Tuesday, September 05, 2017

Sermon for Sunday, September 3, 2017 Exodus 3:1-15 Holy Ground


They came to the communion rail barefoot. One woman, wrapped in a yellow sari with gold embroidery. A man with gray hair wearing a white kurta – that ubiquitous tunic shirt that men of the Indian subcontinent all wear. Two teenagers with painted toenails, giggling a bit. A young mother juggling her baby on her hip – how do those saris stay wrapped when your baby is trying to wriggle out of your arms? There were others in the congregation, Americans, Canadians, Scots, Brits, a few who had lived in so many places that it was unclear where they would claim as home. Those others hesitated a bit if they were new, wondering if in this church in this place, they too were expected to take off their shoes to receive the Body and Blood of Christ.

But the old hands here knew the tradition. These Christians who were a part of the Church of South India, Christians whose tradition said that they were actually evangelized by St. Thomas the Apostle in 52 AD, understood that this school gym where we expats attended our weekly service was holy ground. And so they removed their shoes before coming to the rail, an echo of the story from the Old Testament this morning where God instructs Moses to remove his sandals.

Now when we have heard this story, we have usually concluded that God is commanding Moses not to bring his dirty sandals onto sacred ground. But those of you who have walked on hot dirty ground know that while the sandals you wear may have dirt on them, your feet aren’t exactly gardens of roses either. Sweaty, smelly, dirty, dusty. So maybe it isn’t about the shoes, per se. But what else could it be?

Anybody here ever participate in a foot-washing ceremony on Maundy Thursday? Some of you, yes. Is there anything that can make you feel more shy than showing your feet to a stranger who will actually bathe your feet? Our feet are not really the prettiest part of our body. As I get older, my feet look more and more wretched, and I’m shy about them. Did you know that nail salons do record business on Maundy Thursday with all those who want their feet to look nice for the foot-washing? We are shy about being barefoot, where everyone can see our bunions and hammertoes and that toe where the nail fell off after we ran the marathon, and the rough skin. When our feet are exposed, we feel vulnerable. Part of that vulnerability is the look of them, part of it is the fact that if we step on the wrong thing, they’ll hurt. Any parent who has stepped barefoot on a Lego in the idle of the night can attest to that. Vulnerable, open, showing a part of ourselves that we may not necessarily be comfortable showing. Taking away the pretense that we are in control…because in our hearts we know we are not.

I wonder if what God was doing when he had that conversation with Moses and told him to take his sandals off was to deliberately put him into a place of vulnerability. After all, taking off foot protection in a part of the world where the sand can be 120 degrees and where there are scorpions…that’s a risk, right? Is he willing to engage in a conversation with God while his feet are so vulnerable? Is he willing to engage in a conversation with God while his heart is so vulnerable? Perhaps God wants him to stop wearing a mask of a simple shepherd married to a Midianite woman and live in to who he truly is.

After all, Moses is something of an outlaw. He’s got more than bunions to hide. He had once had a great relationship with Pharaoh – he was a foster child in Pharaoh’s family, remember from last week? – but now he is a runaway and suspect by the Hebrews because he’d grown up in Pharaoh’s household and suspect by the Egyptians because he killed a slave master who had been beating a Hebrew slave. He is someone who is looking over his shoulder, even in Midian, wondering when his complicated past is going to catch up with him.

But it is not his past that catches up with him, it is his future. A future that he hears in the voice from the burning bush, giving him orders that he cannot imagine carrying out. And the only way he can live into the command he is given, to help the Israelites be free from the yoke of Pharaoh, to lead them to a new land, is to shed all the things that he believes protect him.

It’s no surprise that Moses’ response to this command is one we might identify with: “Who, me? The Israelites have no reason to believe me.”

And God gives instructions to this complicated and frightened man. He tells him what the future’s promise is, and it is being Moses’ imagining. He tells him to be vulnerable and brave. And so begins a chapter in the story of God’s people that requires all who are freed from the yoke of Pharaoh to be both vulnerable and brave.

They are to take off the familiar feeling of painful oppression – we sometimes cling to the present existence even if it is painful because at least we know what it is and that which is unknown is scary – and they are to go on a journey. They have no idea it’s going to take 40 years, but they must be vulnerable and brave if they are to be the people of God.

I think of that when I remember those sari-clad women in an Anglican church in the Middle East, where Christianity is not the dominant religion, taking off their shoes to come to the rail. And those feet, some old and cracked, some young with chipped nail polish…so very human, so very vulnerable…and so very brave.

They, like the rest of us in that church, were strangers in another land. None of us knew whether we would be viewed as friends or as aliens there. But in that church on the Persian Gulf, we all were vulnerable. We all were aliens. But we all were on a journey. Perhaps we were working there. Perhaps we were studying there. Perhaps we were teaching there. Members of that church ranged from ambassadors to taxi drivers, from nannies to deans of universities. None of us knew what the future would bring. And yet, we were together in that holy place on holy ground, stripping ourselves of all that we were using to mask our true selves, making our selves vulnerable and brave.

This church is on a journey. It has been wonderful and painful and eye-opening and difficult. Here’s the good news: we’re almost there. We’ve made ourselves vulnerable and brave. Sometimes we’ve shown our best selves. Sometimes, not so much. That’s part of being human, isn’t it? Even Moses messed up every now and again.

So stand on this holy ground. Know that the great I AM stands here with us. Know that Canaan awaits. Keep your shoes off so you remember what vulnerability feels like. Keep your hearts open so you can hear God’s voice, because our hearts are holy ground. Stand on this holy ground, and thank God for it, for all that has gone before and all that is to come.

Take off all pretense that you are in control. God is in control. Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Sermon for Sunday, August 13, 2017 Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28 “Siblings and Selling Away”


I was an only child. I didn’t understand the tensions between siblings because I had no model for it. It was only when I had a family of my own – 5 kids -  that I saw the continual battle between love and frustration, between giving attention and fostering independence, between not enough time and endless needs, that is sometimes called sibling rivalry.

Because there were five of them, they tended to pair off into battle units. We would call it the pick and poke show. M and B would pick and poke at each other over who would play with the electronic game. C and S would pick and poke at each other over who was the better snowboarder. A would pick and poke at S, and he back, when she wanted him to play with her and he preferred playing with his own friends. They would get attention (negative, but attention is attention) from their father or me in this time-honored way. Sometimes an elder brother would protect or play with his younger sister or brother, but more often it was like “Game of Thrones” with Lite-Brite sneakers on and Nerf weapons instead of capes and armor and war swords.

Sibling rivalry. It’s a bear.

We see sibling rivalry in all its glory in our Old Testament reading today. It’s the story of Joseph, popularized by the musical “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” a couple of decades ago. In the musical, we see Joseph as the annoying favored brother who seems to get all the goodies from Dad, who interprets dreams in a way that suggests that this is an attention-getting trick, who doesn’t do work, just spouts off all the time. All of this is set to lively pop music, which tends to minimize the harder parts of the text. The brothers’ convenient opportunity to get rid of him by selling him to Midianite traders who took him to Egypt as a slave for example? It’s often played for laughs.

But it wasn’t a laughing matter.

The good news, if there was good news, was that the brothers didn’t kill him. But they sold him away – SOLD HIM – into slavery for 20 silver pieces.
What do we sell, and why?

In Charlottesville yesterday, thousands of people gathered in support of and against the alt-right. Our Bishops were there. Many of our clergy were there, to stand in witness to God’s love.

Those who support a return to white power, to white dominance, to honoring those who fought to keep slaves and who thought those slaves less than human, were there in force. They don’t like people with brown or black skin. They don’t like Jews. They don’t like Muslims. They align with some groups who are arguing for secession of the South –if you don’t believe me, read yesterday’s Times-Dispatch Section A Page 4 – as a whites-only nation. And their beliefs are horrible. We call them neo-Nazis, or worse.

Those who protested against them believe God created us all regardless of color, religion, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or country of origin as God’s beloved children. They believe that our diversity gives us strength. They believe that all should be valued, all should be loved, all should have an equal shot in this nation, and equal protections. This church aligns with this view, rather than that of the white supremacists.

So is there anything wrong with that? We’re preaching the Gospel, right?

Of course we are, but here’s where it gets difficult, friends.

Turn to this story of Joseph.

We know Joseph is a show-off jerk. He gets preferential treatment from his father. He has the privilege of prophetic dreams. He regularly makes his brothers furious, because it is just not fair, and he is probably the most annoying sibling on the planet. They want him to disappear, because his very presence rubs their skin and their psyche raw.

Just like tweets from a certain person do to me.

Just like guys who look strikingly like Adolph Hitler in Charlottesville do to us all. And I’ve got to admit that when I read the article about the South seceding to create an all-white or alt-right nation, I said, “let ‘em do it so we don’t have to put up with this nonsense anymore.” I would have been happy to sell them into a separate place where I didn’t have to deal with them anymore, just to get them out of my face.

But siblings are persistent, even annoying ones. God finds a way to thread them back through our stories, the thistles in the flax.

We know Joseph goes through trials and tribulations in Egypt but eventually becomes a powerful person who brings aid to his family and his people. God works through him in a story that ends up heartwarming in the musical. I doubt it was as uncomplicated in reality, but good does come of it.

So am I saying that we should go all “Kumbaya” and hug our local racist as if the belief in racism is just fine, just an alternate truth?

Am I saying that God will sort it out, so we should keep silent about the evil of white supremacist words and actions, which left three people dead yesterday?

No. But neither can we sell our brothers, abhorrent as their beliefs are, into isolation. We work and we speak and we name evil for what it is. And starting today, we pray. 

When we pray today, pray not only for those who live the gospel. Pray not only for those who are persecuted, called “nigger, rag-head, wetback, greaser, Jew-boy, faggot, dyke” but also for those who said those names. Pray not only for those who preach the Gospel of peace but also for those who want to foment war against those who are “other.”

Why? Because who needs God to soften their stiff hearts more than the name-callers, the racists, the bigots, the homophobes? And if we simply sell them off into a silo of tainted wheat, we lose the opportunity to work the yeast of God’s love into them for transformation. The moment that we demonize them, we make them “other” too.

We try to love as God loves. It’ a bear.

There’s a famous picture of a teenaged white girl taunting a black girl, Elizabeth Eckford, one of the Little Rock 9, who was part of the group trying to integrate Central High School in Little Rock in 1957. The white girl, Hazel Bryan, was caught by the camera spewing an epithet at Elizabeth. Over time, Hazel realized what she had done, and in the early 1960’s she called Elizabeth and apologized. She disaffiliated from the church she belonged to that espoused racism. She read about black history and the civil rights movement. She changed. They became friends. Their picture in which they embraced  was taken by the same photographer that took that original iconic and painful shot. They were on Oprah together.

A beautiful story, right? Well, that isn’t the end of the story. The friendship unraveled. Hazel continued to be shunned and demonized from those in the white community who saw her as a race traitor and from those in the African-American community who were still haunted by the 1957 picture. She was made “other” and no one acknowledged how much it cost her. That racism  cost Elizabeth, there is no doubt, and we all own that, to our shame. That it cost Hazel, not so much.

The “othering” thing, it’s a bear.

The author of a recent book about Elizabeth and Hazel wrote “So the famous photograph of 1957 takes on additional meaning: the continuing chasm between the races and the great difficulty, even among people of good will, to pull off real racial reconciliation. But shuttling back and forth between them, I could see that for all their harsh words—over the past decade, they’ve only dug in their heels—they still missed one another. Each, I noticed, teared up at references to the other. Perhaps, when no one is looking—or taking any pictures—they’ll yet come together again. And if they can, maybe, so too, can we.”

But how can we, if we simply make those who walk the wrong path into monsters? If we simply define them as stupid and wrong rather than children of God whose BELIEFS are wrong? If we refuse to engage in the patient and difficult work of reconciliation, if we simply want the warm and fuzzy clickbait of a television advertisement with multiracial children to con us into believing we are now a postracial society?

Transformation is not easy. It’s a bear.

So back to Joseph.

Sibling rivalry was at play in the story of Joseph. He was sold, and somehow even after that he was redeemed and made an agent of God. So too were those who sold him into slavery. In the musical, it was all about the embrace. But I suspect that family dinners at the Jacob house weren’t exactly easy times.

And yet we can imagine there were dinners. And yet we can imagine there was conversation, as strained as it might have been. If we sell away those with whom we disagree, what do we lose? The chance for conversation. The chance for love to convert even the hardest of hearts. The chance for transformation.

So again I say to you, pray for the ones whose beliefs you find most abhorrent, whether that’s an alt-right person in Charlottesville who drove his car into a crowd of peaceful counterdemonstrators or someone who sends out disturbing tweets that seem to absolve an act of domestic terrorism. Pray for Kim Jong-Un, even if he scares the stuffing out of you. Pray for ISIS fighters, who seem irredeemable. Pray for God to transform them, because it seems only God can.

As we heard a couple of weeks ago, it’s easy to pray for the people we like. Time to pray, and pray hard, for those whom we’d prefer to sell away.

Prayer. Sometimes it’s a bear. But it’s a bear we need to wrestle with. It's a starting point for the work that is ahead of us. Selling away is not the answer.


Amen.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Sermon for Sunday, November 20, 2016 St Peter’s Arlington Luke 22:23-43 “Whom Do You See?”


It’s good to be back at St Peter’s. For those of you who don’t know me, this parish finally was able to get some relief from my presence by sending me off to seminary in 2006. Actually, I’m kidding -  this parish was a blessing to me in so many ways, not the least of which was supporting my candidacy for ordination.

One of the things I did while I was a parishioner here was to be a part of the icon-writing group taught by Irena Beliakova. We met every Saturday down in the old basement for a couple of hours of prayer, icon writing, and a whole lot of sighing. Sighing mostly because we couldn’t get our brushes to do as we wanted, or we couldn’t figure out the right color, or just because it was a hard spiritual discipline.

But eventually, with the help of our teacher and by the grace of the Holy Spirit, we would complete an icon, and it always was greater than the sum of its parts.

Icons are wondrous things. I know to some of you they look like artwork, but they are so much more. 

First, a point of clarification: they are not meant to be a teaching tool like stained glass windows. No, they are an aid to prayer, a window into heaven. When you look at one, at first glance it looks strange – elongated limbs, no attention to Western rules of proportion, serious faces, odd symbols. You might recognize the person portrayed in the icon – Jesus, Mary, Elijah, St. Peter – but it’s hard to connect with the image at first. But when you spend some time with them, you find yourself looking through them rather than at them. You see beyond the image on the board, into a divine space.

Let me say that again. You see BEYOND the image into another space, a divine space.

I spent the past week on retreat down in North Carolina, writing an icon. Most of the icon-writing time was spent in blessed silence. Since most of my workweek is spent talking to people, silence is precious, and this week was doubly precious, because I had no phone access, no interruptions, no unnecessary conversations…just writing an icon, the one that portrays that moment when Mary Magdalene encounters the newly risen Jesus outside the tomb. Once she recognizes him, she reaches out to embrace him. He says, “don’t touch me. It isn’t the time for us to touch.” It’s a blow to her, but as she looks at him, she realizes that the man she sees is not the same person she knew. He is transformed. Not just marks in his hands and feet, but he is different. She sees beyond the image she has had of Jesus, her rabbi and friend, to what he has become, the risen Lord, and she has to accept the impossible.

It’s a powerful icon. Jesus looks at her with tenderness, recognizing her confusion. She looks at Jesus longingly, wanting nothing more than the comfort of touch after the week that preceded it…she reaches to him and he holds his hand up as if to say “don’t.”

But she sees beyond what she thought she saw when he said “Mary.” She sees a transformed person.
Mary Magdalene is not the first person to see something different in Jesus.

As we hear in today’s gospel, most everybody at the scene of Jesus’ crucifixion sees – what? A loser. A failed rabbi and political provocateur who is going to pay for his transgressions with his life. His friends and followers have deserted him. Only a few women stand off in the distance – his mother and a few others. They see a beloved one whose mission seems to have failed, but they stay, watching the horrible scene, because they love him and they must bear witness.  He is still their Jesus: their understanding of Jesus, their image of Jesus.

But as he hangs from the cross, in this most ignominious of poses, there is one who sees something different. And it is an unlikely person – another person being crucified. Perhaps it is desperation, perhaps it is a revelation, but this criminal sees the man next to him as something other than another victim of Roman justice. He sees one who is truly a King – Christ the King. He sees beyond the pain and the lash marks and the blood dripping from hands and feet and sees majesty and power. He sees Christ the King. No followers, not even Peter, the Rock who would be the foundation of the church, see Christ the King in this moment. Only a criminal, a thief, the least trustworthy of persons, sees this crucified rabbi as Christ the King.

I wonder if we had been there, if we had the stomach for the spectacle, what we would have seen. My guess is that we would not have seen a king, we would have seen a failure. Now it’s easy for us to say who it is – we went to Sunday school after all – but without that, how would we have seen beyond the visual image to what existed behind it?

That happens a lot these days – we make a judgment on what we see based upon visual evidence without looking deeper, without looking at the person behind the person. It’s the sort of thing that leads to demonization – the awful language we heard in recent weeks in the political sphere. We reduce the person whom we don’t like to a catchphrase or a judgmental witticism, despite the fact that we know that we human beings are infinitely more complicated than a snarky catchphrase can convey. It gives us a feel of control, doesn’t it, this reduction of a person to a judgment?

But it denies something very important about each and every one of us, and here’s where I turn back to the notion of icons and iconography.

What is one of the first things we learn as we study our Christian faith? That human beings are made in the image of God. We humans are the closest thing we can get to what God is. We can’t imagine what God looks like, but if we look at ourselves, that’s a start.

In other words, we are icons of God. It is through us that we see God. Each and every one of us. Each and every one of us is an icon of Creator God, of Christ the King, of the Holy Spirit that sustains us. If we look at each other and look beyond our human failings, what do we see? We see our Trinitarian God. We are the icons of God.

So now that we know that, does it seem right to disrespect other human beings by calling them names, by dismissing whole groups of people as bad in gross generalizations, by classifying them in ways that meet political expediency rather than recognizing that they are icons of God, of Christ the King?

Think of it this way: if you looked at that thief being crucified, it would be easy to simply say “that’s a bad person who robbed others of their honestly earned goods.” But if you looked beyond the visual, into someone who, despite his brokenness, was an icon of God, you would see why he was capable of recognizing Christ the King.

Exteriors are deceiving. Look to the heart rather than the exterior. Look through the icon to the God who created him. Visualize every human being, even the one you disdain, as a sneak peek into who the King is who reigns among us, and then…

…treat them accordingly.


Amen.

Sermon for Sunday, November 20, 2016 St Peter’s Arlington Luke 22:23-43 “Whom Do You See?”


It’s good to be back at St Peter’s. For those of you who don’t know me, this parish finally was able to get some relief from my presence by sending me off to seminary in 2006. Actually, I’m kidding -  this parish was a blessing to me in so many ways, not the least of which was supporting my candidacy for ordination.

One of the things I did while I was a parishioner here was to be a part of the icon-writing group taught by Irena Beliakova. We met every Saturday down in the old basement for a couple of hours of prayer, icon writing, and a whole lot of sighing. Sighing mostly because we couldn’t get our brushes to do as we wanted, or we couldn’t figure out the right color, or just because it was a hard spiritual discipline.

But eventually, with the help of our teacher and by the grace of the Holy Spirit, we would complete an icon, and it always was greater than the sum of its parts.

Icons are wondrous things. I know to some of you they look like artwork, but they are so much more. 

First, a point of clarification: they are not meant to be a teaching tool like stained glass windows. No, they are an aid to prayer, a window into heaven. When you look at one, at first glance it looks strange – elongated limbs, no attention to Western rules of proportion, serious faces, odd symbols. You might recognize the person portrayed in the icon – Jesus, Mary, Elijah, St. Peter – but it’s hard to connect with the image at first. But when you spend some time with them, you find yourself looking through them rather than at them. You see beyond the image on the board, into a divine space.

Let me say that again. You see BEYOND the image into another space, a divine space.

I spent the past week on retreat down in North Carolina, writing an icon. Most of the icon-writing time was spent in blessed silence. Since most of my workweek is spent talking to people, silence is precious, and this week was doubly precious, because I had no phone access, no interruptions, no unnecessary conversations…just writing an icon, the one that portrays that moment when Mary Magdalene encounters the newly risen Jesus outside the tomb. Once she recognizes him, she reaches out to embrace him. He says, “don’t touch me. It isn’t the time for us to touch.” It’s a blow to her, but as she looks at him, she realizes that the man she sees is not the same person she knew. He is transformed. Not just marks in his hands and feet, but he is different. She sees beyond the image she has had of Jesus, her rabbi and friend, to what he has become, the risen Lord, and she has to accept the impossible.

It’s a powerful icon. Jesus looks at her with tenderness, recognizing her confusion. She looks at Jesus longingly, wanting nothing more than the comfort of touch after the week that preceded it…she reaches to him and he holds his hand up as if to say “don’t.”

But she sees beyond what she thought she saw when he said “Mary.” She sees a transformed person.
Mary Magdalene is not the first person to see something different in Jesus.

As we hear in today’s gospel, most everybody at the scene of Jesus’ crucifixion sees – what? A loser. A failed rabbi and political provocateur who is going to pay for his transgressions with his life. His friends and followers have deserted him. Only a few women stand off in the distance – his mother and a few others. They see a beloved one whose mission seems to have failed, but they stay, watching the horrible scene, because they love him and they must bear witness.  He is still their Jesus: their understanding of Jesus, their image of Jesus.

But as he hangs from the cross, in this most ignominious of poses, there is one who sees something different. And it is an unlikely person – another person being crucified. Perhaps it is desperation, perhaps it is a revelation, but this criminal sees the man next to him as something other than another victim of Roman justice. He sees one who is truly a King – Christ the King. He sees beyond the pain and the lash marks and the blood dripping from hands and feet and sees majesty and power. He sees Christ the King. No followers, not even Peter, the Rock who would be the foundation of the church, see Christ the King in this moment. Only a criminal, a thief, the least trustworthy of persons, sees this crucified rabbi as Christ the King.

I wonder if we had been there, if we had the stomach for the spectacle, what we would have seen. My guess is that we would not have seen a king, we would have seen a failure. Now it’s easy for us to say who it is – we went to Sunday school after all – but without that, how would we have seen beyond the visual image to what existed behind it?

That happens a lot these days – we make a judgment on what we see based upon visual evidence without looking deeper, without looking at the person behind the person. It’s the sort of thing that leads to demonization – the awful language we heard in recent weeks in the political sphere. We reduce the person whom we don’t like to a catchphrase or a judgmental witticism, despite the fact that we know that we human beings are infinitely more complicated than a snarky catchphrase can convey. It gives us a feel of control, doesn’t it, this reduction of a person to a judgment?

But it denies something very important about each and every one of us, and here’s where I turn back to the notion of icons and iconography.

What is one of the first things we learn as we study our Christian faith? That human beings are made in the image of God. We humans are the closest thing we can get to what God is. We can’t imagine what God looks like, but if we look at ourselves, that’s a start.

In other words, we are icons of God. It is through us that we see God. Each and every one of us. Each and every one of us is an icon of Creator God, of Christ the King, of the Holy Spirit that sustains us. If we look at each other and look beyond our human failings, what do we see? We see our Trinitarian God. We are the icons of God.

So now that we know that, does it seem right to disrespect other human beings by calling them names, by dismissing whole groups of people as bad in gross generalizations, by classifying them in ways that meet political expediency rather than recognizing that they are icons of God, of Christ the King?

Think of it this way: if you looked at that thief being crucified, it would be easy to simply say “that’s a bad person who robbed others of their honestly earned goods.” But if you looked beyond the visual, into someone who, despite his brokenness, was an icon of God, you would see why he was capable of recognizing Christ the King.

Exteriors are deceiving. Look to the heart rather than the exterior. Look through the icon to the God who created him. Visualize every human being, even the one you disdain, as a sneak peek into who the King is who reigns among us, and then…

…treat them accordingly.


Amen.

Sermon for Sunday, November 20, 2016 St Peter’s Arlington Luke 22:23-43 “Whom Do You See?”


It’s good to be back at St Peter’s. For those of you who don’t know me, this parish finally was able to get some relief from my presence by sending me off to seminary in 2006. Actually, I’m kidding -  this parish was a blessing to me in so many ways, not the least of which was supporting my candidacy for ordination.

One of the things I did while I was a parishioner here was to be a part of the icon-writing group taught by Irena Beliakova. We met every Saturday down in the old basement for a couple of hours of prayer, icon writing, and a whole lot of sighing. Sighing mostly because we couldn’t get our brushes to do as we wanted, or we couldn’t figure out the right color, or just because it was a hard spiritual discipline.

But eventually, with the help of our teacher and by the grace of the Holy Spirit, we would complete an icon, and it always was greater than the sum of its parts.

Icons are wondrous things. I know to some of you they look like artwork, but they are so much more. 

First, a point of clarification: they are not meant to be a teaching tool like stained glass windows. No, they are an aid to prayer, a window into heaven. When you look at one, at first glance it looks strange – elongated limbs, no attention to Western rules of proportion, serious faces, odd symbols. You might recognize the person portrayed in the icon – Jesus, Mary, Elijah, St. Peter – but it’s hard to connect with the image at first. But when you spend some time with them, you find yourself looking through them rather than at them. You see beyond the image on the board, into a divine space.

Let me say that again. You see BEYOND the image into another space, a divine space.

I spent the past week on retreat down in North Carolina, writing an icon. Most of the icon-writing time was spent in blessed silence. Since most of my workweek is spent talking to people, silence is precious, and this week was doubly precious, because I had no phone access, no interruptions, no unnecessary conversations…just writing an icon, the one that portrays that moment when Mary Magdalene encounters the newly risen Jesus outside the tomb. Once she recognizes him, she reaches out to embrace him. He says, “don’t touch me. It isn’t the time for us to touch.” It’s a blow to her, but as she looks at him, she realizes that the man she sees is not the same person she knew. He is transformed. Not just marks in his hands and feet, but he is different. She sees beyond the image she has had of Jesus, her rabbi and friend, to what he has become, the risen Lord, and she has to accept the impossible.

It’s a powerful icon. Jesus looks at her with tenderness, recognizing her confusion. She looks at Jesus longingly, wanting nothing more than the comfort of touch after the week that preceded it…she reaches to him and he holds his hand up as if to say “don’t.”

But she sees beyond what she thought she saw when he said “Mary.” She sees a transformed person.
Mary Magdalene is not the first person to see something different in Jesus.

As we hear in today’s gospel, most everybody at the scene of Jesus’ crucifixion sees – what? A loser. A failed rabbi and political provocateur who is going to pay for his transgressions with his life. His friends and followers have deserted him. Only a few women stand off in the distance – his mother and a few others. They see a beloved one whose mission seems to have failed, but they stay, watching the horrible scene, because they love him and they must bear witness.  He is still their Jesus: their understanding of Jesus, their image of Jesus.

But as he hangs from the cross, in this most ignominious of poses, there is one who sees something different. And it is an unlikely person – another person being crucified. Perhaps it is desperation, perhaps it is a revelation, but this criminal sees the man next to him as something other than another victim of Roman justice. He sees one who is truly a King – Christ the King. He sees beyond the pain and the lash marks and the blood dripping from hands and feet and sees majesty and power. He sees Christ the King. No followers, not even Peter, the Rock who would be the foundation of the church, see Christ the King in this moment. Only a criminal, a thief, the least trustworthy of persons, sees this crucified rabbi as Christ the King.

I wonder if we had been there, if we had the stomach for the spectacle, what we would have seen. My guess is that we would not have seen a king, we would have seen a failure. Now it’s easy for us to say who it is – we went to Sunday school after all – but without that, how would we have seen beyond the visual image to what existed behind it?

That happens a lot these days – we make a judgment on what we see based upon visual evidence without looking deeper, without looking at the person behind the person. It’s the sort of thing that leads to demonization – the awful language we heard in recent weeks in the political sphere. We reduce the person whom we don’t like to a catchphrase or a judgmental witticism, despite the fact that we know that we human beings are infinitely more complicated than a snarky catchphrase can convey. It gives us a feel of control, doesn’t it, this reduction of a person to a judgment?

But it denies something very important about each and every one of us, and here’s where I turn back to the notion of icons and iconography.

What is one of the first things we learn as we study our Christian faith? That human beings are made in the image of God. We humans are the closest thing we can get to what God is. We can’t imagine what God looks like, but if we look at ourselves, that’s a start.

In other words, we are icons of God. It is through us that we see God. Each and every one of us. Each and every one of us is an icon of Creator God, of Christ the King, of the Holy Spirit that sustains us. If we look at each other and look beyond our human failings, what do we see? We see our Trinitarian God. We are the icons of God.

So now that we know that, does it seem right to disrespect other human beings by calling them names, by dismissing whole groups of people as bad in gross generalizations, by classifying them in ways that meet political expediency rather than recognizing that they are icons of God, of Christ the King?

Think of it this way: if you looked at that thief being crucified, it would be easy to simply say “that’s a bad person who robbed others of their honestly earned goods.” But if you looked beyond the visual, into someone who, despite his brokenness, was an icon of God, you would see why he was capable of recognizing Christ the King.

Exteriors are deceiving. Look to the heart rather than the exterior. Look through the icon to the God who created him. Visualize every human being, even the one you disdain, as a sneak peek into who the King is who reigns among us, and then…

…treat them accordingly.


Amen.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

Sermon for Roger Thorpe’s Memorial Service, Tuesday, October 11, 2016


Good evening. I am Mary Thorpe, Roger’s daughter-in-law. It is my privilege to say a few words this evening. Please know that the whole family deeply appreciates your prayers, your love, and your presence here as we reflect on Roger and on our faith. This has been a difficult few days, and your care has helped the family weather this hard journey.
Eileen and the family asked for two wonderful texts to be read for this service, ones that resonate as we think of this particular Christian life, now come to its peaceful end. The first is a portion of Psalm 139, the second, one of the most powerful passages from the Gospel of Matthew.  

At first glance, it might seem that these passages are not what one would expect at a funeral. Where’s the “In my Father’s House there are many rooms?” Where’s the invocation of the Good Shepherd leading the weary lamb to a place of rest? Where’s the moment when our tears are dried?

No, none of the old favorites that have been preached on for centuries as we laid our beloveds to rest. Instead, something different. Something more appropriate to this man and this moment.

Think of Psalm 139. It is absolutely clear about the relationship between the speaker and the Lord. God knows this person inside out.  The Psalmist cannot escape from God’s intimate knowledge of him – that beautiful language of being formed in his mother’s womb, of not being separated even in the darkness, because darkness is as light to God. He lists possible ways that the speaker could be far from God, and in each case, he cannot escape God. God is always present.

In some secular story lines, this might seem a frightening proposition: I cannot escape from this all-powerful being! As the Old Testament scholar Robert Alter notes, we hear the same sort of language in the Book of Job, Chapter 10. There, Job is angry and frustrated and confused and would prefer that God not be so close. But in this psalm, immediately, IMMEDIATELY, there is no fear. This speaker is absolutely delighted that God knows him: it is a marvel to him. The speaker implies, as well, that this deep and close relationship gives him a peek into the mind of God. Not all of it, of course, but glimpses : “17How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!18I try to count them—they are more than the sand; I come to the end—I am still with you.” The passage closes with a request: search me and know me, and if you find anything vexing, lead me to the right path.

Ah, vexing things! My family will attest that there are more than a few vexing things about me. There are times when I mess up. I sin. And when I sin, I am ashamed. In my shame, I don’t want to be known by God, I want to hide. But the Psalmist does exactly the opposite: because he wants to be the person God created him to be, he not only accepts that God will know his flaws, but he invites God’s examination.

Why? Because he knows his heavenly Father loves him. He knows that God’s greatest desire is his striving for perfection. He also knows that it is probably impossible to be perfect, but that it is God’s good pleasure that he should want to be perfected.

Imagine a life that is based on trust that God’s knowledge of you is not something to fear, but to invite. Imagine a life that accepts that one can never completely know God, but only every now and again see glimpses of the divine, and fully believe that is enough. Imagine a life that is an ongoing intimate conversation between loving Creator and beloved Creation.

Imagine a life like that.

That was the angle of view between Roger and his God. That was Roger’s life.

So hold on to that thought. We’ll talk more on that in a minute…

Matthew’s Gospel. Chapter 25, a final teaching before Jesus’ arrest and death.  It’s an apocalyptic vision, the final judgment, the sorting. What are the things that the favored ones have done that get them put into the “sheep” column rather than tossed onto the “goat” pile? The short answer is that they paid attention, way back in Chapter 5 when Jesus taught the crowds the Beatitudes. They not only paid attention, they did something about it. They recognized that it was not enough to simply hear the Word, the Word needed – demanded -  to be acted upon. And in this apocalyptic vision, those actions were best accomplished not because followers of Jesus thought God was watching, or the world was watching.  They were best accomplished not because they were currying favor with their Creator. They were best accomplished in quiet and invisible ways, when you didn’t think you were doing it directly for Christ, but because every person in the world was beloved of Christ. Lepers, Samaritans, fallen women, tax collectors, Roman centurions, mothers-in-law, anyone…all were worthy of loving care and support, because all were loved by their Creator.

Imagine now a life where medical care was given without the eyes of the world seeing what was happening. Imagine ill people being carried for days to be cared for by the one doctor who served an area equivalent in size to Illinois and Indiana put together. Patients may have been too far gone for the doctor to do more than provide comfort, but he did that. They may not have looked like the Warner Sallman portrait of Jesus so prominently displayed in just about every Covenant Church I’ve visited, but they were cared for as if it was the Lord himself. Imagine a doctor who learned how to grind eyeglass lenses so that patients could see, and who else was going to do it? Imagine a surgeon who brought food from his own home on the mission station to patients who had no one to bring them sustenance. Imagine a life devoted to those whose need was invisible to most of the world, a life of welcoming new babies into the world and ushering dying souls to God.

Imagine such a life.

That was Roger’s life,  a life that now has come to a close.

When we come to the end of our life, there is an awareness that there will at some point be a sorting. There is a question that lingers in our hearts: will I be counted as a sheep or a goat? If God looks into my heart and at my life, will I be judged a faithful servant? We know our own weaknesses and failures, and we worry. But we need not do so. Because even if we Christians cannot fully know the mind of God, we do know two things. Our God loves us, and our Lord has saved us. We believe in Jesus’ resurrection; we believe, too, that we will be with him at the end. We need not worry about that sorting, because we have been saved. We don’t believe in works righteousness, where God ticks off all the awesome things we’ve done and weighs it against our failures, and we only get eternal reward if the good side outweighs the other, because we have been saved.

So what does this mean when we look at the life of this good and faithful Christian servant who humbly sought to use his gifts to do God’s will? We see what it looks like when we know God as God knows us. We see what it looks like when we’ve paid attention to the Beatitudes, and we realize that it’s not just the listening to them, but acting upon them. We see the joy of ever being known and ever being perfected by the one who has always known us and has always loved us. This is what it looks like to live a life of belief. Roger did what he did in his life because he could not NOT do it, because of what the Lord did for him. He is saved. So are we all. May he rest in peace; we fully trust he will rise in glory.


Amen.

Sunday, October 09, 2016

Sermon for Sunday, October 9, 2016 Luke 17:11-19 “Identity”


Good morning! I am Mary Thorpe, Director of Transition Ministry for the Diocese of Virginia, and it is my privilege to be here with you as you adjust to a new reality without Rev. D at the helm of this wonderful parish. It is the work of my department to support you in this time of transition. Your bishops and your diocesan staff are your resource, the folks you can lean on, as you look toward the future.

The readings we have today seem to have very little to do with your situation…and yet they do. That’s the blessing of the lectionary – it seems that every time something happens in our lives that shakes us, there is a thread in the lectionary that speaks to our souls.

So in today’s readings, we hear two stories about people afflicted with leprosy, and how they are affected by it as well as how they deal with their affliction.

Well, what does leprosy have to do with St P's? On the face of it, not much. But let’s explore a little bit and see what we can find.

Leprosy was a feared disease in the ancient world. It was viewed as a sign of being unclean. Lepers had to survive by begging, living outside the gates of the city. There was fear, too, that this was a transmittable disease – we know now that Hansen’s disease, as leprosy is now called, is not infectious in that way. But in those days, people who suffered from this affliction were ostracized, kept out of the community, were known not as brothers or mothers or children but as outcasts who must announce themselves by ringing a bell and calling out “unclean, unclean!”

In other words, they lost their identity. They became known only as their affliction.

This is not only a phenomenon of the past. When I was in chaplaincy training at a hospital in Washington, there was a tendency to refer to patients by their ailment. “The gallbladder in 4West.” “The terminal pancreatic cancer in that room.” “The teen with end-stage AIDS.” Not Mrs. Jones. Not Fred Smith. Not Angela. Their identity was subsumed by their disease.

Nowadays, they train doctors not to refer to patients in this way, but the practice still lingers. And it’s not surprising. When we are focused on our own illness, we tend to be consumed with talk about it. When a loved one is ill, everything is about the symptoms or the treatment or the prognosis. Even in referring to ourselves, our illnesses become a primary identity, and we forget how we are so much more than that. There is a loss of identity, or at the very least a shift in identity, when there is illness.

So now we turn back to the Gospel. A group of lepers encounter Jesus on the road. 
They ask him for mercy. He heals them. No big surprise there – he usually heals those who ask for his help. He doesn’t ask questions, he simply cares for them. He doesn’t sort them into good people or bad people, or Jews or Gentiles, or men or women. He sees each of them as beloved of their Creator, and heals them.

Now what happens next is interesting: only one turns back to say thank you. And in the telling of the story, suddenly there is note paid to the fact that this grateful man is…a Samaritan. Not a Jew, but a member of a sect that most Jews would view as unclean simply by virtue of his religious identity.

This is a guy who was viewed as doubly broken, doubly unacceptable, because he was first, a Samaritan, and second, a leper. His healing solves the second problem but he is still a Samaritan. Yet he crosses the boundaries, not denying his identity, not turning from someone he shouldn’t have trusted, because he sees that Jesus’ love is bigger than that. Jesus doesn’t allow the peculiarities of one person’s identity to get in the way of loving the man and healing him.

Jesus puts identity in its proper place: a facet of a person, not the whole of the person’s story. Something that is infinitely more nuanced than we usually think. By doing that, it becomes perfectly sensible that Jesus should heal a Samaritan leper. He sees identity differently, not ignoring it but putting it into its proper context.

Identity matters. When our identity is taken away from us, when we stop being Mrs. Smith and become the gallbladder in room 4West, we feel we are no longer visible. Have you ever had the experience of being the patient lying in the bed, and having doctors talk over your prone form to your spouse or another doctor? Then you know what I mean! You feel somehow lessened. Your identity is shrunk into a small box.

But identity is not a one-dimensional thing. It is complex. It evolves, just as the transition from leper to healed person is an evolution.

What does this have to do with St P's? I know of the history of this parish, that there have been times of great conflict and tension, that you have welcomed parishioners from other conflicted parishes, that there are still a range of theological points of view in this place. That is a part of your identity, one that we can celebrate because despite the struggles you are united in your love for this place and you are looking forward in hope. But the other part of an evolving identity is to say “that is a part of our story but it is not the whole of our story.” You are writing your story as a parish family with love, with spirituality, and with service.

If you simply choose to identify yourselves as your past story, you inhibit your ability to write the next chapter, with the help of the Holy Spirit. If you say “we are fragile because of the struggles of the past,” you deny the hard work you have done…and the toughness of scar tissue exceeds that of untested flesh. You are stronger than you may think.

As you reflect on your identity in this time of change, Jesus suggests that you see yourselves as you truly are: strong, vibrant, with gifts and ministries that benefit each other and the larger community. See yourselves as more than past disputes. See yourselves as Jesus sees you: healed, strengthened, beloved. And see how that shapes your vision of God’s plan for St. P's.

Your identity is even now growing, because God’s grace keeps you moving and changing, and that’s a good thing. May God bless St P's, all of you who are here and those who could not be here, and all those who have not yet found you but who belong here, and God bless the next chapter of living into that evolving identity with God’s help.

Amen.




Saturday, October 08, 2016

Sermon for Sunday, September 25, 2016 Holy Comforter, Richmond “A World Turned Upside Down”

For the past few weeks we’ve been hearing a series of teachings and parables. We’ve heard about healing on the Sabbath. We’ve heard about invited poor people to our table rather than worrying about how close to the host we get to sit. We’ve heard about how we need to turn our back on familial relationships. We’ve heard about lost coins and sheep. We’ve heard about the shrewd but dishonest manager. We’ve heard about a poor beggar at the rich man’s gate getting rewarded and the rich man having an unpleasant surprise at the other side of eternity.

A whole laundry list of teachings…what’s the common thread?

It’s a world turned upside down. That’s the thing about Jesus’ teachings. He seemingly never goes to the expected place in his teachings. He takes the conventional wisdom – even the conventional religious wisdom of the day – and upends it. Not surprisingly, that makes people uncomfortable, because we like to think we know how things work and what being a good and righteous person looks like.

I’ve had a week of uncomfortable-ness. My world was turned upside down. I was called to jury duty.

Now I know that it’s our civic duty to do it. I know that I’m not special and don’t get a bye on doing it. I know all that. But my schedule is horrific. There’s an endless stream of work in my in-box and voice mail, and I can barely keep up.

So I wore my collar to the courthouse in hopes that it would give me a pass. After all, wouldn’t the attorneys believe that I would be too bound by religious beliefs to be a good juror? Wouldn’t one side think that I would be an angel of mercy and the other think I would be an  avenging angel, so either of them might say I couldn’t serve?

You know the saying. You make a plan and God laughs.

The one trial that was starting on Monday was a civil trial. They needed nine jurors. There were almost 50 of us. “Piece of cake,” I thought. “I’m outta here.”

They called 17 people for initial screening. Not me. “Sweet,” I thought. “I’m off the hook.”

The lawyers quizzed folks. Several were relieved of duty. “Hmm,” I thought.

They called a couple of other people to be asked questions. Not me. “Thank goodness,” I thought. “That was close.”

We broke for lunch, with orders to come back at 1:30. When we reconvened, there was a problem. One of the jurors had not returned from lunch. After a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, they went to their list to call one more name.

Mine. Dang it!

Short story: I’m on the jury. I’ve been on the jury all week. I can’t talk about the case, but I can talk, I think, about worlds turned upside down. My world, where my schedule was blown to smithereens. The world of the defendant, who, it goes without saying, had to defend himself. The world of the plaintiff, who filed this case because the plaintiff’s world had been turned upside down and thought the defendant was responsible. The world of battalions of lawyers who have to do this for a living, and despite all their carefully constructed strategies, could not predict some of what was said from the stand. The world of my fellow jurors, some of whom were missing work, one of whom was 7 months pregnant, all of whom had other places to be. Even, perhaps, the world of the judge, whose docket of cases was interfered with by this long case – after a full week of testimony, we will finally begin deliberations on Monday – and the times when his administration of this case was interfered with by emergent needs on other cases on his docket.

But even in worlds turned upside down, there is grace. I’ve met some wonderful people, particularly my fellow jurors, who are a motley crew, but we laugh and share our stories freely in the stuffy little jury room. I’ve heard moments of tragedy but also moments of deep caring and love in that room and from the witness stand. I’ve seen experts turned to mush and ordinary folks be voices of wisdom.

You turn a rock upside down, you might not like what you see. But if you turn the world upside down, you may see things that surprise you more positively.

This is what Jesus has been talking about these past few weeks. If you are stuck in one view of the way things are supposed to be, whether it’s that the poor get a lousy deal because their parents sinned, or that the conniving manager gets a bye for his cleverness (remember that one line in last week’s gospel that says “the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light” – we’re supposed to be less shrewd, not more)…if you’re stuck in one view of the way things are supposed to be, you aren’t looking at the whole picture, you’re missing something.

Jesus turns the world upside down so that we can see the whole of God’s love for us, the whole of the dark and the light of the world. We are intended to look for the places where we can be bringers of light by seeing things differently. We are not intended to simply move through the right-side-up world like zombies following rules without thinking.

Here’s the thing: it’s easier to keep the world right-side-up where we think we know what we’re supposed to do. It’s easier to follow a recipe. But if the only recipe we receive that truly matters is “Add love,” it requires that we look in all aspects of the world to see where we’re supposed to add it. If we turn the world upside down, we may see all sorts of places where behaving differently from what our right side up world means that we are the love-bringers. And those who bring us love may be the ones we least expect. It is, after all, upside down world!

I don’t know what our jury will decide on this case we’ve been hearing all week. I don’t know what the impact of our decision will be on all who are involved. But I do know this: it turned my world upside down and I saw things I didn’t expect to see. I felt God’s love in our work and in my personal reflections. There was a moment here or there when I may have been a symbol of God’s love – I hope I did that as God would want. As disorienting and disturbing as being in upside down world this week has been, I’ve learned something of what Jesus asks of us: look and really see. Don’t simply follow rules blindly.  Questions are not bad things, they are critical. Look for the love. Look for the light. And trust that you will know, through God’s Holy Spirit, what you are to do. Both sides of the world need it. Both sides of the world need you.

Amen.

Sunday, September 25, 2016

Sermon for Sunday, September 25, 2016 Holy Comforter, Richmond “A World Turned Upside Down”

For the past few weeks we’ve been hearing a series of teachings and parables. We’ve heard about healing on the Sabbath. We’ve heard about invited poor people to our table rather than worrying about how close to the host we get to sit. We’ve heard about how we need to turn our back on familial relationships. We’ve heard about lost coins and sheep. We’ve heard about the shrewd but dishonest manager. We’ve heard about a poor beggar at the rich man’s gate getting rewarded and the rich man having an unpleasant surprise at the other side of eternity.

A whole laundry list of teachings…what’s the common thread?

It’s a world turned upside down. That’s the thing about Jesus’ teachings. He seemingly never goes to the expected place in his teachings. He takes the conventional wisdom – even the conventional religious wisdom of the day – and upends it. Not surprisingly, that makes people uncomfortable, because we like to think we know how things work and what being a good and righteous person looks like.

I’ve had a week of uncomfortable-ness. My world was turned upside down. I was called to jury duty.

Now I know that it’s our civic duty to do it. I know that I’m not special and don’t get a bye on doing it. I know all that. But my schedule is horrific. There’s an endless stream of work in my in-box and voice mail, and I can barely keep up.

So I wore my collar to the courthouse in hopes that it would give me a pass. After all, wouldn’t the attorneys believe that I would be too bound by religious beliefs to be a good juror? Wouldn’t one side think that I would be an angel of mercy and the other think I would be an  avenging angel, so either of them might say I couldn’t serve?

You know the saying. You make a plan and God laughs.

The one trial that was starting on Monday was a civil trial. They needed nine jurors. There were almost 50 of us. “Piece of cake,” I thought. “I’m outta here.”

They called 17 people for initial screening. Not me. “Sweet,” I thought. “I’m off the hook.”

The lawyers quizzed folks. Several were relieved of duty. “Hmm,” I thought.

They called a couple of other people to be asked questions. Not me. “Thank goodness,” I thought. “That was close.”

We broke for lunch, with orders to come back at 1:30. When we reconvened, there was a problem. One of the jurors had not returned from lunch. After a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, they went to their list to call one more name.

Mine. Dang it!

Short story: I’m on the jury. I’ve been on the jury all week. I can’t talk about the case, but I can talk, I think, about worlds turned upside down. My world, where my schedule was blown to smithereens. The world of the defendant, who, it goes without saying, had to defend himself. The world of the plaintiff, who filed this case because the plaintiff’s world had been turned upside down and thought the defendant was responsible. The world of battalions of lawyers who have to do this for a living, and despite all their carefully constructed strategies, could not predict some of what was said from the stand. The world of my fellow jurors, some of whom were missing work, one of whom was 7 months pregnant, all of whom had other places to be. Even, perhaps, the world of the judge, whose docket of cases was interfered with by this long case – after a full week of testimony, we will finally begin deliberations on Monday – and the times when his administration of this case was interfered with by emergent needs on other cases on his docket.

But even in worlds turned upside down, there is grace. I’ve met some wonderful people, particularly my fellow jurors, who are a motley crew, but we laugh and share our stories freely in the stuffy little jury room. I’ve heard moments of tragedy but also moments of deep caring and love in that room and from the witness stand. I’ve seen experts turned to mush and ordinary folks be voices of wisdom.

You turn a rock upside down, you might not like what you see. But if you turn the world upside down, you may see things that surprise you more positively.

This is what Jesus has been talking about these past few weeks. If you are stuck in one view of the way things are supposed to be, whether it’s that the poor get a lousy deal because their parents sinned, or that the conniving manager gets a bye for his cleverness (remember that one line in last week’s gospel that says “the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light” – we’re supposed to be less shrewd, not more)…if you’re stuck in one view of the way things are supposed to be, you aren’t looking at the whole picture, you’re missing something.

Jesus turns the world upside down so that we can see the whole of God’s love for us, the whole of the dark and the light of the world. We are intended to look for the places where we can be bringers of light by seeing things differently. We are not intended to simply move through the right-side-up world like zombies following rules without thinking.

Here’s the thing: it’s easier to keep the world right-side-up where we think we know what we’re supposed to do. It’s easier to follow a recipe. But if the only recipe we receive that truly matters is “Add love,” it requires that we look in all aspects of the world to see where we’re supposed to add it. If we turn the world upside down, we may see all sorts of places where behaving differently from what our right side up world means that we are the love-bringers. And those who bring us love may be the ones we least expect. It is, after all, upside down world!

I don’t know what our jury will decide on this case we’ve been hearing all week. I don’t know what the impact of our decision will be on all who are involved. But I do know this: it turned my world upside down and I saw things I didn’t expect to see. I felt God’s love in our work and in my personal reflections. There was a moment here or there when I may have been a symbol of God’s love – I hope I did that as God would want. As disorienting and disturbing as being in upside down world this week has been, I’ve learned something of what Jesus asks of us: look and really see. Don’t simply follow rules blindly.  Questions are not bad things, they are critical. Look for the love. Look for the light. And trust that you will know, through God’s Holy Spirit, what you are to do. Both sides of the world need it. Both sides of the world need you.

Amen.