Sunday, May 22, 2016

Sermon for Trinity Sunday May 22, 2016 "Inhabited"

Friends, it is Trinity Sunday, and you know what that means – your preacher has sweated bullets over what can be one of the most worrisome sermons of the year. Now, there are other texts that cause us to fear and tremble. Preaching on divorce,as we do when Mark’s Gospel is central to our summer readings in Year B. The problem of Jesus asking the disciples to bring him a donkey and a colt to ride into Jerusalem for Palm Sunday in Year A- does he ride on both of them? Does he ride into town with one foot on each like a circus performer? All those problem passages are nothing compared with the challenge of preaching on Trinity Sunday. That’s why it is often assigned to seminarians, who love to share what they learned in systematic theology class, or to deacons – you dodged the bullet today, Joe! – or to priest associates like me when the rector is away.

 Thanks, Hilary. Have a nice retreat, pal!

Here’s why: no one knows how to explain the Trinity. Even St Augustine, a great Father of the Church and brilliant theologian, couldn’t get it done in his 800 page long book on the Trinity. The only tools we seem to have at our disposal are metaphor and simile. The Trinity is like words that can be verbs, adverbs, nouns and adjectives. The Trinity is like a three-leaf clover – thanks, St Patrick! The Trinity is like a dance – my boss says he’s got a sermon that says the Trinity is like the Hokey Pokey. Haven’t heard it yet, and the concept scares me a little. What IF the Hokey Pokey is what it’s all about?

And yet this is one of those essential doctrines of Christianity that we are expected to believe. That’s why the words of the Nicene Creed which we will recite in a few minutes, references the persons of the Trinity.  Now, I will stipulate that the words do describe a little bit of the relationship of the persons of the trinity – that key phrase about the Holy Spirit proceeding from the Father and the Son is actually such a description, and it’s one that the participants at the Council of Nicaea argued about for about 50 years – but the creed really doesn’t explain it all to you in a way you can understand…

….or at least in a way that I can understand.

It’s true confessions time. I do not understand how the Trinity works.

Who else is willing to say they don’t understand it either?

Good. I’m not alone.

But here’s the thing: I have no problem at all standing up and reaffirming my faith by saying the Nicene Creed, because I don’t have to understand how it works to sense in my heart and soul that the Holy Trinity's presence is real and alive. I don’t have to understand it to know that God reaches out to me through creation, through the salvation I received through Christ and through the relentless nudge of the Holy Spirit to keep me doing what God wants me to do rather than what I’d prefer to do.

Does that sound contradictory?

Maybe a little bit, but work with me here…

Some of you may know that I write icons, those pictures of Christ, his mother, and the saints from the Orthodox tradition. We call it writing rather than painting, because painting sounds like a creative endeavor.  This is anything but creative. When we write icons, we generally copy other icons, following the rules of color, shape, facial and physical structure, and symbols of the ancient iconographers. It is, in a way, paint by numbers for the spiritual. We copy these images much as the monks of the Middle Ages in the Western world copied the Word of God in scriptoria, carefully doing precisely what their predecessor did, not changing words, just copying so that some others might be able to have access to a copy of those words.

Each time I go to my work-desk to write an icon, I begin with a prayer to St. Luke, the patron saint of iconographers. And then I begin. I start with a blank white board covered with layers of gesso to give a smooth receptive surface for the paints, be they egg tempera or acrylics. 

Cartoon copied onto gessoed board
I copy the drawing of the key lines of the icon I am writing from a black and white image called a cartoon. I start coloring the image by laying down a dark and dense base coat, the deepest colors in our palette. I build the image by adding additional layers of color, each a little lighter, a little smaller, a little more translucent than the one before. I attend to the direction of where the light seems to be coming from in terms of the brighter features…more layers of lighter color there, until I have constructed an image from the darkest most incomprehensible shape to something with dimension, with light, with movement. And at each step of the way, I think to myself, “This looks awful. This looks nothing like what I am trying to copy. This is ugly.” And it’s the truth. But I keep praying, and I keep working.
Lines colored black, base layer of skin (senkir) added.

Other base colors added

Adding layers of color to face and hands

Gold leaf for halo applied, many more layers of color on the chiton (undertunic), skin and hair.

Scripture started, layers on outer garment, more layers everywhere else. Identifying name (Hagios Pavel in Cyrillic) in red.


At various steps along the way, it DOES look amateurish and ratty and full of mistakes, some of which cannot be corrected. I may do a piece of it and think, “well, I really like those hands,” and then I turn to the folds in a garment and think “well, that’s not right.” But I keep praying and I keep writing.

Eventually, after layer upon layer of color – sometimes the face will have as many as 20 layers – I hit the point where there is nothing more I can do. It is done. All I can see at that point are the thousands of small mistakes, a line that wiggled, a color that is not quite right, lettering that looks clumsy, an expression on an angel’s face that looks like she has indigestion.

I can’t fix my past mistakes, so I pray for forgiveness for the imperfection of my work, and for grace to do it better the next time.

And then I coat it to protect the image. Polyurethane if it was rendered in acrylics, olibas – aged linseed oil – if it was rendered in egg tempera. I can no longer go back and try to tweak things I don’t like, it just has to be what it is.
 
As finished as it was going to be, and coated in poly.
And invariably, once it is dried, it looks different. The whole, the finished icon, is greater than the sum of its parts, even with all those mistakes, with all those imperfections. God – the Holy Trinity - has inhabited the work, and made it more than my human hands and eyes can do. And if anyone asked me what happened to cause that icon to be something more than I could have done, I would have no words for it beyond that thought: God has inhabited it.

And I thank God for God’s patience with my humble work, not understanding the “how” or “why” of it all, but being grateful for that inhabiting.

And that’s the way, I guess, that I feel about the Trinity. I will readily admit that I do not understand the how and why of the Trinity, but I sense that I – that WE – are inhabited by the Trinity, and it makes us more than we are capable of being without it. And I am immensely grateful when I realize that.

So if this gave you any ideas that you now understand the theology of the Holy Trinity, my apologies: none of what I have said should be construed as a systematic theology of the Trinity. It is just the reminder that sometimes we feel God inhabiting us in strange and wondrous ways – in hearing a beautiful piece of music, in the look in a person’s eyes as they lift their hands to receive Communion, in the wrinkled and delicate skin on the back of the hands of a dying great-grandmother, in the cry of a newborn, in the whisper of the wind, in the fact that my peonies cannot open unless little ants chew away the nectar that keeps the buds locked up tight. We cannot put words to it. We don’t understand it. But it is there, and that is enough.

The explanation awaits us on a further shore, and there is time enough for that. For now, know that God loves us enough to make Godself known to us in a thousand thousand ways, and be grateful. The Trinity doesn't need us to understand, the Trinity just wants us to rejoice in it.


Amen.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Sermon for Tuesday, May 17th Evening Vespers/ Lutheran-Episcopal Conference ShrineMont/ Ezekiel 11:14-25

Ah Ezekiel! My favorite Old Testament heretic!
Heretic, you say? A chosen speaker of God’s word? A part of the canon of the Hebrew Bible? How can this be? Am I the heretic here?
Maybe, maybe not. Let’s explore this a bit.
What do we know of Adonai, of YHWH, the God of the Hebrew Bible?
Well, if we agree on nothing else, we know that this is a God of following the rules. The Deuteronomist spills much ink on rules, rules, and more rules.
And rules are, indeed, a needful thing: how else to keep a fractious and frightened people together in the midst of continual cultural and political assaults, across the desert, in captivity, in battle? There must be rules to keep the community distinct from those who are not the Chosen People, and to keep them from behaving as badly as they seem inclined to do.
And in this passage from the book of Ezekiel, set in the midst of the Babylonian captivity, we see how when God’s people do not follow the rules, there are consequences. There is conquest, diaspora, separation from the spiritual heart of Israel, the Temple in Jerusalem.
Okay, so far we are following the normative role of covenantal relationship with the Lord – you mess up, you end up in a bad place.
But then something happens in the midst of the misery of people who cannot even sing their own songs anymore because they are so depressed. Ezekiel dreams and prophesies: redemption is coming.  Actually, redemption has come, perhaps not in a way that was always recognizable to them, but it has been there: God has been with them. If the people could not go to the Temple, the Temple came to them. God was abiding with them. It may have seemed just a pale shadow of the glory of the Temple, but no matter. God was with them. Even if the people failed in abiding by the covenant, God – and God’s covenant - abided with them.
But wait! There’s more! These sad souls will be back in Jerusalem soon…but the rules may have shifted a bit.
God proclaims that the people who have been scattered abroad will be gathered together.
A sidebar here: Ezekiel reminds us that the folks who DIDN’t get dispersed, who remained in Jerusalem, have something of the attitude of those modern people who say “I’ve got the good stuff because I’ve been faithful and God loves me for it, and if you don’t have the good stuff, it’s clear you offended God.” Those who got to stay in Jerusalem thought the Temple belonged to them – possession is 9/10s of the law, right? – and the others, well, tough luck for them. They deserved their fate.
And here’s where the strange and wonderful and slightly heretical glance of Ezekiel comes into play: God says “never mind.”
God says, “yes, we will clean up the messes you folks left, but it isn’t about the Temple. I’m going to set up shop near it, but no longer in it – take that, you pompous self-righteous prigs in Jerusalem – and we’re going to repair not the Temple, but our hearts.”
For what seems like the first time in a long time, this Creator God starts with the heart rather than the rules.
“I will gather you from the peoples, and assemble you out of the countries where you have been scattered, and I will give you the land of Israel. When they come there, they will remove from it all its detestable things and all its abominations. I will give them one heart, and put a new spirit within them; I will remove the heart of stone from their flesh and give them a heart of flesh, so that they may follow my statutes and keep my ordinances and obey them. Then they shall be my people, and I will be their God.” 
The work of the Heart precedes the work of the rules. Both are needed, but the sequence matters.
If the sole focus of our common lives together is following rules, we become diminished, parsing out every jot and tittle. If the sole focus of our common lives together is warm and fuzzy feelings, we become undisciplined and unclear. We need both, but the sequence matters.
When relationships are broken, the various sides in the story are judging each other and themselves. It’s the human condition, isn’t it, trying to prove we are in the right and others are not? Trying to prove we have God’s favor while others are lower in the pecking order?
When we work at the hard and beautiful work of reimagining relationships, one of the first things we have to do is to put aside the rules that divide us and fall in love with our brothers and sisters again.  How we live into that love requires that we figure out some operating principles, some rules of the road, but unless we enter into a rule of life starting with a rule of love, because God loves us first and fiercely, the rules will continue to divide us.
This is why a slightly heretical apocalyptic prophet is the perfect voice for what we are trying to do here, years after the signing of “Called to Common Mission” document. It has to do with the very nature of apocalyptic literature: odd and strange words from a fever dream, challenging and prodding and awakening people to some new understanding of what God is doing. What is god doing here?
Ezekiel, speaking for God, strips down the legalities to what is most important…
Three things: God is with you. God will return you to a place of conjoined spiritual nourishment. There will be a new relationship between God and God’s people.
And how does this happen? God removes hearts of stone and replaces them with hearts of flesh, drawing them into a sweet embrace. Beating sometimes in unison, sometimes in complementary rhythms.
A relationship. The disparate parts of God’s people drawn back together. Later, then, some guidance as to how the relationship will work – rules to be together as righteous children of God – but that guidance doesn’t come until the relationship is rebuilt.
Love. Relationship before rules.
If we do nothing else in our time together, we must – MUST – fall in love with each other through the shared love of our sovereign and loving Creator. The other stuff? Rules and such?  I won’t call them “adiafora” – that’s above my pay grade – but it seems to this occasionally heretical preacher that unless the rules serve the love and the relationship rather than the other way around, we’ll be stuck in Babylon, and that’s nowhere for God’s people to be. No more hearts of stone. No more rules that divide. Love. God’s love. Our love. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Amen.

Sunday, May 08, 2016

Sermon for Sunday, May 8, 2016 St John the Baptist, Ivy, John 17: 20 -26 “Mothering God”


Good morning! I am Mary Thorpe, Director of Transition Ministry for the Diocese of Virginia, and I am delighted to be here with you on this Mother’s Day as, together, we begin our journey of transition to your next vicar. I bring you the greetings and love of your bishops and diocesan staff, who pray for you and with you in this new chapter of your lives together.

I suspect that for many of you, this feels strange, not having Kathleen at the front. But here we are on this last Sunday before Pentecost, continuing being God’s people in this place, and that’s a good thing.

We are in the midst of some readings that are a little confusing. Just 7 weeks ago, we had Easter. Christ had died, was buried, rose again, came back to talk the the apostles – a final pep talk  – and now we are here in this reading, which contains Jesus’ final instructions to the disciples BEFORE he dies! He is at the Last Supper, and the last thing he does in John’s version of the story is to pray: first for himself, and them for those whom he leaves behind to carry on his work. And now, at the end of this prayer, he says this:
“…you, Father, are in me and I am in you… may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me. The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.”

It is a prayer. It is a benediction. It is a reminder to the disciples that God is with them as they continue to do the work of revealing God’s abiding love. God continues to nurture them, to guide them, to “have their backs,” as the saying goes. God continues to give them strength through God’s love.

The disciples may not fully realize everything that is about to happen, but they know as they have known nothing else before, that they are loved and supported at that moment and until the day when Jesus finally brings them together with the Father.

…not just like a father, but like a mother.

It IS Mother’s Day, after all. We do know that this secular holiday that honors the love our mothers have shown us aligns with God’s love. Our mothers aren’t God – although when I was seven, I thought my mother had the all-seeing eyes of God and the power to smite if I misbehaved – but at their best, our mothers give us a glimpse of the enduring power of God’s loving presence.


Dame Julian of Norwich- Statue at Norwich Cathedral
This is the vision the 14th century mystic Dame Julian of Norwich wrote about:  “Mothering God, you gave me birth. Mothering Christ, you took my form. Mothering Spirit, nurturing One.”

Her imagery is not new: Jesus himself lamented in Matthew’s Gospel “Jerusalem, Jerusalem...how often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings.” 

Even in the Old Testament, God speaks to Israel in the Book of Isaiah in a maternal voice: “As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you; you shall be comforted in Jerusalem.” And when, in the Old Testament, the wisdom of God is spoken of, God’s wisdom is a “she:” “does not wisdom call, and does not understanding raise her voice?”

So we’ve got this notion threaded throughout Holy Scripture, that God has a feminine nature as well as a masculine one, and that feminine nature is lifted up as virtuous, prophetic, wise, enduringly loving, emotional, strong….rather like some of the mothers in this room.

Now you all know about women who meet that description – certainly I would count Kathleen S as one of those women, and I know that you grieve the loss of her as your vicar.

But here’s the good news: God’s feminine nature, that nurturing, loving, strong nature, continues to be present with you, even in a time of change, in a time when you wonder what is coming next.  God remains with you. That is what Jesus is talking about in poetic language in the Gospel today. Hear what he says: “As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me.” Jesus is not only with you, he is saying that he is IN you and you are IN him…like a baby nestled in his mother’s womb, you are that close together.

And that will be the greatest of comforts, this loving connection, womb-close. As you begin this journey of search for your next vicar, Jesus will never be apart from you. He will send his Holy Spirit to comfort, guide, and strengthen you. He will not leave you, just as mothers never leave you, even when their physical presence is no more and you have only memories.

And as the Lord is with you, in our own smaller way, my colleagues and I will also be with you, guiding you along the way in a process that will help you discern what gifts you most need in this next chapter of St. John the Baptist’s story.  We will work with your leadership in many different ways so that you can seek and find that vicar whom God already knows will serve you…we will pray and listen for God’s voice even as we seek input from you all.

My prayer for you in this time of transition is that you do not feel lost or abandoned. Your vicar may have received another call – God does have plans for us clergy that sometimes require that we leave one beloved group of souls and go to serve another – but your call, to be the people of God in this time and place, remains. You are strong, you are creative, and you are blessed by this place and by each other.

Know that the mothering God is with you always, that there is a plan to follow in the days ahead, and that in God’s good time, you will pass from the state of being pregnant with possibilities to being delivered of a new priest who will serve you with love and faithfulness.

A last word or two? These words may be the most fitting, once again from Julian of Norwich: "May God’s love wrap and enfold you , embrace you and guide you, and bring you comfort"….just as a loving mother does.

Amen.


Sunday, May 01, 2016

Sermon for Sunday, May 1, 2016 St Paul’s King George, John 14:23-29 “Because I Said So”


When my children were little – I raised five children, so that seemed like a very long season indeed – we had a system of sharing the chores. Most large families have them. Ours was called The Chore List and it included taking out the garbage, loading or emptying the dishwasher, walking or feeding the dog – you get the idea. There’s never enough time to get everything done around the house, and sharing the work makes it possible to keep the chaos at bay. It’s also a great way to teach children how to do the things that need to get done…at least in theory.
I say that, because the reality was that every time I had to enforce the Chore List, one of the children said “Why do I have to do it? Sam did a bad job of it last time, so now I’ve got twice as much work to do.” Or “Why do I have to do it? Allie didn’t have to do it last week when she was sick, and I’ve got a headache.”
I tell you this, because in our gospel this morning, we’re missing a key part of the story – the question that Judas (NOT Iscariot) asks Jesus that prompts our gospel passage. He says “Lord, how is I that you will reveal yourself to us, and not to the world?”
And that begs the question of why Judas asks this question…it’s because Jesus has just said, “I’m out of here. I’ll be supporting you, through the Holy Spirit, but now it’s your responsibility to share the truth and the way.” No wonder Judas asks his question! Even though it is couched in more formal language than we or our children would use, Judas is saying “Why do we have to do it?”
And the unspoken words behind that “why do we have to it” are “it’s hard, and we don’t want to have to do it.”
Sort of like my kids and emptying the dishwasher. Because it would be so much easier if Mom emptied the dishwasher – she knows how and it’s her job because she’s the mom, after all. Because it would be so much easier if Jesus kept on teaching and doing miracles – he knows how and it’s his job, right? But maybe my most important job as a mother was to teach my children to be self-reliant, and maybe Jesus’ most important job was to equip the disciples to be able to carry on the work, to share the gospel, to baptize, and even on occasion and with God’s help, to carry out a miracle or two. And that meant that on occasion Jesus might have to say "why? because I said so."
A couple of years ago I celebrated one of those big “round-number” birthdays. The children, all grown up now, asked what I wanted. I said that I wanted them to come down to Richmond and gather and cook me a meal, after all the meals I had served them over the years.
Now, friends, you need to know that the two eldest boys – they’re men, not boys, to be accurate – are the cooks for their families. Each is married and has two kids, and they love to cook, and they do it well. The next son also cooks brilliantly – and he runs the cocktail program at a high-end San Francisco restaurant – we used to call it being a bartender, but now it’s “running the cocktail program” since he invents all sorts of amazing drinks, including the Steph Curry, which is definitely a slam dunk. The next son is a fine cook as well, as his girlfriend will attest, and my daughter can more than hold her own in any kitchen anywhere, particularly when it comes to baked goods. The housekeeping education didn’t stick, but my goodness, the cooking lessons sparked a lifetime love of cooking for them all!
So when I asked for this gift of their presence and their cooking, what ensued was pretty similar to the planning of the D-Day invasion. Emails flew back and forth to decide on the menu and who would cook what- some trash talking about the others’ skill level as well, since nothing ever changes when it comes to sibling interactions – and eventually they came up with a plan for a feast beyond compare. They knew they needed to make food that not only showed off their skills, but was something the grandchildren would eat, and that would accommodate various allergies, food restrictions, and such.  Matt would make a pasta dish, Chris would grill a spiced pork loin, Bryce would do apps, Sam would serve as sous-chef and salad maker, and Allie would help my husband with the dessert and “other duties as assigned.” My daughters-in-law and I hid out in the living room as every bowl, every utensil, every pot and every square inch of the kitchen was put to use. Occasionally one of the troops would come in to say “have you got any____?” I’d tell them where to find it – they had sent a shopping list to my husband for most of what they needed but they knew I would have basics already in the house.
For several hours they occupied the kitchen, and I do mean “occupied,” and at the end of it all we gathered around the dining room table for an amazing meal, made all the more amazing by storytelling, by laughter, by shared experience, by the transformative power of lessons learned and possibilities come to fruition.
Late that night I thought about the wonderful evening, but I also thought about  the exhaustion of all the nights I had spent with the kids as they were growing up, saying “you need to figure out how to do this stuff, since I won’t always be there to clean up after you,” the push-back, the arguments, the “why do I have to do it?”, the “because I’m the mom and I said so,”  the eventual sullen compliance…
…and I thought about Jesus, sitting with the disciples, so often probably thinking to himself “are these folks ever going to get it? Will they be able to carry on when I am no longer with them?”
…and now I think about Jesus, having this conversation with them at the Last Supper immediately before his betrayal and death, and Judas, not Iscariot, saying “why do WE have to do it?”
…and I think of his gentle answer, when he says in essence, “I’ll still be with you, even if I am not with you physically. You will carry the lessons you’ve learned from me. It’s not really that hard and I know you can do it. Just keep on keeping my word, and you will be blessed and be a blessing.”
I expect for many of you, worry about the future looms large. The arrival of Padre Lee has been delayed by government paperwork – bureaucracy! – and it’s been a long time. When is he going to get here permanently? When will we have our ordained leader once and for all? But this reading from the Gospel of John is a wise reminder – it’s not about the leader, because you all have the capacity to be faithful leaders. You have learned from Jesus and from all the priests who have served you over the years. You all have pulled together to be the church, because the church is all of you. Those of us with the collars, we have a specific role to play in the life and worship of the church. Priests come and priests go, but the church is the people, not just the priest.
‘Do not let your hearts be troubled’ because you already are being church in so many of the ways that really count. Trust that Jesus is with you, that the Holy Spirit continues to inform and guide the work of God’s faithful people in this place.

You are meant to lead right now, and you are leading. Why do we have to? Because Jesus is the Lord, and he says so.

Amen.

Sunday, April 03, 2016

Sermon for Sunday, April 3, 2016 Acts 5:27-32; John 20-19-21 Holy Comforter, Richmond “Stand-Up Guys”

We make much of the fact that the disciples of Jesus – with the exception of the females, and in some tellings of the story, the Beloved Disciple – hid themselves after Jesus’ arrest. That is reiterated in this Sunday’s Gospel, where the disciples still appear to be hiding out in the upper room. They are afraid that they will meet the same fate as Jesus. It appears that one of them, Thomas, has some doubts about the resurrection, or at least about the reports that some of their number have made about Jesus reappearing.

Yup, Doubting Thomas.

We know this story. We’ve heard this story a thousand times. It’s been used as a tool to remind us that demanding proof of God and God’s power is a bad thing.

But this Sunday, when we hear this story of fear and doubt yet again, let’s juxtapose the gospel with the reading from Acts of the Apostles that is paired with it.

Here’s the starting point, one in which we can have no doubt: following Jesus is risky business.

The disciples had good reason to hide themselves, as John the evangelist reports, because look what happened. In Acts of the Apostles, this was the second time the disciples were brought up on charges by the religious leadership for preaching about Jesus’ resurrection. The leaders were clear: stop preaching this stuff, or you’re going to regret it. The first time they were hauled in, the leaders are described as having been “much annoyed” by it. This second time, the leaders were said to be motivated by jealousy. Whatever the reason, they wanted the disciples to stop, because it was fomenting unrest. Their authority and power was being challenged, and we know how that works, right?

So Peter and the disciples were called forward to answer for themselves, and they said something that sounds very little like the frightened men in the upper room: "We must obey God rather than any human authority. The God of our ancestors raised up Jesus, whom you had killed by hanging him on a tree. God exalted him at his right hand as Leader and Savior that he might give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins. And we are witnesses to these things, and so is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him."

They said, “we have to tell really happened, not what you’re pretending. This matters. You were complicit in his death.”  These days, as the New Testament scholar Mitzi Smith says, the hashtag might be #ResurrectionMatters.

Peter and the disciples found their courage somehow. They had to speak out. It mattered. In the words of the rough streets of Jersey City where I grew up, they became “stand-up guys,” ones who told the truth, who did the right thing even if it was the hard thing, who were willing to take necessary risks.

We know the rest of their story – they continued to be stand-up guys and stand-up women (and yes, there were women among those disciples) and most of them ended up dying for it.

But I find myself wondering what the tipping point was, when they were converted from cowering and trembling weaklings to stand-up guys, risk-takers.

Was it when Jesus came back to visit them while Thomas was away? Probably not – they were still hiding out when the second visitation happened.

No, I think it was precisely that time when Jesus came back to prove himself to Thomas. Because the message of this gospel, and of the subsequent story in Acts, is this: Jesus loves us even in our doubts, because he understands our weakness. More importantly, Jesus loves us into courage, into taking risks for the gospel. He keeps coming back, saying “It’s time for you to be a witness to that which is evil in the world. It’s time for you to be a stand-up disciple. I love you and I will be with you, no matter what happens. You won’t get all of the work of witnessing done – it will go on until I return at the end of days – but I will walk with you every step of the journey, no matter how glorious, no matter how painful.”

Now that’s pretty powerful encouragement…great word, “encouragement” – it means giving courage to, right? Giving courage to do the right thing even if it is the hard thing, even if there will be a cost.

There have been countless stories of people who found the courage to speak out even when they were shouted down or when it meant personal risk. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Sojourner Truth. Rachel Carson. Malala Yousefzai. Nelson Mandela.

Those are the famous ones. But there are countless others who have become stand-up disciples. In my youth, it was those who marched against the war in Vietnam. In recent days, it has been the voices of the Black Lives Matter movement, decrying aggressive police action against black young men in particular.

Here’s is the sad truth that I will witness to today: this world is still a place of jealousy, of death, of oppression, of injustice. Jesus told us it would be this way. But Jesus didn’t give us permission to take a bye on fighting this.

No. Jesus gave us encouragement. He gave us the courage to do what he did, to name what needs to change to make this world a little closer to the world his heavenly father created for us. To be stand-up disciples, witnessing to the truth of Jesus’ powerful message of hope and love, of the death of tyrants and the power of the resurrection.

Hashtag “ResurrectionMatters.” Get your courage on. Say “we must obey God rather than any human authority, as Jesus taught us.” This is Resurrection Time. We must witness to its power and its promise, regardless of the risk. Resurrection matters, and so do our voices and the voices of all stand-up disciples.

Amen.




Sunday, March 27, 2016

Easter Vigil Sermon 2016 – Romans 6:1-11 “Pulled Into New Life”



The child was not yet five. She stood at the water’s edge, looking at the gently rolling waves as they lapped the shore.

Where were her parents? Momma was gone inside the little building a hundred yards away. Gone to get a key to a little cottage where they would stay for a week. It was the family’s first true vacation since the child was born. They had no money – Daddy drank it away – but somehow Momma had put aside enough to provide a week in a cottage by the seaside, so they could have a real vacation, like real families. And maybe, just maybe, it would be a good week, with no drinking, no yelling, no stomping out the door. Dreams die hard, you know.

And so Momma had ducked into the building on the bay to pick up the key to the cottage. She had said to the child, “You stay right here by the door. Don’t you go near the water. We’ll have time for that later on, once we get settled into the cottage. Daddy was sitting in the car, sullen at the thought of a week where he’d have to sneak out to get a beer and a shot. He was looking elsewhere, thinking of something long past, time during the war maybe, when he was building bridges across a foreign river.

Momma’s words had quickly faded from the child’s memory, because those waves, those rhythmic waves, were beckoning to her. “Come see! Come see!”

And now the child’s feet, clad in thin sandals, were feeling the tickle of the water. Her toes were cool on this hot day, and she was hot all over after two hours in the old car, so she decided to step in further.

Cool legs now, and knees. It was like the Saturday night baths, and yet it wasn’t, because it was cool, not warm. But the cool felt so good. So she stepped in a little further, and a little further, and a little further.

And then there was a wave, and an undertow, and she felt her cool feet slide out from under her, and she was in a wash of rushing water, churning in all directions. And she was tumbling, tumbling and there was no air, just water, and she thought for a minute, “Momma’s gonna be mad.”

And still she tumbled, and even though she was only four years old, there were pictures flashing through her mind, the Christmas tree, her teddy, sitting on Uncle George’s lap and being glad he was not yelling like Daddy, and Momma’s chicken gravy, and she didn’t know what was happening but now she was scared and she couldn’t breathe, until something shifted inside her and she was calm.

She wasn’t thrashing anymore. She thought, “fish breathe in water. Maybe I could too…” and then suddenly a strong hand grabbed at her leg and arm and pulled her up into the air and she gasped and coughed and the man was saying “where’s your parents, kid?” and she was still coughing and sputtering when Momma came running out of the building, her purse slapping against her side, and now Daddy was running out from the parking lot, not sullen but scared, and they were yelling, “Baby! Baby! Baby!”
 
Momma was crying and saying “I told you to stay away from the water. Why did you go there? You could have died.” And the man with the strong hands was walking away and fading from view, before Momma and Daddy could say thank you for saving our baby.

The child had died, or nearly died, in that bay. A few seconds more and she would have been only a memory. The child that this Momma and Daddy had prayed for for years in a childless marriage, until the child was given to them. But the child lived. She grew. Momma still struggled, and Daddy still drank – it would be the death of him – but the child knew…SHE KNEW IT as surely as she knew that Bella the cat would scratch her if she played with her tail … she knew she was loved and she had been saved. She remembered the feel of those strong hands pulling her up out of the water. She remembered her parents’ fear and love and anger and how they clutched her in her wet sundress and soggy sandals as she hacked the last of the water out of her tiny belly. She remembered being saved.

When St. Paul says to the Romans “Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection” he is telling that little girl’s story. He is telling our story. It is a story of our death in the water of baptism – we get little sense of that in our Episcopalian baptisms where a genteel sprinkling of water is a faint memory of the immersion the early Christ-followers experienced – and then getting yanked out again, gasping and coughing and breathing in the air, that beautiful air, that knowledge that we have been given a second chance at life, a different kind of life. We cannot forget the death of our old way even as we celebrate our resurrection into a new way.

This night/day is a reminder of that death and rebirth. Jesus’ fearful crucifixion and glorious resurrection shows us that death is not the final word, because as Jesus is resurrected from the dead, so too are we. We sing praises to God on this night/day not because Jesus was resurrected from the dead, but because his resurrection is the story of our rebirth as well.

Because of Jesus Christ, we breathe again. We are grabbed by his strong hands and yanked out of our old ways, the ways of death, and pulled into new air, clean air, into our own new lives.

The child in the story went onto live the usual complicated life – don’t we all? – with moments of failure and sin as well as moments of grace. But she remembers still the feel of the strong hands lifting her out of the waters of death into new life. And in those memories, she finds peace and thanksgiving for what she was given. A new life, as we are all given new life. A grace to try again, as we are all given chances to try again. Abounding love, as we are all the recipients of God’s abounding love.

The Easter story is her story. It is our story too. Jesus’ death and resurrection serve as a constant spiritual memory that we are saved and that those around us and around the world are saved as well.

But with that salvation comes something more: obligation. Having been the recipients of grace, of strong hands pulling us up out of death into life, now it is our turn to be strong hands helping others. We show Christ’s love by pulling up others, by retelling this story of a better way, of Christ’s way. Will you be the stranger on the beach? Will you pull another child of God who is lost and drowning out of the ocean of despair? Having been given the gift of life, how can any of us do any less?


Amen.

Monday, February 08, 2016

Sermon for February 7, 2016 St Andrew’s Richmond Luke 9: 28-43A “After the Party”


It was a cold February afternoon – a Super Bowl Sunday, to be exact - just a few months after the priest had presided at the wedding of a wonderful young couple. The ceremony had been full of the formal words of commitment, with beautiful music to complement the words that were spoken. The bride had been radiant in a dress that must have cost more than the priest’s car did. The reception, at a nearby vineyard, had been luxurious, the finest hospitality that a whole lot of money can buy.

It had been a magnificent celebration of love. A pricey celebration of love, to be sure, but hey, if you’re in love and the parents can afford it, why not? Everyone thought it was a great beginning for a couple who were deeply in love with each other.

And now, only four months later, the bride was sitting in the wing chair in the priest’s office, crying her eyes out. “I thought married life would be the happily ever after! I thought he’d keep on courting me! I feel taken for granted! He expects me to do all this stuff, and he never says thank you! Nobody told me that marriage would be like this, so boring, so much WORK!”

The priest thought, “well, yes, we did talk about this in the premarital counseling, but mentioning that would probably not be helpful right now.”

Instead, they talked about the work after a big party, when you have to clear the tables and load the dishwasher and figure out how to fit the leftovers into the refrigerator. Parties only last so long. They end, and then the work begins.

In our gospel, we hear the story of an incredible party. It’s an intimate one, to be sure: just Jesus, a few disciples, a couple of surprise guests. And a surprising change in the host: Jesus glows like a June bride with an extreme makeover, complete with airbrushed makeup. It’s got another special effect: the cloud machine is on, enveloping them all in a holy fog. And there’s not just the cloud machine, there’s that Darth Vader voice, the voice of God saying Jesus is the Chosen One. The wow factor at this party is over the top. Peter wants to gussy things up with some tents, implying that they might want the party to continue on with the group staying up on the mountain in party land forever, but Jesus keeps it simple and short. And then, suddenly, like all good parties, it’s over. They may have wanted it to last, but always leave them wanting more, right? Jesus is back to being Jesus, the surprise guests are gone, the loud voice is gone, and they have to climb all the way back down the mountain. Good thing Peter didn't put up those tents!

No, now there is no more magic land with fog and mysterious voices and appearances by great prophets of ancient days.

So they slog down the mountain, this rabbi and his fisherman followers. My guess is that Peter and John and James were much more comfortable on flat land, hard by the sea they fished, than they were in the rocky crags of the mountain of transfiguration, so I can picture them slipping and sliding and scraping their hands maneuvering down the slope. Jesus could handle it because, well, he was Jesus, but those fishermen, the aftermath of the big party on the top of the mountain was not pleasant, it was hard work. They were emotionally and physically exhausted by what they had experienced.

And as if to reinforce that idea, the very next thing that happened was not a little rest and recovery after the big party, but a huge crowd and the cry of a man who begged for Jesus to heal his possessed son. And Jesus, sounding like he really needed a rest, muttered a brief word of complaint that his teachings were not really being taken seriously: “you guys! You only come over to me when you want something. When I tell you what to do you don’t pay attention…but never mind. Bring me the boy.”

And he healed him.

After the party, there’s not endless party, there’s work to be done. Not for radiant brides, not for transfigured Jesus, and most certainly not for disciples.

For me, the story gives me exactly what I need to remember about the week ahead of us.
This evening, you may be going to a SuperBowl party. You may be hosting one. There may be a Mardi Gras party, a Shrove Tuesday pancake supper, a last night on the town…
…because we need that to prepare for the fact that on Wednesday, we are reminded of the work of discipleship as we begin the walk to the Cross with Jesus Christ. On Wednesday, Ash Wednesday, we enter the season of Lent, and make no mistake, Lent is work.

I used to think that Lent was about giving up chocolate. I thought it was about a season without the word “Alleluia,” a dark season.

But it’s not dark. It is simply a time of focused work after the party of seeing the glow of Jesus Christ, the shine on the face of Moses. You can’t look into the lightbulb indefinitely. You have to come down from the mountain after the party, and there’s work to be done.
We become disciples of Christ not when we see the glowy shiny face of the Divine One on top of a mountain. We become disciples of Christ when we are filled with the recognition that Christ bids us to do His work on earth. We become disciples of Christ when we look and look hard at ourselves and reflect on the ways we have been lazy about serving others, or deluded about our own importance, or whiny about our needs being met when others’ needs are so much greater.

The work of the season we approach this week is reflection, recognition and recommitment. We reflect on who we are and how we live into God’s expectations of us. We recognize the ways we have been on the right path, and the ways we have failed. We recommit to serving God, glorifying God by living as God would have us live, caring for those around us, even the most unlovable. And why do we do that?

Precisely because we have seen his glory on the mountaintop. We have seen the possibilities in creation and in each other, and that glow, that shine tells us there is something more that we can do, to co-create a better world, to bring God’s reign to this corner of the earth. We recommit because we now understand that the possibilities are infinite because God’s love for us is infinite.

So we may need to climb back down from the party mountain to something that feels more quotidian, more like work, a little bit boring, a whole lot uncomfortable. Looking at ourselves is often uncomfortable. But that’s the work of this season, and again, I won’t pretend it isn’t work.

But we have the glow to warm our hearts, to comfort us in the midst of the work. We have the love of the one who created us, who continually calls us back into a more perfect relationship, who shows us we and the world can be better. We have the possibility of transfiguration of our world even as we await the resurrection of Christ at Easter. We can do this thing!


That February afternoon, the priest said to the bride, “Do you still love him?”
“Of course I do!”

“Does he still love you? Do you doubt his love?”

“No, I know he loves me. I just miss the romance.”
“Does he do things for you?”

She sniffed, “Sometimes.”

“Do you do things for him?”

“Well, yes, of course…sometimes.”

“Can you do the work and look for the wonderful silly moments of romance even in the midst of that work?”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“Well, I’m not in your marriage, so I’m going to have to guess here, but has there ever been a time when the two of you were doing work around the house and something silly happened and you were laughing about it together, and you felt so warm and close in that moment? In my house, it’s usually when the cat throws up and we’re both avoiding cleaning it up...I kid you not!”


She laughed. “He chased me around the house with the vacuum the other day.”
“And what happened when he caught you?”

She blushed…

...”never mind!”

The conversation ended shortly after that. She was starting to realize that parties are short, and life is long. There is always work. But even in the work, there is the warmth and joy of possibilities in ourselves, in our church, in our world.

Let this Ash Wednesday mark the beginning of the work of reflection, recognition and recommitment, to remind ourselves of our possibilities and God’s possibilities, so we can respond to the glory and love of God with open hearts.


Amen.