenty-Second Sunday After Advent

Why are our kids (and maybe some of our adults) dressing up like Taylor Swift or Barbie or Spiderman or Harry Potter? “Well,” you may say, “because they’re popular-culture icons.” But why right now? I mean, unless folks were attending a concert, convention, or a movie, no one was wearing costumes last month? “Well,” you will probably say, “because it’s Halloween!” And I will ask, “So what do costumes and Halloween have to do with each other?” Or, to cut to the chase, “What is Halloween all about, anyway?” And what, if anything, does it have to do with the church/Christianity?

Good question! And when we were thinking about our “Family Sunday” observance, I blithely said to our staff, “Let’s make it all about Halloween—in advance. Folks will love seeing kids in costumes . . . and they might like coming in costume!” Then, as fate would have it, in poking around, I learned there was a lot more to it than I thought. I It is about costumes. But it’s also about food. It’s about fear. It’s about death. Like most things in life, it’s . . . complicated. So . . . bear with me; I’m going to get historical.

Our kids dressing up in costumes all starts with the Celts—well before “Celtic Christianity” became a “thing.” The Celts were those peoples who lived in Ireland, much of Great Britain, and a goodly portion of Europe. For them, November 1st was New Year’s Day, NOT January 1. November first marked the end of the summer—the end of the harvest—and, therefore the beginning of winter. Herds came back from pasture; land contracts were renewed. And, so, on the day and night before, on October 31st, the Celts believed that the boundary between the living and the dead became blurred . . . the spirits of the long dead returned to earth, and those recently dead moved to the other world. For them, winter became associated—perhaps not surprisingly—with death. To use the language

coming out of Celtic Christianity, October 31-to-November 1 was a “thin space”—a time or place where this world and the next . . . touched.

Enter the festival of Samhain—the main “ancestor” of our Halloween. At this time, for centuries, the religious leaders of the Celts—the Druids— built huge bonfires, around which the people gathered to burn crops and animals as sacrifices. The bonfires and the animal-head and skin costumes worn by many were meant to ward off the ghosts. The Celts re-lit their hearth fires from the sacred bonfires—again, marking the change from the old year to the new. And the Druids took advantage of this “thin time” to make predictions about the future, about health, marriage, and death.

The Celts were mostly conquered in the first century of our era by the Roman legionaries . And, over the next several hundred years, the Romans combined two of their own festivals with Samhain. The first was Feralia, a day in late October commemorating the passing of their dead loved ones. The other was Pomona—a celebration of the Roman goddess of fruit and trees, whose symbol was the apple. The Roman legionaries also brought Christianity to the formerly Celtic lands. Pre-Christian and Christian practices began to overlap. And, traditions passed back and forth across geographical and religious boundaries.

This marriage of Roman and Celtic traditions is seen in another of our Halloween traditions: bobbing for apples! During an annual celebration, young unmarried people would try to bite into an apple floating in water. According to some traditions, the first person to bite into an apple would be the next one to be allowed to marry. In other, perhaps, later traditions, each apple was “assigned” to a particular suitor. Whichever apple the “bobber” snagged would suggest who she or he would marry. And so, apple-bobbing was appropriated into Samhain, with apples a sign of fertility and abundance— good ol’ Pomona—another Halloween custom was born!

At the same time that all of this was going on in Britain, back in more southerly Europe and Asia Minor, Christians had been celebrating, and venerating, the early martyrs who had died for their faith. The anniversaries of their deaths were commemorated; their graves and burial

sites became the focus of veneration and pilgrimage. And soon, the practice spread beyond martyrs who’d died during the pre-Constantinian persecutions to include individuals who had led particular righteous and holy lives.

These hallowed dead received a special boost when, in the early 7th century, the Emperor gave the Pantheon—that Roman temple dedicated to the gods—to the Church. On May 13, 609, Pope Boniface had the statues of Jupiter and the others taken out, and he dedicated the building to the Virgin Mary and all the Martyrs. Why May 13th? That corresponded with a Roman—i.e., pagan—festival called Lemuria—a time when Romans performed rituals to exorcise ghosts of the restless dead from homes! As has happened throughout history, one religion co-opts the festivals and rites of another to make conversion to the newer religion .

About a hundred years later, another Pope, Gregory III, dedicated a chapel in St. Peter’s Basilica to all the saints on November 1. By 800, the Christians in Ireland (!), Northumbria and Bavaria were celebrating All Saints Day on November 1st. And in 835, it became Holy Day of Obligation in the Frankish Empire—that is, a day when very Christian ought go to Mass. Within 300 years, the association of All Saints with May 13th was gone; November 1—along with all of its religious and secular trappings having to with the dead—officially became All Saints’ Day.

All Saints’ Day celebrated those individuals who had died fully in a “state of grace”—individuals like martyrs and perpetual virgins. But what of the rest of us—faithful Christians who live ordinary lives? According to medieval Catholic theology, our destination was . . . Purgatory . . . where we could be cleansed of our sins/faults so that we might receive the beatific vision, and enter heaven.

This ignoring of the “rest of us” didn’t go un-noticed. And, in the 11th century Odilo, the Abbot of the Benedictine Monastery of Cluny, declared that on November 2nd, all the Faithful Departed be recognized. And, within a couple of hundred years, the feast of All Souls had become practically universal.

I’m sure you’re asking by now (if you’re still awake), “What does that have to do with us, our kids in costumes, and Barbie and Harry

Potter?” All of these traditions came to America with the colonists, And, despite the best efforts of our Puritan ancestors, the traditions of Halloween were hard to root out. And, later, with significant Scottish and Irish immigration, many other practices arrived as well, such as trick-or-treating (having developed from a practice of requesting prayers in exchange for a “soul-cake) and Jack o’ Lanterns (originally a carved turnip—either to ward off evil spirits, or to resemble them).

All of these traditions reflect how we deal with some of our basic human questions, our hopes and fears about death and dying . . . and the state of those who’ve gone on. Certainly, I could spend a lot of time on other cultures’ traditions/beliefs about this. Many of us, for example, are aware of Dia de los muertos—the Day of the Dead: a joy-filled Mexican celebration combining pre-Christian with Christian beliefs about the “thin space” between now and the afterlife. But for us—especially in the Episcopal Church, with our particular heritage, we have these three days this-coming week—all dedicated in one way or another to the dead. Halloween, All Saints’, and All Souls’. We mark them in various ways, from fun to solemn. But together they all testify to the ongoing spiritual bond between the church triumphant—that is, those who have died, and the church militant—those of us here. That bond is what we confess in both the Apostle’s and Nicene Creed: the“thin space” or “thin time” that is the “communion of the saints”.

Amen.

The Twenty-First Sunday After Advent

As I read the lessons for this week, the first portion of Paul’s letter to the Thessalonians, in particular the second verse, stopped me:   “We always thank God for all of you when we mention you constantly in our prayers” (1 Th 1.2). Yes, the story of Moses only being given a  glimpse of God’s glory is intriguing. And the question about paying  taxes is tempting—although perhaps a bit dangerous—to address. But, given the video that many of us saw last week, with  Denzel Washington exhorting us to say “Thank you”, I was curious about Paul’s “giving thanks” for the Thessalonians. And then I remembered that Paul often starts his letters with some variation of “I give thanks . . .”. My curiosity grew: "Why does Paul give thanks for his letter recipients?   

So I used my spiffy Bible Study program to do a word search on “thanks” in Paul’s letters! It was an enjoyable (well, I am a  geek!)—it was an enjoyable as well as enlightening exercise! I won’t subject you to all of the verses—all of the  occurrences of various versions of “thanks”—but a summary I found to be helpful.   

  • In our lectionary cycle, we just finished a series of readings from the letter to the Philippians. Paul was thankful for  them “because of the way [they had] been my partners in the ministry of the gospel” (1.3, 5).  

  • The recipients of the letters to the Ephesians and the Colossians occasioned  “thanks” because of their “faith in Christ and love for all God’s people” (Ep 1.15, 16; Co 1.3). 

  • For the Corinthian Christians—as argumentative as they were about whose spiritual gifts were best—Paul gives thanks for the  grace and those very “gifts” that they were given (1 Co 1.4; 2 Co 1.11). Paul also gives thanks for the congregation’s generosity in giving support for the Christians in Jerusalem (9.11-12). 

  • The Roman Christians were “thanksgiving-worthy” because the  “news of their faithfulness was spread around” (1.8); they were obedient to the teachings of Christianity (6.17); and (some of them) had risked their necks for Paul’s sake (16.4). 

  • And, as we heard this morning, Paul gave thanks for the Thessalonians Christians “because we remember your  work that comes from faith, your effort that comes from love, and your perseverance that comes from hope in our Lord Jesus Christ” (v 2, 3). 

So, in summary, what were the qualities of the congregations that made Paul so grateful?  They  engaged in common/collegial ministry (Ph 1.3, 5). They were  connected, by love, with other Christians (Ep 1.15, Co 1.3). They  used their gifts for common ministry and mission (1 Co 1.4; 2 Co 1.11). They  gave generously in support of others in need (2 Co 9.11-12). They were  known beyond their walls (Rm 1.8). They  kept to the teachings of the gospel (Rm 6.17). They were  willing to take risks for the sake of the gospel (Rm 16.4). 

That’s a powerful list! No wonder Paul was grateful for the Christians in, and the work of, those congregations! And I found myself pondering this week: “If Paul was writing a letter to the ‘Congregation of the Good Sheep’ in Centennial . . . for what would he be giving thanks?”.  I ask you to sit with that question for a moment. 

I’ve sat with it . . . and Paul’s list all week. And I think—or at least I hope—Paul would write something like: “From Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by God’s will. To the holy and faithful people in Christ Jesus in Centennial, CO. Grace and peace to you from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. We always thank God for all of you when we mention you constantly in our prayers.”  

  •  “You are engaged in common/collegial ministry!” Your Congregational Care Team, your Prayer Chain, your Men’s Group, your Faith Club, your musicians . . . and more. They all minister together to folks in the congregation, providing support and fellowship! Your Altar Guild, your lectors, your eucharistic visitors . . . They engage in the gifts that God has given the individual members for the good of all. 

  •  “You are connected, by love, with other Christians!” There are folks in this congregation who are engaged, in numerous ways, with Christians from other congregations, other denominations, disregarding localized affiliation, because of their common love for Christ and the Church. 

  •  “You use your gifts for common ministry and mission!” Members of Good Shepherd are involved in diocesan and national ministries . . . working together for the larger, but common, good. 

  •  “You give generously in support of others in need.” Whether it is funding showers and laundry at a local day-shelter, or backpacks for children affected by homelessness, or clothing and other supplies for folks who are living on the streets, the Good Sheep recognize the needs of others and strive to address them. 

  •  “You are known beyond your walls.” Folks in the neighborhood remember the Pumpkin Patch Music with a Mission and the Living Nativity during COVID. Good Shepherd has been, but must continue to be, a congregation that isn’t inwardly focused, but brings its gifts—all of them— to bear for the good of the community. 

  • That said, “your walls” carry a message beyond the property boundaries. The use of your building, by groups as diverse as the Columbine Genealogical Society to the Daughters of the American Revolution, to the New Beginnings AA group, to the South Suburban Music Teachers Association  . . . and more . . . They all say that “Good Shepherd is known beyond your walls!” 

  •  “You keep to the teachings of the gospel.” Good Shepherd’s Christian formation—from our youngest members to the most “seasoned”—emphasizes knowledge of, and commitment to, the values embodied in our common baptismal covenant.  And that translates into: 

  •  “You are willing to take risks for the sake of the gospel.” Good Shepherd has been challenged by issues that have wracked our society and our Church. You have said, “All are welcome!”, respecting the dignity of all and witnessing to the inclusive love of Christ, helping re-define “Christianity” in the minds of many.  

 Dang! Paul would have a letter to write to us, giving thanks!  

The thing is, however, while Paul did give thanks for the work—the presence of God—in the congregations . . . he also challenged them. He wrote of corrections that needed to be made. He wrote “encouraging words” in tough situations. He exhorted congregations to continue steadfastly . . . and to do more. As we heard in our reading from first Thessalonians, Paul would remember OUR “work that comes from faith, [our] effort that comes from love, and [our] perseverance that comes from hope in our Lord Jesus Christ”. There’s no resting our on laurels. 

As Denzel Washington said, so emphatically, in the video we saw last week,  “Thank God in advance for what’s already yours!” We have so much for which we can give thanks; it’s already ours! Look at what we have, we’ve been doing! But it’s ours to steward, not to hoard. It’s ours to extend, to expand. It’s ours, but it’s not ours; it’s God’s gift to us as stewards. 

As I mentioned at the outset, this issue has been on my mind all week, and it has been couched in a prayer from St. Ignatius that forms part of my morning devotions : 

Take, Lord . . . all that I have and possess. You have given all to me. To You, O Lord, I return it all. All is yours; dispose of it wholly according to Your will. Give me Your love and Your grace, for this is enough for me. For with these I am rich enough and desire nothing more. 

All is God’s. God has given all that we have to us. And we are bid to offer it up for God’s use through us. Our recognition of our “giftedness” translates into our giving. 

How we give is always the decision before us. As one commentator suggested, referring to our gospel lesson about giving to  Caesar and God: “Figuring out our taxes is easy; figuring out what is God’s is more challenging.”  

Well, in the end,  it all belongs to God. 

Thanks be to God! 

The Sixteenth Sunday After Pentecost

Before I start, a “brief pause that refreshes” . . .  brought to you by the “Altars in the World”  crew from yesterday’s hike in Staunton State Park.

I’ve mentioned several times—although not all of you may have heard it—that, for a number of years, I taught a course at the University of Denver called “Pets, Partners or Pot-roast”. (I won’t apologize for repeating myself, because “good stories” can be used in a variety of situations!) A brief description of the course might be:  “How do we (as humans) interact with our non-human neighbors”. Class sessions were devoted to: “Animals in the Environment”, “Service Animals”, “Animals in Research”, “Animals as Livestock”, “Animals as Pets”, and “Animals as Food”. They were all GREAT, lively, discussions! But they were not conducted randomly . . . that is, outside of any theoretical context.

We began with three sessions devoted to the question of how we distinguish our human animal-nature from non-human animal-nature. In short, “What makes us “different” from our dog/cat or the  cow/chicken/fish that was last night’s dinner?”. We discussed how  religions draw the distinction (think, for example, of our biblical traditions and the order of creation)? How has philosophy drawn a distinction (if Descartes was right, for example, and “I think, therefore I am” is a marker of human-ness, do animals “think” . . . and, if so?). And, finally, can a distinction be drawn  scientifically or on the basis of evolution (consider: “How many DNA chromosomes does it take to make a difference?”).  We found no “easy” answers to the questions!

You . . . ponder for a moment: “What does make humans distinct from non-human animals?” For a long time it was “tool-use”—i.e., humans use tools. Well,  so do monkeys! Then it was “play”—but  crows play! With regard to Descartes and self-reflectivity, are we the only “animals” that “know ourselves”? Research reflected by the  “mirror (or rouge)” test says “No.” So, how are we distinct?  That question dogged (pardon the pun) the class for ten weeks. As I said the last time I talked about this class, my intent was not to convert students from being  meat-eaters to being vegans, or to get them to join  People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. I—full disclosure—still love my burgers, and I don’t belong to PETA. My goal was simply to encourage students to think about our, human,  place in the wider context of “creatureliness”. As the class went on, and we discussed the various areas in which we interact with non-human animals, the distinction lines became very blurry. (To be sure this will not devolve into a discussion of whether or not  we look like our pets!)

I couldn’t help but think of that class, and the distinctions we struggled to make between “humans” and “animals”, when I read our passage from Paul’s letter to the Romans. I certainly understand Paul wrote as a “human” to “humans”—and reflected an attitude that, probably, we all “assume”, or, at least, understand. But, at root, I believe the issues raised in “Pets, Partners or Pot-roast” and Paul’s counsel to the Romans are related, that is:  “Who—or what—is important, and who—or what—isn’t?” Or, using the language Paul uses,  “Who’s strong and who’s weak . . . and which position rules . . . and who decides?”

Reflecting on this over the last week, I was struck by two (related) areas of overlap—both having to do with the question of  “weak” and “strong”. The first, perhaps akin to Paul’s concern, is how we deal with folks who differ from us on how we understand our relationship to non-human animals: “who’s weak and who is strong”—that is,  the weak may be those who have no qualms about exterminating wolves, and the strong are those who are very pro-wolf.  The other is how we (as humans) see our relationship to “animals” — that is, again, “who’s weak and who is strong”—that is,  who sees us little different than our non-human neighbors, and those who are certain that there is a vast difference. (And, by the way, I recognize that weak and strong may be identified differently, depending on which group one identifies with).

The question of “weak” and “strong” seems to be a constant among us as humans—and we certainly see it among early Christians. It had long been defined as Israelites vs. their geographical neighbors; questions of “chosen-ness” or “purity” differentiated Jews (the strong) from Gentiles (the weak). But, as the gospel spread beyond its Jewish “homeland”, the question of  full inclusion of Gentiles into the Christian community gained importance. And, as we read in the book of Acts, Paul (as well as Peter) championed the  Gentiles’ cause with the Jerusalem leaders, eventuating in the “relaxation” of some legal conformity for Gentiles (Acts 15.20). The boundaries between weak or strong began to change contours.

The new Christian congregations didn’t change their natures over night. And, in Rome, there could have been  debates among the strong and the weak: specifically, whether or not the sabbath and food rules should be kept. The strong were those, apparently, who seemed to be ready to accept “freedoms” offered by the gospel. The weak, on the other hand—for whatever reason—felt that observing sabbath/holy-days was important. They also were uncomfortable going to the  local butcher shops—usually associated with the temples of the Roman gods; the rules of kosher did not permit that.

Paul doesn’t align with either group. He doesn’t fall into the trap of agreeing that one group is more important than the other, that one group is “right”. On the contrary, he appeals to something deeper—more important—than being “right”. He points an underlying connection: Christ died for all. Recognize differences, but do not see them as divisive, but, rather, as a diversity reflective of the  Body of Christ—as he’d argued in Romans 12 (vv 3-8). . . a diverse body from which we can learn.

(To be clear, there certainly were issues that Paul saw as non-negotiable. Those who demanded circumcision, or those who “proclaimed Christ” for their own financial gain, needed correction, or to be expelled from the community. Paul wasn’t calling for a “big happy family”—but he did recognize that there were some issues that ought be seen as being under the larger tent of love.)

This can expand, easily, into the other area of strong and weak—that is humans and “animals”. In “Pets, Partners or Pot-roast”, we recognized that there were significant differences between “us” and “them”. On the negative side, for example, we humans  go to war; most “animals”—while fighting for their own, individual, territory—don’t band together against another group. On the other side, we are much more mobile than most other species (well, perhaps except the  Arctic Tern that travels 55,000 miles every year under it’s own steam). And, we have the ability to affect (either positively, or negatively)  global climate/habitat issues. Given those differences, does that make us “stronger”? Do we read the  Genesis creation stories in such a way that privileges our position over that of other species—whether individually or as a whole? And, if so, does that mean that we can do what we want with those who are “weak”?

Using Paul’s logic, the answer seems to be “No.” While our relationship with non-humans animals isn’t defined by Christ’s death on our behalf, it is defined by the relationship we all have with our common Creator. God—according to our creation stories—brought us all forth to be part of the same earth. In the first creation story in Genesis (1.1-2.4), we were all to be part of a  very good creation; our human task was to ensure that the rest of creation was able to thrive! In the second story (2.5 ff), it was to be in a productive relationship with each other;  God brought forth “animals” to be companions for the first human. Inter-relationship was at the core; diversity was at the core. There wasn’t the dividing line between weak and strong that we’ve come to accept; we don’t get to decide who’s weak or strong. God has already “done that”—sweeping the distinctions under the rug. “All God’s creatures”, as the children’s song declares,  “have a place in the choir”. We’re all necessary to sing a cosmic hymn of praise.

Distinctions between weak and strong are distinctions we make—assuming we know what is important; we do it, mostly, to suit ourselves. Our theology, however, claims that our human differences need be carefully examined—held up to the  light of Christ on the cross—to see who, if anyone, is subject to exclusion. Our theology, too, claims that God's care for creation extends beyond humanity. All creatures were charged to be fruitful and to multiply; none were charged to dominate. We humans were charged, simply, to be good stewards of the rest of creation. We need be very careful, lest we cast aside God’s gift of diversity—human and/or creaturely—for some alternate—perhaps demonic—idea of domination and superiority.

Amen.

The Fifteenth Sunday After Pentecost

Those of you who “follow” Good Shepherd on Facebook (either our  “normal” page or our “24/7 Coffee Hour” page) know that I regularly post the holy days that appear in the Church’s liturgical calendar, along with a link to some resource that explains those days. I also post other significant days (and a link)—both the major holy days for other world religions as well as days of global importance (as designated by the United Nations, for example). Well, I missed a “significant” day earlier this week. Appearing in my Facebook feed on Friday was the reminder that “Star Trek” premiered on that day 57 years ago; yes,  September 8 is “Star Trek Day” (not to be confused, of course with  Star Wars Day, May the 4th).

Those of us who remember that premier may recall a “Will any of that ever really happen?” feeling? Well, the  incredibly multicultural cast/crew of the 1966 USS Enterprise was prescient. Technologically, we’ve gone beyond  flip-phone communicators (although some folks still prefer them). We can talk to Alexa or Siri—that is,  our computers. The  kiss between Captain Kirk and Lt. Uhura seems a whole lot less controversial for most of us today than it did in 1968. What the original Star Trek and its television and movie successors gave us was Gene Roddenberry’s somewhat-utopian vision of the future. And, there is a sense that that the  series and the movies became (for some) a visual “scripture”—with a created cosmos populated by diverse creatures who necessarily interact with each other—although not without conflict. Yet, underlying much of the Star Trek universe is a hopeful vision of the future.

Our scriptures—both the Hebrew and Christian—also aim at a positive future . . . in multiple ways. From the very beginning, God created a  “very good” world, with the hope that all those diverse creatures would multiply and fill the world (in their specific environments)—not necessarily without conflict (not all animals are herbivores!), but at least in a harmonious and sustainable way. The stories that we’ve heard over the last few weeks from Genesis, and now into Exodus, point to a future for a “chosen people”:  a land flowing with milk and honey. Recognizing, however, the fallen nature of humanity—and how it played out in that nation’s history—we see a a broader future envisioned by the Hebrew prophets and Jesus himself where  justice, mercy and equality reigned for all. When broken, fallen, humans put Jesus to death, the Christian community adopted another message of a future—this time, a mostly other-worldly future—where wrongs would be righted; a  new heavens and earth! 

As Christians, much of the language we use is all about the future:  from Hebrews: “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen”(1.1). From the Nicene Creed: “ [We believe that Christ] will come again in glory . . . and his kingdom will have no end . . . We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come” (BCP, 358-359). All of this future-orientation, though, begs questions:  “What kind of future do we envision?” or “What does Christ’s realm look like?” Or “What is the ‘life of the world to come?’”.

A future for a chosen people, as I mentioned, in envisioned in the book of Exodus—and suggested in our first reading (echoed a bit in our Psalm). A  past of slavery, of servitude—will be left behind; there is a promise of redemption, a future of freedom for the Israelites. Yet that  hope was for them. Their freedom, their future, came at a cost for others. The Egyptians paid  horribly for their part in the story. But many people of good faith wonder, “Would that have been a necessary part of a loving God’s hope for creation?” It would be natural to see things in that light as the biblical writers were trying to understand their story in light of their relationship with God. BUT, many of us are troubled by that kind of vision and, therefore, struggle with this story. Is that the kind of future we see God envisioning: our freedom at the expense of others? What is the future God calls us to envision?

Paul,  writing to the Christians in Rome, reflects a different vision of the future. His understanding requires that Christians live differently than their neighbors:  “[Get] rid of the actions that belong to the darkness; put on the weapons of light.  [Behave] appropriately as people who live in the day . . . [dressed] with the Lord Jesus Christ, and [not indulging] selfish desires” (13.13-14). “Live differently!” Paul counsels. Why? “[You] know what time it is. The hour has already come for you to wake up from your sleep. [Our] salvation is nearer than when we first had faith. The night is almost over, and the day is near” (13.11-12). Paul anticipates an impending future that demands a different kind of behavior, a new ethics,  almost as part of the “entrance requirements”.

But that future did not arrive as expected. Does that mean that the new ethics are no longer imperative, and that Christians could revert to our old ways; the urgency being gone? Or does it suggest that Christian living needs to adjust itself for the long haul? Later letters of the New Testament suggest that—that our responsibility, the living out of our personal lives, should reflect an understanding that God’s realm is here, now, and present until . . . (?)  Do we envision a future that is predicated only on “saving ourselves” or one in which we have  done our best to improve the lot of all creation? What is the future God calls us to envision?

Jesus, according to Matthew, offers a different kind of paradigm. The passage we heard this morning is a part of a larger section, beginning in chapter 16, which includes a charge to  Peter and the community to create an future where heaven’s values are reflected on earth. In this view of the future (for which we  pray regularly), what is most desired is the wholeness of the community. Those who fall short of the community’s mark, are to be gently corrected with the hope that they will return to the fold. Only after all reasonable measures have been taken, and the offending party still refuses to change, is that offender to be treated as a “Gentile or tax collector”—not as someone excommunicated, but as one who can still be (re-)invited to return. Vengeance is not part of the equation. What kind of future do we want— one where threat reigns? Or one where the  “Welcome” sign is always lit? What is the future God calls us to envision?

That question is, of course, more than just one for “biblical” times. Tomorrow is the anniversary of a singularly horrific event in American history: a terrorists attack on our land.  One has to wonder what kind of future those terrorists envisioned. Their actions certainly created a different world—one in which we now live: a future-present where fear of the other is paramount. But is that the kind of future we want to perpetuate? What is the future God calls us to envision?

The question “What kind of future do we want/envision?” is particularly appropriate to address in this Season of Creation. There are some, holding to a particular reading of the Bible, who continue to hold that Paul’s assertion that the  “time is drawing near” and translate that belief into an attitude of “Who cares about the environment? The world’s coming to an end anyhow.” That, as far as I’m concerned, is an incredibly bad theology. Yes, there is an urgency . . . but not just for humans . . . for the  environment as a whole. Would God wish that we ignore the peril facing God’s good creation? Would God wish that we continue to pollute or use up resources in such a way that there is no future for that creation? What kind of future does God, do we, envision? And what is our role now?

And, of course, there is always the question of the future we envision here at Good Shepherd. I believe we have embraced the Creator’s ideal of a loving and inclusive community. I believe that we have embraced God’s vision of a just and equitable society. I believe we have embraced God’s ideal for everyone’s individual gifts and talents to be employed for the good of the community—both large and small! How do we translate that embrace into something tangible? Well, we go to the  picnic! We engage in outreach and advocacy! We follow up on “Gathered and Gifted” with  “Gifted and Going On” in a couple of weeks. We all have multiple ways to engage in creating a new, sustainable future.

What kind of future  do we, with God, envision . . . for our world, for our church? There is urgency, but that urgency doesn’t mean that we employ self-serving, or vindictive, or “the-present-be-damned”, policies. God’s history is longer than that; God’s creation was destined for a good future whose end is known only to God. Until then, we’re urgently needed as stewards . . . co-creators . . . whose role is to ensure a just, equitable, glorious, beautiful creation for all.

The day of reckoning is always before us, and it asks, “What kind of future do we want?” Are we ready to “boldly go”, as  God would envision, into that future?

Amen.

The Fourteenth Sunday After Pentecost

Last week, you may recall that I identified a theme I felt ran through all of the lessons: “How do we lead faithful lives in an environment where such faithfulness isn’t necessarily supported?” I referred to the title of Robert Heinlein’s book,  Stranger in a Strange Land. And while I do not see that theme playing out in the same way this week, Heinlein’s title still may be apt, for it would appear that Moses found himself a “stranger on some very remarkable, if not strange, land!” And, so, this week I want to focus on one particular verse, God’s directive to Moses:  “Don’t come any closer! Take off your sandals, because you are standing on holy ground” (Ex 3.5).

This verse is pretty familiar, even to folks who haven’t grown up in church. Whether that familiarity comes from  Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments or the more recent  The Prince of Egypt . . . or some other, more secular or even passing, reference, most of us—I would guess–have heard it . . . and may even recall the context! We’ve heard it . . . but have we heard it? For me, living with that passage—that verse—this week has raised a couple of questions . . . questions that familiarity may have relegated to the back of my mind. But they are that seem to be worth re-visiting. Question one:  “What is it about sandals that requires their removal?” Question two:  “What makes  holy ground, holy, after all? And how do we recognize its holiness?”

So . . . why did Moses have to remove his sandals? You might think that there’s a straightforward answer, like “Well, he was standing on holy ground!” . . . as if it was self-evident. Unfortunately, there is no straightforward answer, or scholarly consensus, about why footwear should come off. It’s a common-enough practice:  Muslims, Hindus, and Sikhs remove their shoes upon entry into their places of worship. The Talmud—that post-biblical compendium of Jewish legislation and thought—tells us that priests would remove their shoes upon entering the Temple Mount (Berakoth 62b). But why?

Three theories seem to have risen to the top among scholars. First, wouldn’t one want to enter into the presence of the holy as clean as possible? (Think of the–maybe old-fashioned— practice of Saturday night baths for the kids!) So, the most dirty item of clothing would probably (at any given time) be footwear;  best remove it. A second theory suggests that coming before the holy barefoot is a sign of humility; being shoeless lowers one’s status. A third theory (which doesn’t work so well with slip-on sandals) is that  untying one’s sandals is symbolic of having all knots undone in the presence of God; nothing should keep one from approaching God. Those are good, scholarly, answers . . . I guess.

I will add a couple of other possibilities. The first is specific to this story, and came from an ultra-orthodox, Jewish, thinker: “Only when one is barefoot can one feel the  little stones underfoot. Moses was to lead his people in such a way that he could feel their smallest sorrows” (Plaut, W. Gunther. The Torah: A Modern Commentary, Revised Edition. Reform Judaism Publishing 2006, 372). This “spiritual” interpretation (which I like, by the way) points to a second possibility. Being barefoot means one almost necessarily has to slow down (running barefoot on sand aside). If we are barefoot,  we tend to be careful; we take notice of what’s beneath our feet.

So, what do you think? Which makes the most sense in the context of this passage? Which speaks to you. I’ll let you choose. I kind of like the last two . . . but I’ll get there!

But, then, there’s the issue of where one would need to remove one’s footwear . . . in particular—in this passage—“holy ground”. In our reading from Exodus, “holy ground” is the  mountain of God. But Sinai/Horeb wasn’t the only place where shoes were to be removed. Immediately before marching on Jericho—on level ground, in Canaan!,  Joshua encounters the commander of the heavenly host, who tells Joshua, “Take your sandals off your feet because the place where you are standing is holy” (Js 5.15). In a very different context, rites of mourning for the dead may have included the removal of shoes; in one instance the prophet Ezekiel is told not to observe mourning rites, but to put his turban and sandals on! (Ez 24.17).

 The mountain of God—a place of divine revelation:  holy ground . . . remove shoes. [By the way, you may have noticed that the “mountain of God” in our reading was called “Horeb”. What about “Mt. Sinai? Well, aside from the fact that “Horeb” and “Sinai” represent different traditions about the name of the “mountain of God”, there is  no consensus as to where the mountain of God is located! There was no argument, however, about whether there was a mountain of God.] The location where God is about to deliver a  miraculous victory to the Israelites—a place of divine revelation:  holy ground . . . remove shoes. The  Temple Mount—a place of divine encounter:  holy ground . . . remove shoes.  A  place of mourning, of death—a place of divine encounter:  holy ground . . . remove shoes.

And, so, given the possibilities, I have to wonder . . . is “holy ground” any piece of real estate where we might encounter God. Is “holy ground”, to use the language of Celtic spirituality, nothing but a “thin place” . . . a place where the “other world” and this world come together? A mountain?  The Isle of Lindisfarne? A  sacred grotto? Or even the  backyard garden, or the lathe, or the tying bench, or sewing table? Where do we encounter God? Where ought our “shoes” come off? More importantly, how do we know it’s “holy” so we can respond appropriately?

I want to return to Moses’ encounter with God: “Moses was taking care of the flock for his father-in-law . . .  He led his flock out to the edge of the desert, and he came to God’s mountain” (Ex 3.1).  And there he noticed that there was a bush that seemed to burn without being consumed. His curiosity drove him to “check it out”. And it wasn’t until Moses started looking that God “saw that he was coming to look”, and then  “God called to him out of the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’” (3.4). Moses acknowledged the summons, and then was told that he was on holy ground. Moses didn’t know the nature of the ground until he noticed the burning bush and approached; it was then that God told him the ground was “holy”.

What we didn’t hear this morning was the “back-story” to Moses’ encounter with the burning bush. In the three verses before this morning’s passage, we’re told that “A long time passed, and the Egyptian king died. The Israelites were still groaning because of their hard work. They cried out, and their cry to be  rescued from the hard work rose up to God. . . God looked at the Israelites, and God understood” (Ex 2.23-25). God noticed what was going on, and decided that something had to be done. What was to be done was to be done through Moses, and to get Moses’ attention, an extraordinary phenomenon of nature was necessary.

God noticed what was going on with the Israelites. Moses noticed the burning bush. And God summoned Moses to recognize the moment:  “Where you are, and what you are to do, makes this place holy! So, take off your sandals and be here!  Feel the sorrows of your people like I do! It is your role to lead them away from Pharaoh’s injustices.” Moses, protests, “I’m not worthy!” But God doesn’t let him get away with that. God assures Moses that he—Moses—has everything God needs in a leader. And God provides a back-up:  Aaron. There are no excuses great enough to excuse Moses from carrying out God’s mission.

The question to us—as individuals and a congregation—is what are that burning bushes we “notice”. There are many to be sure. But, today, was we enter the Season of Creation, I want us to focus, literally, on the  Holy Ground of this earth where we meet, and experience, God.

Are we “strangers” on the land upon which we’re standing? Do we listen to the “voice” from the  burning bushes that seize our attention? Can we live lives of faithfulness in a culture that takes the  land upon which we live as a thing only to be used ’til there is no more? God invites us: “Take off your sandals! Take off your earbuds. Put down your phone.  Slow down! Feel the earth. Feel all of the little rocks, the blades of grass, the uncomfortable twigs. Feel the holy ground that is all part of God’s “very good” creation. See the birds. “Look with me,” God says, “See the beauty! But see, too, the pain. Enjoy the first by all means! But, by all means too, correct the second. For you are on  holy ground.”

 

Amen.

The Thirteenth Sunday After Pentecost

Every week I usually receive several “Here are some helps for your sermon preparation” emails. Sometimes they are helpful; other times less so. This week, I had read the lessons several times before I opened the email that had this  as its “lead”. It mentions the date. It has a picture of Moses being discovered in his basket in the Nile. AND it suggests “Themes for the Week:  Israelites, Moses, living sacrifice, Son of Man, Messiah, House of God” (The Living Church, https://tinyurl.com/245m4a76).

I read those “themes” several times . . . and I could recall “mentions” those items in our readings. But I thought the editors really missed a unifying thread. That thread is summed up in Robert Heinlein’s famous book title (a quote from Exodus 2.20, by the way):  Stranger in a Strange Land.  All of the lessons, as far as I’m concerned, address the question: “How do we lead faithful lives in an environment where such faithfulness isn’t necessarily supported?”

The reading from Exodus assumes that we know what had happened before the new Pharaoh came to power. Just in case we don’t remember: over the last few weeks, we’ve learned how the Israelites got to Egypt—stories about Jacob and his sons, Joseph’s interpretation of a  previous Pharaoh’s dream and subsequent success in his court, and his brothers  seeking refuge in Egypt to escape famine. The, and we heard, the Israelites grew in numbers and began to be seen as a threat to the Egyptians. The new Pharaoh fans the flames—exaggerating the Israelite “threat”—and  begins to persecute the Israelites. The “strange land” of Egypt—that dominant culture, embodied in Pharaoh—then makes horrific demands on the Israelite midwives. The midwives, however,  refuse to go along with Pharaoh’s demands; their commitment to God and their people is greater than their fear of the consequences of non-conformity. Indeed, in Exodus, we have one of the first recorded acts of civil disobedience—by women!

But there’s more! No only did the midwives not comply with Pharaoh’s edict. His  own daughter refused to conform; she had to have known his command, since she did notice that “This must be one of the Hebrews’ children” (Ex 2.6)? AND she sought a Hebrew nursemaid for the child—a nursemaid who turned out to be Moses’ very mother. Her compassion and humanity (Exodus points out, “she felt sorry for him”) ran contrary to the fear and inhumanity of her father and the Egyptians who rallied to his cause. 

And there’s still more! I have to wonder what  Moses’ mother, acting as nursemaid, and then nanny, sang to Moses every day? What did she teach him about their common past? I doubt she towed the Egyptian party line! She had a different, more powerful, faith story to pass on—one which had resulted in Moses’ very rescue from Pharaoh’s designs.

How do we live in a strange land? The women of this story teach us: “Be true to God’s commands, not Pharaoh’s; live with compassion; tell the stories that make us who we are!”

Non-conformity to the dominant culture is central to Paul’s exhortation to the Roman Christians. To a mixed group of Jews and Gentiles—all of whom lived within a “sacrificial culture”—Paul says,  “Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice! That’s a holy and acceptable offering!” In other words: “God doesn’t want an animal to die in place of you! God wants your whole, living, self!” This requires a total re-orientation of thinking: the “patterns of this world” are off-base in so many ways, we are to transform our thinking and living.

The dominant culture in the ancient world—not so different from ours—prized  status—social and economic—above all else. Paul’s argument for nonconformity and reorientation recognizes a different calculus: God has given every one of us unique gifts and talents. There are different gifts, yes! But those differences themselves are all part of what makes the Christian community what it is: special and complete. In the  Body of Christ, we are not to make the distinctions that the wider world might make. On the contrary, we are to value and lift up all the gifts that make up the church.

How do we live in a strange land? Recognize the breadth of God’s gift-giving.  All enrich the community; all are welcome. No exceptions.

In our reading from Matthew’s Gospel (as in Mark and Luke), we’re treated to another instance highlighting the difference between what the “crowd” thinks and what Christians think. Jesus asks his  closest followers what “people” have to say about the “Son of Man”. [ Sidebar: “Son of Man" is a much talked-about term, and we’re uncertain how it may be used here. It could be a  humble way of saying “me”; Mark’s and Luke’s versions of this story, for example, have Jesus asking his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” (Mk 8.27; Lk 9.18). Or it could be a way of referring to some future saving figure—  the “Messiah”; Matthew’s version seems to point in that direction. Regardless, the issue is about how the people, see an expected leader.]

Jesus’ disciples—giving voice to various factions in the “crowd” propose a lot of options:   John the Baptist resurrected;  Elijah;  Jeremiah; or another prophet. But all of the suggestions seem to point in the direction of something politically significant . . . someone that would help restore Israel’s dignity and prominence and, perhaps, overthrow Rome. In other words, the expectation was in conformity to the “ways of the world”.

But Jesus gets more pointed, more specific: he asks the disciples about their experience, their expectation, of him,  “Who do y’all say that I am?” (Mt  16.15). Peter, acting as their spokesman, identifies  Jesus with the “Messiah”—a figure, many believed, who would sit upon David’s throne, re-making Israel as a political power. Jesus affirms Peter’s alternate identification, but . . .  But he doesn’t want the news spread around. Why? Because, even Peter—with all of the information and experience he has had about Jesus—doesn’t get what “Messiah” means. He doesn’t recognize that “Messiah” is something  deeper, even more radical. The Messiah, and the Messiah’s followers, are to inaugurate a different kind of realm, one which demands self-sacrifice; service to others is at the core.

How do we live in a strange land? We adopt the way of the Cross:  we serve—not seeking our glory, we lift others up. We strive to make a difference in that strange land, in that way.

The “theme” that strikes me is clear: God’s faithful live in a way that may be contrary to the crowd’s expectations. Whether the crowd lives in fear of immigrants . . . whether the crowd expects any measure of economic or social status to be paramount . . . whether the crowd is looking to a “powerful” leader . . . God’s answer to those expectations looks in a different direction.  Live and lead with compassion. Live and lead valuing diversity and inclusion. Live and lead with self-sacrificial service. Live and lead . . . differently.

This morning we add another member to the Body of Christ. Her parents, godparents, and we will promise to help her discern that the crowd’s ways are not always the best ways. We, with her parents and godparents, vow to live differently . We vow to meet together for mutual support and to recognize our reliance upon God. We vow to support and forgive each other in times of temptation and failure. We vow to speak God’s good news to the world. We vow to seek and serve Christ in all persons. We vow to work for justice, peace, and dignity for all. We vow to honor God’s creation. If what we vow here, this morning, is not an act of non-conformity, or, perhaps even, an act of civil disobedience, I’m not sure what is.

Answering Jesus’ question, “Who do you say that I am?” by coming to the baptismal font requires different things of us as individuals. We may be called to resist  “workaholism” and to set the care of our family—and our own selves—at the forefront. We may be called to refuse the summons  recklessly to consume our limited natural resources. We may be called upon to  speak up for those whose voices are regularly silenced by a culture that doesn’t want to listen.  We may be called to  tell stories that aren’t often taught in Pharaoh’s schools. We will all have to discern where we’re challenged. The different gifts we’ve been given (as Paul writes) will translate into different tactics to “resist”. But, with God’s help, all may be seen as acts of faithfulness.

 They are all acts of those us who vow to live as strangers in a strange land.

 

Amen

The Transfiguration

Last summer, as part of a several-day trip to Rocky Mountain National Park, I wanted to hike to Sky Pond. Partly because it was said to be a challenging hike with a  beautiful destination, and partly because Sky Pond—far enough away from most folks—was reputed to have good fishing. Well the trail was challenging, and I remember telling another hiker on the way up that I was glad I had spent a lot of time on a stair-climber at the gym. And, then I got to the  “scramble”. I looked at the rock wall that stood between me and Sky Pond. I sat down and ate an energy bar, contemplating the climb and the potential for fish. I decided that I could fish elsewhere (i.e., back down at The Loch) and not put myself at risk by climbing that rock face.

As I started back down the mountain, I remembered another challenging climb. Every year my son’s scout troop set out to summit a 14’er—the Boy Scouts in Colorado have developed a  special patch for those who’ve done it. That year is was Mt. Sherman ( according to some, “Colorado’s Easiest Fourteener”). We left base camp pre-dawn and started the climb. Lots of folks (including some scouts) pooped out at various points along the way. I was determined. I made it to the final saddle—a very narrow (and windy!)  ridge stood between me and the summit. I pondered, and decided, whether I had made it to 14,000 feet or not, my family would rather I get home safely than have me blown off the side of that ridge. Perhaps I’m a little too cautious for mountain climbing (although I suppose there’s still time to “bag a 14’er”—I could take the  cog train to the top of Pike’s Peak!).

Two disappointments . . . results of my own hesitancies, to be sure. But both raised an underlying question: “Why do we climb mountains?” Exercise? The challenge, and sense of accomplishment? Because it’s there? A desire for the view? Hungry fish? Or, do we hope the experience will change us? The reasons, I’m sure, and many and varied.

Mountains!  Lots of them to our west. And, on this day our lessons are about mountains as well. And so, I had to return to those old questions, but with greater specificity: “Why did those folks climb mountains? What were they expecting?” Six of the most famous “mountain-climbers” in history: Moses, Elijah, Jesus, Peter, James and John. And, given my own experience, I had to wonder whether any of them were nervous approaching the summit?

Moses . . . a major climber! He goes up and down Mt. Sinai numerous times. The first, of course, is when he’s tending his father-in-law’s flocks, after fleeing his privilege life in Egypt. It is at the mountain he sees the  burning bush and desires to know more. If he was fearful, his curiosity overruled his hesitancy. But then, the voice comes from the bush, and “Moses hid his face because he was afraid to look at God” (Ex 3.6). From that bush on the mountain, God gives Moses his first mission: “Lead the Israelites out of bondage. And, bring them back to the mountain where they will worship God.” From that bush, on that mountain, God reveals the Holy Name: “I am that I am”. Moses hesitates, protests, fearful of the responsibility, “Please, just send someone else!” (Ex 4.13). But the God Who Is prevails. On the mountain, the mission begins.

Moses returns to Egypt and, eventually, gains the Israelites’ release. After escaping the pursuing Egyptian army, they arrive at the base of Mt. Sinai, where, we’re told “the people shook with fear” (Ex 19.16). Yet Moses goes up again,  returning with the Ten Commandments. He goes up again for more instruction and laws. Upon his return from that 40-day sojourn, he finds that the people, fearful that he might not return, had set up a golden calf to worship. Furious, Moses  breaks the original tablets and cleanses the camp. He returns to the mountain again to intercede on behalf of the people (that may have caused some trepidation!). While there, he asks to see God’s glory. God shields Moses’ eyes, but passes by so that Moses sees only his back. Moses secures a second set of tablets of the covenant and returns to the people with his  face aglow, causing fear among those who saw him (Ex 34.30)—the reading we heard this morning.  (BTW, the  “horns” with which Moses was often depicted comes from a mis-translation regarding his “shining” face.)

Moses climbed the mountain out of a curiosity that was greater than his fear . . . and there he encountered the God Who Is. He ascended the mountain several more times—I would imagine with varying levels of fear—to receive instruction, to intercede, and is given a mission: he was the one specifically chosen by God to free God’s people and give them God’s law. The man who went up the mountain came down a different man.

Elijah was also a climber, although not as frequently as Moses. But twice, on two different mountains, he encountered God. First, after a period of faithfulness to God, the people of Israel strayed into idolatry—following the lead of King Ahab’s wife, Jezebel. To settle the question of “Whose god is mightier?”, Elijah met the prophets of Baal on  Mt. Carmel—one against hundreds . . . perhaps a bit fear-inducing. A battle of sacrifices ensued, and  Baal’s prophets were embarrassed. Elijah’s sacrifice was accepted, and Baal’s folks were put to the sword (1 Kg 18).

That outcome infuriated Jezebel and Ahab. They threatened Elijah and he fled for another mountain— Mt. Sinai—seeking refuge out of fear. It was then that God appeared to Elijah not face-to-face, not in the hurricane, earthquake or fire,  but in a small murmuring sound. God commissions Elijah to return,  anoint Elisha as successor, and jointly, with him, to restore Israel to the worship of God. (1 Kg 19) As with Moses, Elijah ascended mountain—fearful, no doubt—encountered the God Who Is, and was given a mission: to ensure good leadership of God’s people. The man who went up the mountain came down a different man.

And, today we are at the Mount of Transfiguration ( usually identified with Mt. Tabor). Luke tells us why Jesus went up the mountain: to pray, ostensibly—Jesus often sought renewal on high places. But did Jesus know what to expect this time? He had told the disciples what being a Messiah really meant: he would die. Was his ascent of the mountain going to confirm that?

Jesus invites Peter, James and John to accompany him. What mi got they have feared, having just been given the news that their leader was soon to die? There they see Jesus’ mountain-climbing predecessors,  Moses and Elijah. And something awesome, no doubt fear-inducing, happens. Jesus is transfigured—a “metamorphosis”. The disciples see and hear the three discussing Jesus’ “exodus”.  They hear the Voice from the cloud, eerily similar to the Voice Jesus heard at his baptism, with the instruction to them to “listen to him” (Lk 9. 35). As the cloud lifts, Moses and Elijah are no longer to be seen. It is Jesus who is now sole leader of God’s people and the one who gives God’s law. Jesus embodies all who God is, and how God would have us live. The conclusion of Jesus’ mission is before him; the extension of that mission is given to  Peter, James and John. The four who went up the mountain descended—all transformed in one way or another.

The various ascents up mountains, including the mount of Transfiguration, serve, it seems to me, as fulcrums. In all of the stories, our mountain-climbers ascend; their relationships with God compelling them to climb—despite fears behind and ahead. They encounter the God Who Is. They descend, changed by the experience, and are given new missions.

We—as individuals and as a congregation—may be their heirs from time to time. We may receive summons—perhaps not always welcome— to ascend various literal and figurative mountains. Some mountains may hold threat, some may hold promise. I imagine we’re often as fearful as Moses, Elijah, Jesus, Peter James and John at the prospects. What might happen? Do we have the strength? Are we brave enough? What might we be asked? Can we see God in the request? Are we willing to be transformed?

Success at Sky Pond or  Mt. Sherman probably wouldn’t have transformed me on the spot. But my memories of those experiences return often, and work on me—perhaps a bit like the leaven we heard about last week—changing my attitudes—challenging my fears— about the various “mountains” that will inevitably arise before me. Perhaps—again returning to last week’s reading—the Kingdom of Heaven is like a mountain, which a person went to climb, and discovered . . . .    The God Who Is?

 

Amen

The Ninth Sunday After Pentecost

“Have you understood all these things?” Jesus asked. [The disciples] said to him, “Yes” (Mt 13.51)

At the end of a discourse containing seven parables, two of which the disciples had to have explained, they assert that they had “understood all these things”. I bet not. More likely they didn’t want to admit that they were still uncertain! But they answered, perhaps like little kids when asked if they’ve done their chores, “Yes” (with their fingers crossed behind their backs). And I have to wonder whether or not Jesus guessed their uncertainty, giving them another, rather opaque, instruction:  “every legal expert who has been trained as a disciple for the Kingdom of heaven is like the head of a household who brings old and new things out of their treasure chest” (13.52). I would imagine they were left scratching their heads; biblical scholars throughout history have struggled to figure that one out!

As I’ve suggested over the last several weeks, Jesus’ parables are not “easily understood”. They are not “thou shalt’s” or “thou shalt not’s” or pithy proverbs. They are “small stories with large points” (Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking: A Seeker’s ABC. Harper SanFrancisco, 1993: 80). . . or maybe even better, “small stories with several possible large points”. Trying to narrow them down, as far as I’m concerned, robs us of our imagination‚ or, in “religious language”, limits the ability of the Holy Spirit to speak to us—either as a congregation, or as individuals.

We began, a couple of weeks ago, by looking at the “Parable of the Sower”. I admitted that I had been somewhat “led astray” by a professor who pointed out that the given explanation to that parable didn’t “fit” the parable itself. His “answer” effectively stopped me—for decades—from looking further into what value the story might hold for me. And it wasn’t until quite recently that I was able to move past that brick wall, and to understand: (a) that there was a context behind the telling of the parable and Jesus’ explanation of it, but (b), even Jesus’ own explanation didn’t exhaust the parable.

You remember the parable: a sower sows seeds that fall on different kinds of ground, with varying results. Jesus probably explained that story to his disciples to help make sense of the mixed results their work had accomplished in Galilee. Everyone had heard the same word (that is, received the same “seed”), but not everyone accepted it in the same way (if at all). But that “mixed reception” shouldn’t stop evangelistic efforts. That explanation makes sense, especially as Matthew is telling his version of the “Jesus story”. But, as I mentioned, the “ground” upon which the seed falls may also represent our varying abilities—depending on circumstances—to hear what the Spirit is saying to us, as individuals. Very different interpretations; both quite valid.

Last week we looked at another parable and explanation: the parable of the Wheat and Tares: a farmer sows wheat, and an enemy sows tares. “What to do?” the farm-hands ask? “Leave them alone and separate them at the harvest,” the farmer answers. While that parable could also be interpreted in the context of the Galilean mission, it can point to our mixed nature too (we are both saints and sinners at the same time), Matthew’s explanation turns the story into one of the last judgment. Again, very different interpretations, reflecting different circumstances.

Both of those parables were part of Jesus’ teaching about the “Kingdom of Heaven” (or “Kingdom of God” in Mark and Luke). The expectations were great among the Jews of the day that the Messiah was going to establish a realm where Israel would be restored, and “all would be right with the world”. When Jesus began proclaiming the “nearness of the Kingdom”, and gathering his followers, I have to imagine that their trust—their faith—in him was great enough that they were willing to “leave everything and follow,” as Peter told Jesus a bit later (Mt 19.27). They were willing—perhaps eager—to say “Yes,” because of their possible roles in that new realm; remember that James and John wanted seats at Jesus’ right and left hands in the Kingdom (Mk 10.37).

Yet, as the experience of Jesus and and his disciples unfolded, Jesus’ followers quickly realized that not everything was going to go as they had anticipated. “Was our hope misplaced?”, they wondered. Jesus’ answer—as suggested in all of the “parables of the Kingdom” in Matthew 13—was that their hope wasn’t necessarily “misplaced”, but, perhaps, unrealistic. They seem to have expected something big, and universal—not an unusual expectation for what the Messiah was believed to usher in. Jesus, even in these parables, has to teach them that their expectations were mis-founded; the Kingdom may be more intimate.

Today, we heard five more parables, all beginning: “the Kingdom of heaven is like”. Put within the context of Jesus trying to help his disciples re-conceptualize what the outcome of his mission was all about, they make good sense . . . I think! Hear them in that context:

A mustard seed (13.31-33), smallest of all seeds, will eventually grow so large that birds will nest.  That is, the Kingdom will start small, but will become so large it cannot be ignored.  Yeast (13.33)—actually better to think of it as sourdough starter—isn’t bread itself, but it will influence its environment—a bushel of wheat—to such an extent that the environment itself is changed!  Jesus tells his disciples: “The Kingdom will not happen as you expect it: cataclysmically. It is “surprising, stealthy and subversive” (https://tinyurl.com/3tsrrd4e).

The next two parables—of the treasure hidden in a field, and the “pearl of great price”—point to the surpassing value of being part the Kingdom . . . a value so great that priorities are re-evaluated. Again the Kingdom won’t happen universally, or cataclysmically . . . but it will be a Kingdom of choice. Citizens of that realm will give up everything to gain entry (much as Peter asserted).

In the fifth parable, the net holding many kinds of fish, Matthew picks up one of the themes from the Wheat and Tares, and takes it a bit further. There will be a mixture of folks in the community, just as wheat and tares would grow together. Unlike the wheat and tares, however, there is no possibility for separation until the “net” is drawn in—i.e., at the last judgment. In any event, however—as with the wheat and tares—be patient and leave the “separating” decisions to God.

In the context of Jesus trying to explain the realities of the Kingdom to his impatient followers, all of these parables (and interpretations—regardless of who did the “explaining”) made sense. But, as I asked several weeks ago, “Do they exhaust the meaning of the parables?”. And, I believe, the answer is “No.” Just as the various seeds/soil, or the mixture of good and bad can apply to us individually, at different times, so, too, can the last five have different meanings.

For example, can the parables of the mustard seed and leaven be applied to us as individuals? For example, perhaps something is planted in us early in life that lies dormant until the right conditions (or circumstances) occur, at which time we finally “get it”, pieces of life fall into place, and we have a greater understanding of our purpose?

Or, who is the subject, in the parables of the treasure in the field, or the “pearl of great price”? Is it just about us, and how we might readjust our priorities “obtain” the Kingdom? Or, are we the pearl, or the treasure—that God wants so much that God would do anything—like becoming human‚ to bring us into the Kingdom?

In the explanations of the Wheat and Tares, or the net with diverse fish, are we able to be patient, or, in the words of Jesuit priest and geologist,  Teilhard de Chardin, to “trust the slow work of God” (https://www.ignatianspirituality.com/prayer-of-theilhard-de-chardin/)—to transform the world, the church, or our own lives, despite the presence of “contrary folks”?

It has been some two thousand years since Jesus asked his disciples, “Have you understood all these things?” They answered “Yes” . . . and perhaps they did understand what he was telling them about the nature of the Kingdom. But I would hope that they, and we, didn’t think that Jesus’ stories were only meant for that time and that place. Through parables the Holy Spirit can work on us at deep level, if we don’t let any one interpretation steal their “surprise, stealth, or subversiveness”. 

Jesus suggests that the Kingdom of heaven is like mustard seed, a pearl, a treasure, wheat and tares”. Given your experience, to what might would you compare the Kingdom of heaven? How would you finish the sentence, “The Kingdom of heaven is like . . . .”?

 

Amen

The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost

 

Okay . . . to start . . .  Pop quiz! One question: “Did you notice anything odd about our readings this morning?” [Yes,] I hope you noticed that there are some gaps . . . both in the psalm and in the  Gospel! Curious? Good, curiosity is a good thing! As I mentioned last week, sometimes the gaps are significant, and sometimes . . . not so much. I’ll leave it to you to take the bulletin insert home, to  take your Bible, read the entirety of both passages, and draw your own conclusions!.

My main focus this morning, however, has to do with a line from our first reading:  “The LORD is definitely in this place, but I didn’t know it” (Gn 28.16). And so I want to start with the lesson that doesn’t have any apparent gaps . . . the familiar story from Genesis that generated at least one well-known song:  “We are climbing Jacob’s ladder”, as well as a piece of  exercise equipment!  To get into  our story, however, a bit of a refresher course—a very Reader’s Digest Condensed version of the background to today’s reading. Jacob, you’ll recall, was Abraham’s grandson. It was to Abraham, living in Haran, in the upper Euphrates, that God—Yahweh—said,  “Go to Canaan! I will give you that land. And you will have numerous descendants” (Gn 12.1-2//15.5-7).   Ishmael and Isaac were the first two of those descendants. Isaac, as we heard last week, married his cousin Rebekah, who left Haran for Canaan. They became the parents of two sons,  Esau and Jacob.

In this morning’s reading. Jacob departs  Beer-sheba in Canaan, the land of his immediate family, for Haran. Why? It was in Haran that he was to find a wife (as had been the case for Isaac) in order to keep the family lineage pure. Tired from his journey, he stops at a “certain place” to spend the night. He takes a stone and, according to most translations, uses it as a pillow.  While sleeping, he has his note-worthy dream of a ladder (or ramp or stairs . . . or even  ziggurat!—the Hebrew allows for all four meanings)—a ladder with angels ascending and descending—that is, acting as God’s messengers. Wakened (by the dream, perhaps), he muses ,”The LORD is definitely in this place, but I didn’t know it. . . . This sacred place is awesome. It’s none other than God’s house and the entrance to heaven” (Gn 28.16-17). He takes the stone, and  sets it up as a memorial—a “sacred pillar”—to his experience, and names the place “Beth-el”, that is, “God’s House” (28.19). “The LORD is definitely in this place, but I didn’t know it.” This is the phrase that stopped me.

Jacob, I suspect, like many ancient peoples, associated a god with a particular place.  Indeed, most scholars recognize that the early Israelites saw their God—whether called “El”, “El-Shaddai”, “Elohim”, or “Yahweh”—to be one among many gods (like  Ba’al or  Dagon or  Molech). To be sure, they came to worship Yahweh only, but there were others gods around. So, it makes a bit of sense to me that Jacob was surprised,  recognizing that where he slept was also a Beth-El, a “house of God”.

Jacob may have been taught that the God who called Abraham in Haran, and led him to Canaan, was associated with the land of promise—that is, Canaan . . . in particular, Beer-Sheba. Jacob’s journey had taken him a long way from home . . . a long way from his tribal God. What a surprise it must have been, then, to be addressed by that God in a distant—that is, another god’s—locale. And, not only to be addressed by that God,  but to be at a place where God made contact with the earth. No wonder he thought, ”The LORD is definitely in this place, but I didn’t know it. . . . This sacred place is awesome. It’s none other than God’s house and the entrance to heaven”. Mind blown: God was no longer confined to one place! God can be found—God’s work can be done—anywhere! 

We don’t know exactly when the ancient Israelites began to understand that their God was “bigger” than a specific locale; maybe that dawning realization is reflected here. But it was some centuries before the belief that God is universal became commonplace—a notion reflected, for example, in a psalm composed some centuries after Jacob’s death:  “Where can I go then from your Spirit? where can I flee from your presence? If I climb up to heaven, you are there;  if I make the grave my bed, you are there also. If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, Even there your hand will lead me and your right hand hold me fast (139.5-9, BCP version). The psalmist praises God—almost in surprise—for God’s presence in heaven, in the grave, in the uttermost parts of the sea, in the darkness of night.  Not only is God not to be identified with any one place, but there is no-place from which God is absent.

The details of the “Jacob’s ladder”account, of course, caught the attention of the ancient rabbis. In their meditation on the story, they, too, focused on the verse that caught my attention—specifically on the word “place”—or, in Hebrew,  ha-makom. They noted that it  occurred several times in the story—drawing attention to its importance. They recognized that it did have a specific meaning in the Genesis story . . . but that it carried more weight that just in the story. They began to understand that ha-makom—the place where we can encounter God—was any place where God  “lets down the ladder”. But we need to be ready, always, to see it. Jacob saw the  ladder at Bethel. The psalmist saw it  everywhere. And, so I wonder, where are the places we might see God . . . if only we pay attention?

Paul, in his letter to the Romans, asserts that God is omni-present—even where we may not recognize it. God’s Spirit is within us—we, adopted as God’s children, receive the same Spirit that was in Christ, proving that we are, like Christ, representatives of God (8.14-16). We, are, referring back to Genesis, “that place”—that Bethel, “house of God”—where God’s angels descend and ascend. Some of us may find it difficult to look in the mirror and say “Bethel”, as caught up as we may be in our failings. But, as Martin Luther famously pointed out and a  popular tattoo proclaims, we are, at the same time, both sinner and saint. God is not absent from any place, or any individual, just because the evil one may also be found there.

Likewise, it’s often difficult for most of us, I think, to see God’s presence in the midst of confusing, or conflicted, situations. Last week’s telling of the  Parable of the Sower hints at that. What we heard last week was confusion, or concern, over the mixed success of Jesus’ and the disciples’ mission in Galilee. The parable was all about various “soils” upon which the extravagantly sown “word of God” falls. Not all soils are equally receptive. The given “explanation” suggested that evangelistic efforts must recognize that there will be  mixed results. Despite those mixed results, the disciples are told, in effect, “Be patient, God is in the mix, and God will ensure that there will be significant produce”.

Worry about the nature of community seems to be at the root of today’s Parable of the  Wheat and the Tares. Jesus tells us that a farmer has his field sown with good seed.  Shortly thereafter, an enemy sows bad seed among the good seed, and departs. The two “crops”  grow up together, but the presence of a toxic weed jeopardizes the value of the good crop. The farm-hands want to pull out the bad stuff, but the farmer points out that, if they do, they could pull out the wheat as well. Best to let them grow together, and do the separating at harvest-time. Matthew’s explanation of points to a  a mixture of the good and the bad—faithful and unfaithful—in the same congregation, a mixture creating  concern among the leadership. The parable (and the explanation) counsel, “Be patient. Trust that God is present, and let God sort it out.”

I’ve often found myself asking, like many of the psalm-writers, “Where ARE you God? You’ve been with me before! Where are you now?”  I don’t think I’m alone in that. We find it difficult to accept that God is present where we don’t expect it, or can’t understand it—especially “in the moment”. As I said, the psalmists ask the question. Job asked the question. Victor Frankl, in his famous post-Holocaust book, Man’s Search for Meaning, asked the question. It is one of the animating—and perplexing—questions of human history: “Can God be in this place?”

Jacob—on a journey into his future—was surprised to find that the answer could be “Yes”. With persistent prayer, and, perhaps,  a stone for a pillow, may we find that ”The LORD is definitely in this place, but I didn’t know it”.

 

Amen.

The Seventh Sunday after Pentecost

For many of us, the “Parable of the Sower”—or “farmer” as we’ve just heard it—is pretty familiar . . . it’s in all three of the synoptic gospels, Matthew, Mark, and Luke.   A farmer goes out to sow seed, and scatters it about. Given the scattering, seed falls on all sorts of different kinds of soil. The results vary, depending on the soil. And then we hear that the seed is the word of God, and different people hear it differently. And there is something about yielding 100-fold, 60-fold, and 30-fold. That was certainly the whole of my understanding of the parable as I was growing up.

And then I took Jack Sanders’ New Testament class at the  University of Oregon. Now, I’d been taking New Testament before at my other undergraduate school:  Northwest Christian College (of Waylighters’ fame). The approach to the Bible was different between the two schools, one from a more scientific/critical perspective, the other from a more faith-based perspective. Dr. Sanders, representing the former, rocked my world, and my reading of this parable forever, when he asked the class,  “Do you notice anything odd about the parable and the explanation?” Silence, as we all bent over our Bibles trying to “notice anything odd”. After a moment (it seemed like hours), he jumped back in and said, “The explanation doesn’t fit the parable.”

What? Wait just a biblical minute!

“The explanation doesn’t fit the parable?” Dr. Sanders went on to suggest that the parable, as we have it, suggests that it is about the  farmer, who scatters seed, and the seed does or doesn’t grow. The implication, given the 30, 60, 100-fold yield of the seed, is that regardless of our accuracy in sowing the seed, God will ensure growth! So, “sow with assurance”. The explanation, on the other hand, is about people (that is, the  different kinds of soil), and how they do, or don’t, receive the word of God (that is the seed). And, the implication is that if the soil isn’t receptive . . .  well, that could be baaaad.

As I said, my  parable-world was rocked! I’d always heard the parable—with the explanation—as we heard it this morning. I’d never thought there were any other ways of hearing it. I mean, Jesus explained what he meant! Wasn’t that enough? But, if the explanation doesn’t fit the story, then there’s a problem. And, I admit that, after than class, I pretty much quit thinking about the parable. Every time I’d read it—whether in Morning Prayer or having to preach on it—I’d tune out the explanation . . . Dr. Sanders’ voice in my head: “The explanation doesn’t fit the parable.” Well, I caution you . . .  don’t hold on to the idea that an explanation doesn’t “fit” the parable—especially if it means that you never listen to it again!

A  parable, as Frederick Buechner put it, is “a small story with a large point”. He goes on to assert that “with parables and jokes both, if you’ve got to explain it don’t bother” (Wishful Thinking: A Seeker’s ABC. Harper SanFrancisco, 1993; 80-1, emphasis added). Well, either Buechner was wrong, or there’s something else going on in our reading. I don’t believe Buechner was wrong. So there must be something else going on in our reading.

Did you notice that our reading from Matthew was not continuous?  In other words, we read the first nine verses of chapter 13, and then skipped to verse 18. And maybe some among you wondered why we  skipped verses 10-17, and/or what was in them. That is always a question I ask in these circumstances (and “because  the Lectionary told us to” is a very unsatisfying answer!). Sometimes the skipped verses contain some relatively irrelevant stuff—like a bunch of “begats” and obscure names. Other times, like today, however, the skipped verses might help a lot!

Our reading this morning began with Jesus heading to the “lake”—probably the Sea of Galilee—followed by “large crowds”. And  he taught the crowd in parables (13.1-2). And the first parable he taught began, “A farmer went out to scatter seed . . .”, that is, the parable we heard this morning. After he concluded the story with “Everyone who has ears should pay attention” (v 9), what we didn’t hear was that “Jesus’ disciples came and said to him,  ‘Why do you use parables when you speak to the crowds?’ Jesus replied, ‘Because they haven’t received the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but you have” (10-11).

Notice a couple of things: first, the audience has changed. The parable was  given to the crowd, and  then, Jesus’ audience shrank to his closest followers. And, second, the explanation of the parable is given to that  small group who were wondering about how Jesus taught: “Consider then the parable of the farmer” (13.18). In other words, the explanation was only given to the disciples. That detail is missing from our lectionary selection this morning.

“So what does that mean to us?” I can hear you asking! “Aren’t we Jesus’ disciples? Not just part of some crowd!” Well, we’re a bit of both. We're part of the large group, hearing the parable. And, probably, as with most parables, we left, after hearing this story,  a bit confused. We may be wondering about the apparent incompetence of the sower:  “Why didn’t he plow the field and sow the seed directly?” We may just be wondering why this  healer was, all of a sudden, telling stories . . . and then challenging us to figure out their meaning.

I imagine the disciples were thinking the same things. The difference is, of course, that they could ask Jesus about it. They don’t—at least in Matthew’s re-telling—ask Jesus directly about the meaning of this parable, but about Jesus’ use of parables in general. And Jesus takes the opportunity to apply this parable to a larger issue: how their mission had been going in Galilee. Up to this point, Jesus had been traveling around teaching and healing.  Many folks had begun to follow him, some were faithful, others, simply curious. The  religious leaders had, for the most part, either dismissed or opposed him. ALL heard the same message, but the reaction was different. “Why?” was probably a point of discussion among Jesus and the twelve. The parable of the sower, and  how various “soils” receive “the word about the kingdom”, was a helpful explanation at that time, and in that context, under those circumstances.

So is it the only explanation? The crowds didn’t hear it—only the disciples did (according to all three Gospels). The crowds—without that explanation—are left scratching their heads. And, they’ll come up with their own explanations, given their own circumstances.  THAT is something Dr. Sanders didn’t make clear to us students (or if he did, I was so stunned I didn’t hear anything else that day). No explanation exhausts a true parable . . . and we are free to take it further. Some possibilities for this morning.

So, what’s the overall parable about?  Well, it’s about a sower (perhaps somewhat incompetent) who casts seed . . . even into wasteful places.  Or maybe the sower is simply like nature itself, “sowing” seed— over-abundantly, indiscriminately, heedless of where it might fall? Does that, then, make the parable about evangelism? Perhaps. Certainly there’s encouragement to “scatter seed” broadly, without much regard for where it will fall, or whether it will be received. Once the sower/evangelist has  released the seed, his/her job is done. But, notice, the parable provides a word of grace, affirming that there are circumstances beyond our control over what the sowing produces. And there’s encouragement in the knowledge that some of the seed will produce incredibly abundantly: “Hope springs eternal”, they say. Evangelize away; don’t sweat the results!

Perhaps it’s about different kinds of soil? Are we as individuals—even as disciples—the soil? If so, what kind of soil are we? Are we different kinds of soil on different days—as I suggested earlier, circumstances or context dictate how we hear. Is it about hearing the message, and what happens after the message is heard?  Are we so “shallow”that sometimes that the “word” bounds off of us? Are we initially enthusiastic, but without deep internal conviction? Are we so plagued by thorns—the concerns of this world—that we can’t accept what God has placed before us? I’m all of those things at different times. Hopefully, sometimes, I’m rich soil, ready to receive the word and able to let it bear fruit.

Might not the seed, the “word of the kingdom” vary. We may hear challenge in the Baptismal Covenant’s “Will strive for just and peace among all people and respect the dignity of every human being?”. How will we respond? What kind of soil are we? We may hear challenge in a summons to “come away and rest awhile” (Mk 6.31). How will we respond? What kind of soil are we?

The possibilities for interpretation are numerous . . . and, perhaps, challenging. In my case, based on how I heard the word from Dr. Sanders, the seed of this parable was  eaten long ago by birds before it could even sprout. I fell afoul (pardon the pun) of the idea that one interpretation—even if it came from Jesus—was the only possible interpretation. There are certainly others. Listen again to the parable, set aside the “given” explanation.

A farmer went out to scatter seed.  As he was scattering seed, some fell on the path, and birds came and ate it.  Other seed fell on rocky ground where the soil was shallow. They sprouted immediately because the soil wasn’t deep.  But when the sun came up, it scorched the plants, and they dried up because they had no roots.  Other seed fell among thorny plants. The thorny plants grew and choked them.  Other seed fell on good soil and bore fruit, in one case a yield of one hundred to one, in another case a yield of sixty to one, and in another case a yield of thirty to one.

You have ears. What do you hear?

 

Amen.

The Sixth Sunday After Pentecost

“Come to me, all you who are struggling hard and carrying heavy loads, and I will give you rest. Put on my yoke, and learn from me. I’m gentle and humble. And you will find rest for yourselves. My yoke is easy to bear, and my burden is light.” When I read this Gospel lesson for this morning, I couldn’t help but remember seeing the “stick-men” of  Chongqing, China, and the (often) heavy burdens they bore.

Some twenty years ago, Susan and I were in  Chongqing—in the old pronunciation “Chun King” (some of you might remember it as the name associated with a  Chinese culinary “treat”!). Chongqing, today, is a huge municipality (some say the largest in the world) with a complex history. The  city proper is very hilly; it isn’t conducive to bicycle messengers or delivery people (even worse than San Francisco!). So the best/easiest way to move goods from store to customer required physical —specifically, for centuries, human labor: the  “stick-men”.

The “sticks” were—and are—poles that rest over the shoulders of the men that carry goods around the city. And, by “goods”, I mean everything from luggage, to soft-goods to television sets. The sticks allowed the carriers to balance their loads . . . making it easier to move the Sony from shop to customer . . .  up and down the steep hills of Chongqing. The sticks were the “yokes” meant to ease the burdens that these strong, sinewy, men had to carry to earn their living.

The stick-men, were “yoked” to their livelihood. So, if burdens couldn’t be borne—if there were health or physical problems, occupational hazards, to be sure—livelihoods were jeopardized.  (Coincidentally, those livelihoods currently ARE being jeopardized by economic pressures and technological changes; some are saying that the last generation of stickmen are currently at work.) So, “Come to me, all you who are struggling hard and carrying heavy loads, and I will give you rest.  Put on my yoke. . .” (Mt 11.28-29) took on a different set of associations.

“Yokes” . . . we’ve lost our association with “yokes”. Most of us are far-removed from non-industrial agrarian societies. Our food comes to us from  aisle 8, or from the refrigerated meat or dairy counters. The “yokes” we think about are  spelled differently. But for those who need  “animal” help to plow the fields, harvest the grain, or move goods from farm to market, yokes were (and are), basically, essential.

Yokes are those pieces of equipment that distribute the “work-load”. And we often think of “yokes” having to do with more than one “puller” on a plow or cart—  two oxen, for example (never an  ox and a donkey together—Dt 22.10). But yokes are also used by  individuals—allowing a more efficient means of relocating materials from point “a” to point “b”. As is the case with the “stick-men”,  individual yokes mean that the burden is borne by more than one muscle-set.

The image of “yoke” has been a powerful one; it has certainly been used beyond the physical meaning of “carrying a load”. In metaphorical use, a definition I like has to do with the “yoke” being the “laws, interpretations & expectations laid upon one by a higher authority”. While appropriate to the “actual” image—at least as it relates to beasts-of-burden—it can be used for other things. Torah, for example, was seen by the rabbis as a “yoke”—  a voluntary “putting on” of the discipline of learning how to live as God required: “Rabbi Nechunia son of Hakanah said, “Anyone who accepts upon himself the yoke of Torah removes from himself  . . .  the yoke of the way of the world. . . .” (Pirkei Avot 3:5).

We see similar references in the New Testament, although not as “charitable” We may recall Jesus—while not referring to “yokes” specifically—speaking of the “burdens” of the law. In the next chapter of Matthew, for example, Jesus critiques, by action, the sabbath “rules” that would prevent people from being fed or  healed on the Sabbath (12.1-13). Later on, Jesus lists eight different ways the “legal experts and Pharisees” either create heavy legal burdens for others (think  “tithing mint, dill & cumin”—23.23), or devise work-arounds for themselves to relieve their burdens (23.13). Paul challenges the Christian leaders in Jerusalem to allow for less onerous requirements for Gentiles to be included in the Church: “Why are you putting God to the test by placing on the neck of the disciples a yoke that neither our ancestors nor we have been able to bear?” (Ac 15.10, NRSV)—that is, the yoke of Torah. Slavish devotion to the law can be a hard yoke, a heavy burden!

That image of “yoke” as something difficult to bear—servitude . . . slavery . . . oppression—fills the Hebrew Scriptures from the very beginning!  Isaac, on his death-bed tells his son,  Esau, “By your sword you shall live, and you shall serve your brother [Jacob]; but when you break loose, you shall break his yoke from your neck” (Gn 27.40 NRSV). God reminds Israel, while they’re wandering in the desert, “I  . . . brought you out of the land of Egypt, to be their slaves no more; I have  broken the bars of your yoke and made you walk erect” (Lv 26.13 NRSV). Ezekiel promises the returning exiles from Babylon that even “The trees of the field shall yield their fruit, and the earth shall yield its increase. They shall be secure on their soil; and they shall know that I am the LORD, when I break the bars of their yoke, and save them from the hands of those who enslaved them” (34.27 NRSV).

Those examples fit the definition of “laws, interpretations & expectations laid upon one by a higher authority”—that is the yoke was imposed. In some other cases, such as the rabbinic study of Torah, the putting on of the yoke was a voluntary act. Voluntary yoking, however, isn’t always beneficial: we read in book of Numbers, that Israel, wandering in the wilderness, “yoked itself to the  Baal of Peor, and the LORD’S anger was kindled against Israel” (25.3). Being “yoked” is a complicated matter. And what we hear from Jesus this morning has to do with the choice as to which “master” we follow . . . whose “laws, interpretations and expectations” we accept. Jesus summons us to leave behind heavy burdens for something better.  ndeed all of our lessons this morning have that element of summons to something better.

[9:00am only:  Abraham’s servant (his name was Eleazar) summoned  Rebekah to leave her homeland, to journey to Canaan to marry Isaac, and to be blessed: “May you, our sister, become thousands of ten thousand; may your children possess their enemies’ cities” (Gn 24.60). Given the customs of the land and time, she chose to relinquish one yoke for another in order to create a new future.]

In the only section of Song of Songs (2.8-13) we read in public worship, the  lover summons his bride away; the time is right! She is bid to leave one world for another. Because of the erotic nature of the book—which is one reason we don’t read it on Sundays!—it has been allegorized by both Jews and Christians. Jews say it speaks of the passion of God for Israel. Christians say it speaks of the love of Christ for the Church. Regardless, the Lover calls the Beloved to leave the present to be yoked to something better.

Paul writes of the struggle around choice. He doesn’t explicitly use the words, but he seems to be referring to a rabbinic belief that there were two “inclinations” to which every human is subject, the  Yetzer ha-tov and Yetzer ha-ra, that is, the “inclination to good” and the “inclination to evil”. Both scream loudly to us: “I find that, as a rule,  when I want to do what is good, evil is right there with me.  I gladly agree with the Law on the inside, but I see a different law at work in my body” (7.21-23). Paul has made the choice about to whom he wishes to be yoked, but that doesn’t necessarily make it easy! He—along with us, I suppose, hopes for rest from the struggle.

And, to those struggling, Jesus says,  “Come unto me, all heavy burdened”. He invites us to “put on his yoke”. Why?” Because, [his] “yoke is easy to bear, and [his] burden is light” (Mt 11.30). . . . meaning . . . what? Jesus is asking—or offering—that we accept a new yoke, one not burdened with the weight of complex rules and onerous regulations. One not burdened with the notion that only if we can faithfully follow the yetzer ha-tov will we be worthy.  Jesus’ yoke is easier than that; his burden is lighter—the most ideal combination.

But, we are not just yoked to “religious” ideas. What other yokes are we wearing that are heavy burdens? Is our sense of “productiveness” a heavy burden—  can we ever do enough? Would we ever be perfect enough?  Are we enslaved—and, therefore, co-opted—by systems that do not respect the dignity of every human being? Jesus likewise tells us that those yokes do not define our worth, or our worthiness before God. They will not give us the peace we so desire.

Jesus wishes for us—and, I trust for the stick-men—an easier yoke, a lighter burden. He has shown us the way: love God, love neighbor, love self. And, walking in Jesus’ way brings the  reward of rest for our souls.

 

Amen.

The Fifth Sunday After Pentecost

For two years when I was in college, I was part of a singing group—the Northwest Christian College  “Waylighters”. We traveled around Oregon and Washington, with longer trips to California, Idaho, Utah, and Montana ( coming home was wonderful!). Technically a part of the Development Office, our job was to “connect” with churches and, hopefully, inspire them (and their members) to continue their financial support of the school. So . . . long hours on the road every weekend (or before school started, and spring break).  Matching outfits (with a change-of-clothes at intermission).  Memorizing Denny’s menu. Staying at parishioners’ homes (sofa beds aren’t always conducive to good vocal performances the next day). We’d usually sing a Saturday night concert (after a  potluck), and then again at Sunday services (followed by a—you-guessed-it— {slide] potluck).  If we were close enough to Eugene, we might even sing a Sunday evening service. We learned a lot. We were tired a lot. Usually the group (nine of us, including the pianist/student director) got along . . . many of us are still in contact with each other. Other times it was . . . shall we say . . .  “trying”.  “How long, O Lord” ’til we get home and out of this car!

 “How long, O Lord” was the title of one of the songs we sang the first year of my Waylighter experience. It was an arrangement of Psalm 13, which we just said together. I can’t find the composer’s name, but I remember the song well. AND, as luck would have it, I have a recording of the group singing it at our year-end concert—I won’t play it unless requested. When I learned that we would have that psalm as part of our lessons this morning, I went back, found, and listened to,  the recording. I’d forgotten some of the details (I actually played the piano, and sang, for that piece!), but I certainly remembered much of it. I was also reminded that we also had to introduce each song . . . and it was then that I was recalled that Psalm 13 was a “typical” psalm of lament.

 “Laments” form a large portion of the Book of Psalms. And, if you want to know more about that, join us next Sunday at Faith Forum, when Bp. Epting will explore that genre more deeply!  But—trusting I don’t steal any of his thunder (since he didn’t choose to look at Psalm 13)—psalms of lament are, basically, complaints. Theologically, complaints addressed to a God who, we think, shouldn’t let such things that we are experiencing . . . happen.

So, Psalm 13 is my main text for today. What do we know about it? First, as this is the only day in the three-year Sunday lectionary cycle we might read it, it’s probably unfamiliar to most of us.  Second, as those who attended last week’s Psalms class learned, there are often“titles”— not shown in the Prayer Book. The title for this psalm is  ”For the music leader. A song of David”. That doesn’t tell us much; even the phrase “a song of David” doesn’t tell us whether David wrote it, or it was written for David . . . let alone for what purpose/occasion. So, on the surface, we don’t know much about it, and, really, those kind of details aren’t of that much importance. Reading it, however, tells us a lot. And so I’d like to go back through it a little more deliberately.

 The psalmist is clearly in anguish. We read the words of someone who apparently had known God—perhaps “face to face”—who now finds that relationship strained, and who thinks the absence is God’s fault. The psalmist feels abandoned by God, perplexed and grieved at being left to the mercy of an “enemy” . . . who, or whatever, that is (vv 1-2). There’s a sense that the psalmist believes him-, or her-, self to be righteous, or blameless, and that such treatment by God is uncalled for! Who of us could not find ourselves praying, or singing, those words?

And, then, perhaps harkening back to that earlier, more positive relationship, the psalmist, feeling confident enough to be honest, makes some demands on God:  “Look upon me! Answer me! Enlighten me! Don’t let my enemies rejoice!” (vv 3-4) Many of us could find ourselves, I imagine, complaining (as in the first two verses). But, can we find ourselves making demands on God? The psalmist suggests we can.

And, finally,  the psalmist recalls the earlier relationship, and seems to want to remind God of those “good ole days”: "You, God, have been merciful! You made me joyful when you saved me in the past; you “dealt with me richly”!” And, so despite the psalmist’s difficulties, praise of God’s name is appropriate (vv 5-6). This is a psalm that moves, haltingly, from despair to trust. The question it raises for us is whether or not we can make the same movement?

I remember, all those years ago, that whoever was introducing this song at our Waylighter concerts, would often remark that feeling abandoned by God wasn’t an unusual experience. And, as I mentioned, I suspect that many of could  raise our hands and say, “Yup! That’s been my experience!” And there can be many reasons for that. But I have to say that a couple of the most commonly-held reasons are theologically problematic—including what seems to be behind the psalmist’s thinking—as I implied above, the idea that God rewards the righteous. The book of  Job puts that idea to the test, and finds it wanting. Equally problematic is the belief that God is “absent” because of our lack of faith. The end of this psalm puts that idea to rest, as the psalmist proclaims, “I put my trust in your mercy; my heart is joyful because of your saving help” (v 5). The psalmist’s faith in God is not the problem here; rather a faith in some kind of quid pro quo—that righteousness ensures good fortune— that is the problem. But psalmist is able to move beyond that.

Indeed, Psalm 13 is a psalm of faith—and one from which we can learn, and/or one in which we can take comfort. What we read is a relationship between God and us that allows for deep, heart-felt,  anguished complaint; God is “big enough” to hear that. And, perhaps many of us can do that. Similarly, God is big enough to field our demands for justice and understanding. Maybe fewer of us can shake our fist at God; or, maybe  we don’t have the hesitancy. Where it becomes even tougher, I think, is joining with the psalmist in that ultimate statement of faith/trust that closes the psalm. Here, we’re invited to remember that, despite appearances to the contrary, God has been on our side in the past, and to believe that relationship will be solid in the future. That’s hard; there’s no getting around that. But God bids us to believe it all, AND to speak it all.

And, I have to say, that “speaking it all” is what I find missing in our reading from Genesis. The story of the binding of Isaac— the Akedah among Jews, and a story that forms the basis for the  Islamic Feast of Eid al-Adha (which, coincidentally, was celebrated this last Thursday)—this story is so problematic in so many ways.  I seriously debated with myself as to whether or not even to refer to it. So, I won’t spend a lot of time on it, but I find the depiction of God difficult to accept: what kind of God would demand such a high level of “obedience” from one who has been described as “God’s friend” (2 Ch 20.7, Is 41.8, Ja 2.23). But I also find Abraham’s silence a problem. Certainly, before in Genesis, Abraham had no hesitation to challenge God (15.2, 17.17-18); in the story of Sodom and Gomorrah,  Abraham argued with God over its destruction. Why was he silent here—in the face of such an horrendous order? Are we to keep silence in the face of such “religious” instruction? I can’t imagine that that is what God would want. Sometimes we have to call Scripture to account!

So, yes, the passage is problematic. And perhaps, even early on, that problematic nature was overlooked in light of other possible meanings (such as  God’s ending of the practice of human sacrifice—current in Palestine at the time). But what has survived from the story is the affirmation of Abraham’s faith. Because he never spoke, we don’t know what he was thinking, but the story presents him as unwavering in his obedience, with his slight nod to the possibility that God would eventually change the outcome: “Isaac said, “Here is the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the entirely burned offering?”Abraham said,  “The lamb for the entirely burned offering? God will see to it, my son.” The two of them walked on together” (21.7-8).

The psalmist, being found in an horrible situation,  complained to God, and demanded that God give an answer. Yet the psalmist not only did not lose faith, but, rather, declared “I put my trust in your mercy!” Abraham, being found in an horrible situation, on the other hand, was silent, but was obedient . . . was faithful. It would seem that neither of them understood what was going on, and responded in their own way. Yet both gave evidence that they trusted that God was, ultimately, on their side. We don’t know what the “end-story” was of Psalm 13—whether the “enemy” was vanquished or banished . . . and maybe knowing is not the point; the point is faithfulness. We do know much of the end-story of Genesis 21: God provided a ram, Isaac survived, and did become, ultimately, the grandfather of the nation of Israel—the conduit of the covenant God established with Abraham.

I highly doubt I’d be able to respond with the faith of Abraham in a situation like his. But I take comfort knowing that—in hard times—I can sing with the psalmist, “How long?” I can shake my fist at God; maybe speaking my anguish is necessary.  I can trust that God’s faithfulness and mercy is great enough to hear it all.

 

Amen.

The Fourth Sunday After Pentecost

How and why do we  tell stories? To get into that, I’ll tell a couple—one embedded in the other—from my past—and, then get to a third.

After I finished seminary, I spent some years as “a management accountant”. I took a number of  courses in accounting. And one of my professors told the class that accountants aren’t  “funny people”, but they do have two jokes. I won’t tell both (you’ll have to ask me about the second one).

A major corporation needed a  Chief Financial Officer. The search committee settled on three finalists—all of whom had to have their conversation with the  Chief Executive Officer.  The first candidate walked into the CEO’s office, and wasn’t even asked to sit down.  The CEO said, “You’re qualifications are impressive! I have only one question for you.  What is 1+1?” The candidate said, “Two.” The CEO said, “Thank you! We’ll be in touch.” The second candidate came in, and the CEO repeated the same question. The second candidate hesitated, and said “Two.” “Thank you! We’ll be in touch.” The final candidate came in, and the CEO asked the same question. The candidate paused thoughtfully, and finally responded,  “What do you want it to be?” The CEO answered, “When can you start?”  Maybe not a Generally Accepted Accounting Principle that my accounting professor wanted to impart to us students, but . . . maybe so! Regardless, it illustrates that there is clearly a distinction to be made between “facts” and how they’re interpreted. And that is part of how and why we tell stories!

In its “stripped-down” form, we heard a fairly straightforward (if, to modern ears, a rather bizarre and ethically questionable) story from Genesis—  the Book of Beginnings—this morning. Abraham’s wife, Sarah, was upset that her slave Hagar’s son (also Abraham’s first-born) was “laughing” with regard to Isaac (Sarah’s son). Upset by what she saw, Sarah had  Hagar and Ishmael banished from the household (with Abraham’s reluctant permission). They went into the desert and, soon, ran out of water.  Hagar despaired for Ishmael, but God heard, AND  promised that Ishmael would be the father of a great nation.

It was actually several chapters earlier, in Genesis 16, that Hagar was first introduced. In a very similar story, we learn that she is Sarai’s Egyptian slave, and that, since Sarai couldn’t have children,  she gave Hagar to Abram. Hagar became pregnant and no longer respected Sarai. So Sarai “treated her harshly” and Hagar ran away. God found her,  sent her back with the promise that she would have “so many [children] they can’t be counted” (v 10), but that Ishmael would be a “wild mule of man”, fighting everyone, at odds with his relatives (v.12). Hagar returned to Abram and Sarai, and bore Ishmael.

Then, in Genesis 17, God establishes the  covenant with Abram. His and Sarai’s names are changed to Abraham and Sarah respectively. The practice of circumcision is instituted. God promises Abraham and Sarah a son—Isaac—over some hesitancy on Abraham’s part. But God tells of the promise he made to Hagar: that Ishmael would be blessed with many descendants. The covenant, however, would be passed through Isaac.  The chapter ends with  all of the males in Abraham’s household, including Ishmael—at age 13—being circumcised.

In Genesis 21 we return to Abraham’s family problems—the story we just heard. Isaac is born and circumcised. Hagar and Ishmael are  sent away. God rescues them. Ishmael grows up in the desert, becomes an  expert archer, and marries an Egyptian woman. His descendants become the Ishmaelites, uneasy neighbors of Isaac’s descendants. So we end up with two similar stories about two wings of one family, eventually combined into one narrative, with basically one outcome. And so, as with relationships—perhaps as described by Facebook— it gets “complicated”.

This is one of those stories—the basic “facts” being assumed—that were subsequently interpreted differently by three religions. Our Jewish neighbors claim  direct lineage from Isaac, as well as direct lineage from those who wrote Genesis. Christians, following the lead of the apostle Paul, interpret the characters  metaphorically. On the one hand, Hagar is seen as “Mt. Sinai” and the earthly Jerusalem; Sarah corresponds to the heavenly Jerusalem and “is our mother” (Ga 4.26). Additionally, in Romans, Abraham, Sarah and Isaac are the forebears of those who respond in faith to God, not necessarily those who are blood relatives (Rm 4), which allows, of course, for the inclusion of the Gentiles! And our Muslim neighbors see the true line of God’s concern being passed through  Hagar and Ishmael—ending up in Mecca with the charge to build the “house of God”.  One set of “facts”, marking a common heritage, but the stories are told in vastly different ways . . . to vastly different ends!

We’re no different. We tell our stories to link us to some significant past event—an event about which most who claim it will agree.  Setting aside, for the moment, our Jewish and Muslim cousins, Christians have continually looked “back” to formative times. The  16th century reformers—including those in the Church of England—appealed not only to the New Testament as “the authority”, but to the undivided church (that is the Church before the Eastern and Western churches split).  Roman Catholics  appealed to that same heritage, but with a different agenda, interpreting events differently. Different stories about who is the heir of Jesus and the Apostles.

In our more recent global Anglican history, there has been quite a significant debate about “WHAT is ‘Anglican heritage’”?  All branches of the Anglican Church trace their “lineage” in one way or another to the Church of England and the Archbishop of Canterbury? But now,  the Archbishop’s role is being questioned. Similarly the vaunted “three-legged” stool of “scripture, tradition, and reason”— that structure we use to make theological decisions—is up for debate: “Are the legs of equal importance?” for example. The argument is real: “Who is the true heir of the Anglican Reformation?

Or, thinking more secularly, or politically, Americans of all stripes appeal to the  Revolutionary War, the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. In the telling of the stories, which interpretation is more “patriotic”? Who bears the correct lineage for the Constitution?

The stories we tell link our present with a significant—commonly-agreed-upon—past. But I have to wonder if we get so caught up in our individual retellings that we miss something more important.

As a partial answer, I want to return to Genesis, but even earlier: to chapter 12. It was there that “The LORD [first promised Abram]: I will make of you a great nation and will bless you (vv 1-2). And, in chapter 15, the promise is reiterated: “[God] brought Abram outside and said,  “Look up at the sky and count the stars if you think you can count them. He continued, “This is how many children you will have” (v 5). But one can’t become a father without a mother. Abraham’s “fatherhood” was dependent upon two mothers—both of whom were told by God—Hagar first, remember, and then Sarah—that their sons would, likewise, be the fathers of many. God’s concern is shown for both women and their children. Likewise,  Abraham’s concern was for both women and their children. The story we heard this morning, however, has Sarah “winning the day”. . . but not without Abraham’s disappointment. I would hope that God was disappointed as well.

In the challenging passage we heard from Matthew’s gospel, Jesus seems to suggest that conflict between those who would follow him and others—even within families—is inevitable. That’s probably true—some of us,  I’m sure, experience that. Certainly there were many in the early Christian movement who,  personally, experienced that. That is reflected in Matthew’s Gospel. I would like to think, however, that such conflict is an additional result of our fallen nature, but not the final answer. Jesus tells us that we will tell conflicting stories, but I doubt that his ultimate wish is that we stay in a state of conflict. I believe Jesus invites us to write a different ending.

“How and why do we tell stories?” One answer is that they link us to a significant, commonly held, starting point. So, some may say, in answer to the question,  “What is 1+1?” “Two.”

  But,  what do we want it to be?

 

Amen.

The Third Sunday After Pentecost

Most of you probably know that I don’t “title” my sermons; there’s nothing on the sign outside! In all of my years of preaching, I may have done it five times. But, as I considered what I was going to say today, I thought, if I were to title this sermon, it would be something like  “Close Encounters of the Divine Kind”. (I’ll let you choose the soundtrack!)

Those of us here this morning have all encountered God in unique ways. We may have been brought up in the church, and at some pivotal point, had an  “experience of the divine”. We may have grown up without any religious upbringing, and then had a conversation with someone who either “channeled” the divine, or explained things in a way that “made sense”, and we were captivated. It may have been a particularly vivd dream or, more dramatically, a  “near death experience”. It may have been something awakening a sense of  awe in us. But most of us have encountered God, in one or more ways, encounters that have drawn us here this morning

Encounters with God/Christ often lead to conversion or, perhaps, renewed commitment. That means that, beyond any “comfort”, or knowledge that we’re “saved”, we are given a mission, a mission that varies from individual to individual, based on our individual circumstances and personality. But Christ gives us a mission suited to each of us, for example:

•“All who want to come after me must say no to themselves, take up their cross, and follow me” (Mt 16.24);

•“If you want to be complete, go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor. Then you will have treasure in heaven. And come follow me” (Mt 19.21)”;

•“True devotion, the kind that is pure and faultless before God the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their difficulties . . .” (Ja 1.27);

• “[Go] and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to obey everything that I’ve commanded you” (Mt 28.19-20);

•Or, as we heard this morning, “[Go], make this announcement: ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’  Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those with skin diseases, and throw out demons” (Mt 10.7-8).

 

Different missions—often overlapping, to be sure—but differently put to different people.

Abram, as we heard last week, had a close encounter with God; it came to him unbidden. And the mission was relatively simple—although, perhaps, not easy. God told the patriarch to pack up his household and go—  “Lech lecha” (as you may remember from several months ago)—go to a land God would show him. That was “mission objective” part one. “Mission objective”, part two was, appropriately enough for today, to be a father,  ultimately the father of many nations.

In our reading from Genesis this morning, however, we hear about a different kind of encounter. Abraham was to allow God to do God’s work through and with him (and Sarah) where they were. It was an encounter that placed demands on  Abraham’s “mission” of hospitality.

The ancient Near Eastern practice of hospitality was expected of pretty much everyone—not just those who’d encountered God. And it was a bit different then than we may think of hospitality today.  “[It] was the process of “receiving” outsiders and changing them from strangers to guests . . . different from entertaining family and friends” (Harper’s Bible Dictionary, HarperSanFrancisco 1985, 408). As described in one source, hospitality was an “intricately choreographed dance, where any participant who does not observe his or her role must . . . learn it” (ibid.). My guess is that Abraham and Sarah, with their means, had had plenty of opportunity to learn the dance. But this time was to turn out a bit differently.

As in any occasion of “welcoming the stranger”, ancient rules of hospitality included assessing a potential threat—from physical threat (as from an invader) to violations of community norms; strangers like that are not welcome. Satisfied that there is no threat,  foot-washing (as we heard) then begins the movement from stranger to guest.

Then there is the “dance” of treating the stranger as guest. Not only were there “rules” about how the host should act, so were there rules about how the stranger/guest should act: for example, neither should do anything to insult the other. And, of course, refreshments ought be offered. Abraham seems to have gone a bit overboard:  baked goods, a young calf, butter and milk! And, then, if all goes well, the stranger-guest will leave no longer a stranger, but a friend.

That seems to have happened! We don’t hear it in this morning’s abbreviated story, but after the discussion about  Sarah’s laughter, Abraham accompanied the three men on their way, and they apparently had had a good-enough visit, that they had transformed into friends. The travelers took Abraham into their confidence about the rest of their mission. But, in a different way, their encounter with Abraham and Sarah had also transformed the couple into the future parents of Isaac.

Encountering God often means encountering others, but that may not always go well. Those twelve who were Jesus’ closest followers—  they who were commissioned to go, and encounter “the lost sheep, the people of Israel”—they were warned that there may be folks who will refuse to welcome or listen. The apostles were sent out as  “sheep among wolves”, and those “wolves” may take it upon themselves to beat the sheep and/or to hand them over to higher authorities for judgment (Mt 10.5-18). An encounter with God leading to a call to mission may not be the easiest thing to experience.

But that mission may not end as out story warns.  Luke’s parallel version ends differently than Matthew’s (which, oddly, never mentions the twelve actually going out!).  In Luke’s story, “the Lord commissioned seventy-two others and sent them on ahead in pairs to every city and place he was about to go. . .   [They] returned joyously, saying, ‘Lord, even the demons submit themselves to us in your name.’ Jesus replied,  ’I saw Satan fall from heaven like lightning. . .  Nevertheless, don’t rejoice because the spirits submit to you. Rejoice instead that your names are written in heaven’” (Lk 10.1-2, 17-20).

In Luke’s story, those who were sent were warned about the potential dangers. But they went,  preaching and healing . . . to great effect. Those they encountered were transformed. And the seventy-two rejoiced! I have to imagine that the seventy-two, despite any initial doubts, were transformed in their own ways . . . perhaps with Jesus’ stamp of approval that their names were now written in heaven because they had fulfilled that mission. And they may have gained confidence for the next one!

Three encounters with the divine:  personal,  welcoming strangers in, and  going out to engage strangers. The first encounter includes a call to mission, and the second two are two sides of what I’d call the “mission coin”:   welcoming the stranger and transforming them to guest and then to friend.  AND going out to the stranger and transforming them to friend. It won’t always work. Jesus knew that. He was a stranger who, with some, through their encounters with him, became friends, but who, for others, became a threat. Despite knowing that that could be the case, his belief in his mission-call was so strong, that he endured the “threat” status, and its consequences. 

Additionally, as Abraham, Sarah, and Jesus’ disciples themselves were transformed through their engagement with strangers, I have to believe that Jesus was transformed by those he met as well. I believe that as he  “looked on others with compassion”, seeing them as a “sheep without a shepherd” (Mt 9.36), he became increasingly convinced that there was only one outcome to his mission—to be transformed—in a completely radical way—through death and resurrection.

We—as individuals and a congregation—who have come to know God, are compelled to bring the fruits of that encounter to our dealings with others. In a time of seemingly increasing threat, how do we  welcome those who come through our doors—especially those who may not “look like us”—and transform them from strangers to friends? How do we, often hesitant to leave the comfort and security of what we know, answer Jesus’ call to  “Go . . . to the lost sheep . . . [Announce] ’The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those with skin diseases, and throw out demons”?

“Close Encounters of the Divine Kind” promise transformation—for others as well as for ourselves—transformations from stranger to friend. Can we—individually and corporately—take the leap of faith to  open ourselves to that possibility.

 

Amen.


 


Trinity Sunday

[Given our first hymn, the Collect of the Day and the readings from 2 Corinthians and the Gospel of Matthew,] Many of you have probably know that today is  “Trinity Sunday”. As I said three years ago (on Zoom!)—today is “that Sunday when we celebrate our allegiance to our historic and common faith”. And, three years ago (as I’m sure many of you will remember), I quoted from the ancient “Creed of Saint Athanasius” (BCP, 864) :


There is one Person of the Father, another of the Son, and another of the Holy Ghost. But the Godhead of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, is all one, the Glory equal, the Majesty co-eternal. Such as the Father is, such is the Son, and such is the Holy Ghost. The Father uncreate, the Son uncreate, and the Holy Ghost uncreate. The Father incomprehensible, the Son incomprehensible, and the Holy Ghost incomprehensible. The Father eternal, the Son eternal, and the Holy Ghost eternal. And yet they are not three eternals, but one eternal. As also there are not three incomprehensibles, nor three uncreated, but one uncreated, and one incomprehensible.


And, three years ago, I commented that “incomprehensible” is a pretty good description of the doctrine of the Trinity.

“Incomprehensible” is another—longer—word, in my mind, for “mysterious”. We Christians have a complicated relationship with the “mysterious”. We claim that the  Trinity is a mystery. The Virgin Birth is a mystery. The  Incarnation is a mystery. How Christ is present (or not) in the  bread and wine is a mystery.  And, yesterday, at the ordination of three new deacons, I was reminded by that day’s Collect that the church itself is a  “wonderful and sacred mystery” (BCP, 280, 515, 528, 540)  This morning, I’m not going to address any of those mysteries—especially the Trinity; I’ve tried before . . . [however successfully, I’ll learn on  Judgment Day]. Instead, today, I’m going to look at other mysteries—made clear in the lessons from Genesis and the Psalms we heard this morning. And those mysteries are  “Creation” in general, and, specifically, of  humanity’s place within that creation.

All peoples from the beginning of recorded history have wondered, “How did we get here?”. And we’ve used every means at our disposal—from  stories to  mathematical formulae—to explain the mystery. Clearly, our current scientific explorations—including the  Hubble and  James Webb space telescopes and  exploration satellites—are quests for answers to that question. And what many of us are seeing is that every new answer begets another question. As Frederick Buechner—the late Presbyterian writer/theologian—noted about the mystery of “one’s own self”: “The more you try to fathom it, the more fathomless it is revealed to be” (Wishful Thinking: A Seeker’s ABC, HarperSanFrancisco 1993, 76).

But what we see in the first chapter of Genesis is a different kind of answer to the question “How did we get here?”. It was not meant to be scientific, but an attempt to answer another, more human, existential, question.  “There is water. There’s dry  land. There are lights in the sky. There’s vegetation. There are animals. We are here. How did it happen? And, most importantly, what does it mean?” And the Genesis answers came from a particular perspective, a religious perspective expressed poetically. Rather than the modern stories of the  Big Bang and of evolution—stories of the survival of the fittest, stories of “what wins”—Genesis tells a story of a God who wants us to survive—to thrive—and who has placed us in a  world where that is possible. In other words, Genesis goes beyond the question of simply “How did we get here?” to “Why are we here?”, and, then, equally important, “Who’s are we?”

The story we heard this morning doesn’t necessarily start with answering the question of  “Why we’re here?”; it simply begins with the (rather flat) statement that  God began to create. What we see is a process that produces order out of chaos. We see a progressive, continual, ordering and separating: God’s Spirit begins to calm chaos. And then comes the separation of light from darkness. A separation of the heavens and the “earth”. A separation of  dry land from the waters. Then the earth and waters cease being barren— producing vegetation. And that make it possible for fish and birds, and then  land creatures. And, finally, humans are brought forth: initial diversity:  male and female. And humanity is given a reason for being. And, then, “creation” is done; “busy-ness” is over. And the final good act of creation—rest—takes place.

How did we get here?  Genesis lays out the way from chaos to order;  everything is put in place for us—for humans—to be here. Yes, the story of Genesis has humans as the culmination of creation. But there’s more to the answer of “Why are we here?” than simply to say that God wanted humans to be the “crown”.

The end of Genesis one gives us our marching orders. We, like other creatures, are to be fruitful and multiply. But, we, unlike other creature, have another task. In the language of Eucharistic Prayer D, which we used all during Easter-tide,  we “in obedience to . . . our Creator . . . [are to] rule and serve all [God’s] creatures” (BCP, 373). In other words, we are commissioned to act as God’s regents; we are tasked to act in God’s stead to care for that “good” creation we just heard described. Genesis, chapter 1, then, tells us HOW we got here—the progression from chaos to order, and WHY we’re here—to be fruitful and multiply, and to rule and serve God’s creation. AND, it reminds us of WHOSE we are—we are here as God’s regents.To God belongs our allegiance and to God are we responsible for the carrying out of our mission.

And, if Genesis one didn’t make that process and relationship clear, it is driven home in Psalm 8. In this liturgical psalm, set for the evening service in the Temple,  a cantor calls the congregation to remember that God is trustworthy and reliable: "You [God] have set up a stronghold against your adversaries, to quell the enemy and the avenger” (3). And in reply, we—the congregation—look up from the Temple courts into the night sky (no light pollution in those days), both in awe of what God has created, but also humbled by the task God has given us:

When [we] consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, *
the moon and the stars you have set in their courses,

What [are humans] that you should be mindful of them? *
the [children of humans] that you should seek [us] out?

You have made [us] but little lower than the angels; *
you adorn [us ]with glory and honor;

You give [us] mastery over the works of your hands; *
you put all things under [our] feet . . . (BCP, 592)

 

The psalmist reminds us that we are here because God put us here. And we—awestruck—recognize our role. And,  contemplating that which is so much beyond us, we are humbled. Our awe at what God has created, and our place in that creation demands that we behave in ways that show we respect the integrity of the world God has made. We are little lower than the angels, but God has set us the task of caring for the “works of God’s hands”. As we heard from Genesis, we are here at God’s behest; we are God’ regents; we wear God’s crown in this world God has made.

“Wearing God’s crown in this world God has made” means caring for it as God—the God who called creation “good”— cares for it. “Dominion”, as we often hear Genesis 1.28 translated, doesn’t mean “domination”. Good monarchs—divine or human—know their responsibility for their realm. God would not exploit a good creation; on the contrary God would conserve it.  We—God’s regents, God’s co-creators—have the same responsibility; we are to be stewards, not consumers or abusers. We are called to restore the crown to our co-regency.

There is a “mystery” to creation. As we bow—and some of us literally do, in our liturgy—in recognition of the mystery of the Incarnation; as we bow in reverence of the mystery of bread and wine made flesh and blood; as we bow in reverence to the mystery of the Trinity . . . we bow in reverence to the mystery of creation. We bow in humility before the God who created all that is around us. We bow in humility before the God in whose image we are created. And we bow in humility and obedience to the God who calls us to fulfill our responsibility to share in caring for, a very good creation.

Amen.

Pentecost Sunday

It’s Memorial Day Weekend, and the unofficial start of summer. And, so, I want to begin with a fairly simple question: “How many of you have ever gone  camping, be it  backpacking,  tent-camping,  trailer-camping, or even  RV-ing? So how many?” When (or if) you have gone, what has been one of the most enjoyable parts of the camping experience . . . especially in the early morning or late afternoon/evening? For me—and I started camping with my parents before I learned to read!—it was always the  campfire: finding twigs, or cutting the kindling; stacking the wood correctly so that little twigs light bigger twigs . . . lighting sticks  . . . lighting branches  . . . lighting spit logs. Oh, and if you get the fire going without a  match (think Boy Scouts) . . . or even one match, you are the  ruler of the campsite!

A good campfire means so much! In the early morning, campers stand ‘round the roaring fire,  warming their hands. And, when the fire burns down a little, the coffee pot goes on, and soon, in addition to the smoke (which always follows you wherever you sit),  you smell bacon. In the evening, once the fire burn down a bit, the coals become just right for cooking dinner—whether  steaks or trout on a grill, along with foil-wrapped baked-potatoes. And, then, after dinner . . .  s’mores!

All of that—coffee, bacon, steaks, s’mores—of course, depend on the fire actually burning! Of course, if you bring wood from home, or go to the  “campground host”, you can be fairly certain that the fuel was dry. And, then, it is mostly up to the skill of the fire-builder. But, if you are in the woods, collecting downed twigs and branches, you never know if you’ll find dry wood, or wood that isn’t green—either of which not only challenge the fire-builder, but also are more likely to produce smoke which, of course, follows you wherever you sit. AND, if the fuel isn’t of the highest quality, the fire-builder is often found crouched down,  blowing on the coals, trying not to hyperventilate and/or not lose their eyebrows to the flames. The overall goal, of course, is to make a fire, to “encourage” the fuel to burn hot and even enough, that its mission is carried out—whether that to  warm those gathered ‘round the fire or to cook food (or dessert) to nourish those gathered ‘round the fire.

Yes, it’s Memorial Day weekend, but for us, it is also Pentecost Sunday. And, given our  “tongues-of-fire” reading from Acts this morning, you may have an idea where I’m going with this. And, yes, I could stop here (shortest homily ever!), and we could sing “It only takes a spark to get a fire burning. . . pass it on”, and move on to the Renewal of Baptismal Vows. I could stop here, but you know I won’t . . .  So, hold on to the image of campfire-building as I move to something a bit more serious.

All of our readings for this Pentecost Sunday point to a “power” that was, at one point, vested in one individual (or even a small group of individuals) but then shared with others. It’s that sharing of power that I want to discuss. What happens when a powerful leader, or group, passes on? How is the energy—the charisma—and, yes, the power, or authority, preserved?  Who will wear the mantle? That has been the problem associated with every major religious leader, from Moses to Elijah to Jesus to Peter and Paul—but also the Buddha and Mohammed: “What happens when they die?” What sociologists tell us is that, in most cases where charismatic leaders pass from the scene, their followers basically “hunker down” and establish a structure that will keep them together and functioning. It is so predictable, that sociologist Max Weber coined a phrase to describe it:  the  “routinization of charisma”! Or, in language more appropriate for today, the “domestication of the Spirit”. But what I see in our readings this morning challenges that “normal” process. God, through the Spirit, is doing something else—and we ought pay attention!

The selection from the book of Numbers places us in the midst of one the many times the Israelites were  grumbling about their condition in the desert. Moses is at wits’ end, and asks God, "What do I do with these folks?” God, “[descending] in a cloud, spoke to [Moses], and took some of the spirit that was on him and placed it on the seventy elders” (Nm 11.25). The result of the sharing of Spirit that was in Moses? They prophesy—a demonstration of God’s authority . . . but only once! Someone wasn’t comfortable with charisma being shared. And that hesitance is shown even more with the protest about Eldad and Medad prophesying—  they weren’t part of the official group. But Moses pushes back: “If only all the LORD’s people were prophets with the LORD placing his spirit on them!” (11.29). No routinization! Let the Spirit do its work!

Our reading from John’s Gospel tells another story of the “passing on of the Spirit”. On that first Easter night,  Jesus appears to his fearful disciples, huddling behind locked doors. He wishes “peace” upon them—perhaps a peace that might calm fears. And then Jesus commissions them; he sends them out in mission: “As the Father sent me, so I am sending you” (20. 21). The evangelist links Jesus’ commission to “take away the sin of the world”, marked by the descent of the Spirit (Jn 1.29-34), with the disciples’ commission:  “he breathed on them and said, ’Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive anyone’s sins, they are forgiven; if you don’t forgive them, they aren’t forgiven’” (20.22-23). That Spirit, concentrated in Jesus, is passed on to his followers for mission. Jesus calls us to leave our locked-room-huddle and to get busy. Have we resisted the tendency to “domesticate the Spirit”? Unfortunately, no. But we are reminded, at least on a yearly basis, to let Jesus’ breath—Jesus’ spirit—fan our embers, to flow through us to empower us for mission.

And, then the great Pentecost story in Acts—representing a different tradition about the “passing on of the Spirit” from John’s. Luke tells us that Jesus had been with his disciples for forty days after his resurrection, “working in the power of the Holy Spirit”, instructing ”the apostles he had chosen” telling them that, in a few days, they will be baptized—immersed—with the Holy Spirit (1.2-5). And, a few days later, while gathered together,  a fierce wind arose, and “they were all filled with the Holy Spirit” (2.2, 4). The result of that sharing of the Spirit was Peter’s great Pentecost sermon—the beginning of the mission to spread the gospel beyond Jerusalem and the Jews.  Think, for example, of the conversion of the household of Cornelius:  “[those] who had come with Peter were astonished that the gift of the Holy Spirit had been poured out even on the Gentiles” (10.45). No Jewish-centric “routinization” in Acts. Again, have we resisted the tendency to “set up a structure”? Sadly, no. But we are called, again and again, to let the Pentecostal Spirit flow through us to engage in mission.

What we see this morning, with the sharing of Moses’ spirit with the elders and Jesus’ breath or the blowing “wind”, is God’s Spirit being sent out beyond the individual or small group. We see the answer to the question, “Why was the Holy Spirit given?” It is not concentrated in one individual, or even one group . . . testifying that the Spirit is given for mission, not for authority. Moses was imbued with God’s Spirit to lead God’s people from bondage to freedom. That spirit was shared with seventy elders to help Moses with that mission. According to John, the Spirit descended like a dove on Jesus at his baptism to empower him for his mission to “take away the sins of the world”.  Or, as Luke reported Jesus’ quoting of Isaiah (61.1-2):  “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me. He has sent me to preach good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the prisoners and recovery of sight to the blind, to liberate the oppressed, and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” (4.18-19). And it is that understanding of the role of the Spirit in mission that Luke brings to that great Pentecost moment in Acts. Not only do the apostles give evidence of the Spirit’s presence—speaking in tongues and tongues of fire are attention-getting—but  Peter, quoting the prophet Joel, points to a future day when God will answer Moses’ hope, “Even upon my servants, men and women, I will pour out my Spirit in those days, and they will prophesy” (Ac 2.18//Joel 2.28-29).

A campfire does not exist for itself. We gather the fuel, we strike the match (or work with flint and steel) to birth the flame; we risk hyperventilation or singed eyebrows . . . for what? Just to let the fire burn un-noticed, and then to die down? No, we build that campfire because it has a mission to fulfill—and that mission is often to provide  comfort for weary and cold travelers, to provide necessary food for the hungry, to be a beacon for the lost.

I’ll let you play with the metaphor; it shouldn’t be hard. But as you do, remember that a campfire does not exist for itself. Neither does a spirit-filled church live only for itself. On this day—on this Feast of Pentecost—we are reminded that the Holy Spirit is given for mission; it is not to be privatized or domesticated. God does not charge us to “hunker down and build a structure”—metaphorical or physical. Jesus breathes the Spirit into his disciples;  he blows on our “moist, or green, wood” . . . to set us ablaze for the good of others. Where will you carry that fire?

 

Amen.