Independence Day Deuteronomy 10: 17 – 21
Sunday, July 4, 2010 Hebrews 11: 8 – 16
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 5:43 – 48
Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.
Matthew 5: 48
Two hundred and thirty-four years ago today, in the Name of God, our forefathers declared themselves free from their allegiance to Great Britain. Their Declaration of Independence created a new nation, a nation of free and independent states, a union which has been tested and tried but which continues, lighting, in the words of our collect this morning, “a torch of freedom for nations yet unborn.” On July 4, 1776, the signers of the Declaration of Independence pledged to one another their lives, their fortunes and their sacred honor in the Name of God who created us in freedom for freedom.
And in 1776, the Virginia legislature determined that the salaries of Anglican clergy would no longer be paid out of public funds. In 1776, not only was a new nation being created but a new church was being created – the Protestant Episcopal Church. In Virginia, up until 1784, the Church of England was the established church, and the colonial legislature of Virginia gave vestries the power to tax the people for religious and social purposes. Not going to church, and that meant going to the church that used The Book of Common Prayer, was not an option. Prior to 1776, you could be fined or flogged for failing to come to church. But now, amidst the calls for political freedom came calls for religious freedom and the Protestant Episcopal Church was born, adopting in 1789, a polity patterned closely upon that of the new Republic yet recognizing the historic episcopate, and their continuity with the church established by the apostles.
Freedom for the church was never simply the freedom to determine our own destinies. Freedom for the church always had been the freedom to follow Christ, in the manner handed on to us by the apostles and preserved or “guarded” as we say, by bishops. The Church of England, the spiritual home of our forefathers, sought to find a way through the shoals of naming one person – a Pope – the spokesperson for Christ – and the alternative which seemed to be that everyone had a hot line to heaven. The Church of England was both Protestant and Catholic, seeking a middle way, a way between Papal edicts and an independence that recognized no authority other than that of an individual congregation. Bishops insured that what we preach and teach is in accord with the gospel; having a “presiding bishop” rather than a pope insures that no one interpretation of the gospel is privileged above all others. The Church of England, birthed during the reign of Queen Elizabeth in the sixteenth century, mandated only one thing – worship according to The Book of Common Prayer.
To some, The Book of Common Prayer was far too Catholic. “Common prayer” sounded a little like others were telling us what to believe and that sounded a little too Catholic and that we could not abide. To others, The Book of Common Prayer was insufficient, drawing us together in worship but not telling us how to live out our lives in faith, not giving us clear direction in matters of marriage and divorce or in matters of birth and abortion or in matters of war and peace. The Book of Common Prayer was great on Sundays but what difference did it make the rest of the week?
For Catholics, The Book of Common of Prayer was not enough; for Anabaptists, The Book of Common Prayer was too much. During the American Revolution, the great compromise wrought by Queen Elizabeth in the sixteenth century between the zealots of Catholicism and the zealots of Protestantism was strained as Anglicans in the now “free and independent states” sought to remain Protestant and Episcopal in the midst of a democracy. But we did and we are and at present we are in communion with 80 million other people in 160 different countries.
A communion is not a democracy and learning how to live in communion with others is, at present, a challenge we Anglicans may or may not be able to meet. A democracy presumes we are all independent selves with equal rights that need to be protected against transgression. A communion presumes we are interdependent and need one another to realize the fullness of who we are. In a democracy we are free from others; in a communion we are free for others.
In our gospel reading from Matthew this morning, Jesus calls us to “be perfect” as our “heavenly Father is perfect.” The Greek word that we translate as “perfect” means to be whole, to be complete, to lack nothing. To become whole, Jesus tells us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us because God does not withhold the sun and the rain from anyone, not even those who seek to do us in. In a culture that seeks to be free from our enemies, praying for those who persecute us would seem to be unpatriotic in the extreme. Have you or I ever considered putting Osama Bin Laden on our prayer list? And what might we be lacking if we cannot or will not pray for our enemies?
With that sobering question, I want to be clear that living in communion with others does not mean we are called to tolerate injustice. Quite the opposite – communion calls us into account for one another. “Live and let live” is not the ethos of communion. To be in communion with others means we care enough about ourselves and one another to be willing to acknowledge when we have been wronged, to seek to redress the wrong and then continue in relationship with one another. In other words, praying for Bin Laden does not mean we are called to pray that Bin Laden might be spared judgment for the crimes he has committed.
Our reading on this Independence Day comes from Matthew’s great Sermon on the Mount, in which, among other things, we are called to turn the other cheek when someone strikes us and when we are sued over our coat, we are to give up not only our coat but our cloak as well. Some have called the Sermon on the Mount an “impossible ethic” and they may not be wrong. For others, like moral theologian Richard Hays, Matthew’s command for perfection challenges the church to show “forth the character of God” who “makes his sun rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” We are, in Matthew’s words, to be “the light of the world.”
You and I celebrate our freedom this day, giving thanks to our forebears who risked their lives, their fortunes and their honor to give birth to this nation. And every minute of every day, men and women from across this nation put themselves in harm’s way to protect our freedom. But for you and I, freedom is far more than the absence of controls, restraint, limitations and enemies; freedom, for you and I, is the opportunity to serve God at all times and in all places and that means praying for our enemies, in the same way we pray for our friends. Our enemies may tempt us to wish them evil, but they cannot take away our freedom to pray that God will bring forth good, even from our enemies.
From The Book of Common Prayer I would like to end this Independence Day sermon with the collect for peace:
O God, the author of peace and love of concord, to know you is eternal life and to serve you is perfect freedom: Defend us, your humble servants, in all assaults of our enemies; that we, surely trusting in your defense, may not fear the power of any adversaries; through the might of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Sunday, July 4, 2010 Hebrews 11: 8 – 16
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 5:43 – 48
Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.
Matthew 5: 48
Two hundred and thirty-four years ago today, in the Name of God, our forefathers declared themselves free from their allegiance to Great Britain. Their Declaration of Independence created a new nation, a nation of free and independent states, a union which has been tested and tried but which continues, lighting, in the words of our collect this morning, “a torch of freedom for nations yet unborn.” On July 4, 1776, the signers of the Declaration of Independence pledged to one another their lives, their fortunes and their sacred honor in the Name of God who created us in freedom for freedom.
And in 1776, the Virginia legislature determined that the salaries of Anglican clergy would no longer be paid out of public funds. In 1776, not only was a new nation being created but a new church was being created – the Protestant Episcopal Church. In Virginia, up until 1784, the Church of England was the established church, and the colonial legislature of Virginia gave vestries the power to tax the people for religious and social purposes. Not going to church, and that meant going to the church that used The Book of Common Prayer, was not an option. Prior to 1776, you could be fined or flogged for failing to come to church. But now, amidst the calls for political freedom came calls for religious freedom and the Protestant Episcopal Church was born, adopting in 1789, a polity patterned closely upon that of the new Republic yet recognizing the historic episcopate, and their continuity with the church established by the apostles.
Freedom for the church was never simply the freedom to determine our own destinies. Freedom for the church always had been the freedom to follow Christ, in the manner handed on to us by the apostles and preserved or “guarded” as we say, by bishops. The Church of England, the spiritual home of our forefathers, sought to find a way through the shoals of naming one person – a Pope – the spokesperson for Christ – and the alternative which seemed to be that everyone had a hot line to heaven. The Church of England was both Protestant and Catholic, seeking a middle way, a way between Papal edicts and an independence that recognized no authority other than that of an individual congregation. Bishops insured that what we preach and teach is in accord with the gospel; having a “presiding bishop” rather than a pope insures that no one interpretation of the gospel is privileged above all others. The Church of England, birthed during the reign of Queen Elizabeth in the sixteenth century, mandated only one thing – worship according to The Book of Common Prayer.
To some, The Book of Common Prayer was far too Catholic. “Common prayer” sounded a little like others were telling us what to believe and that sounded a little too Catholic and that we could not abide. To others, The Book of Common Prayer was insufficient, drawing us together in worship but not telling us how to live out our lives in faith, not giving us clear direction in matters of marriage and divorce or in matters of birth and abortion or in matters of war and peace. The Book of Common Prayer was great on Sundays but what difference did it make the rest of the week?
For Catholics, The Book of Common of Prayer was not enough; for Anabaptists, The Book of Common Prayer was too much. During the American Revolution, the great compromise wrought by Queen Elizabeth in the sixteenth century between the zealots of Catholicism and the zealots of Protestantism was strained as Anglicans in the now “free and independent states” sought to remain Protestant and Episcopal in the midst of a democracy. But we did and we are and at present we are in communion with 80 million other people in 160 different countries.
A communion is not a democracy and learning how to live in communion with others is, at present, a challenge we Anglicans may or may not be able to meet. A democracy presumes we are all independent selves with equal rights that need to be protected against transgression. A communion presumes we are interdependent and need one another to realize the fullness of who we are. In a democracy we are free from others; in a communion we are free for others.
In our gospel reading from Matthew this morning, Jesus calls us to “be perfect” as our “heavenly Father is perfect.” The Greek word that we translate as “perfect” means to be whole, to be complete, to lack nothing. To become whole, Jesus tells us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us because God does not withhold the sun and the rain from anyone, not even those who seek to do us in. In a culture that seeks to be free from our enemies, praying for those who persecute us would seem to be unpatriotic in the extreme. Have you or I ever considered putting Osama Bin Laden on our prayer list? And what might we be lacking if we cannot or will not pray for our enemies?
With that sobering question, I want to be clear that living in communion with others does not mean we are called to tolerate injustice. Quite the opposite – communion calls us into account for one another. “Live and let live” is not the ethos of communion. To be in communion with others means we care enough about ourselves and one another to be willing to acknowledge when we have been wronged, to seek to redress the wrong and then continue in relationship with one another. In other words, praying for Bin Laden does not mean we are called to pray that Bin Laden might be spared judgment for the crimes he has committed.
Our reading on this Independence Day comes from Matthew’s great Sermon on the Mount, in which, among other things, we are called to turn the other cheek when someone strikes us and when we are sued over our coat, we are to give up not only our coat but our cloak as well. Some have called the Sermon on the Mount an “impossible ethic” and they may not be wrong. For others, like moral theologian Richard Hays, Matthew’s command for perfection challenges the church to show “forth the character of God” who “makes his sun rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” We are, in Matthew’s words, to be “the light of the world.”
You and I celebrate our freedom this day, giving thanks to our forebears who risked their lives, their fortunes and their honor to give birth to this nation. And every minute of every day, men and women from across this nation put themselves in harm’s way to protect our freedom. But for you and I, freedom is far more than the absence of controls, restraint, limitations and enemies; freedom, for you and I, is the opportunity to serve God at all times and in all places and that means praying for our enemies, in the same way we pray for our friends. Our enemies may tempt us to wish them evil, but they cannot take away our freedom to pray that God will bring forth good, even from our enemies.
From The Book of Common Prayer I would like to end this Independence Day sermon with the collect for peace:
O God, the author of peace and love of concord, to know you is eternal life and to serve you is perfect freedom: Defend us, your humble servants, in all assaults of our enemies; that we, surely trusting in your defense, may not fear the power of any adversaries; through the might of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
The Seventh Sunday After Pentecost Amos 7: 7 – 17
Sunday, July 11, 2020 Colossians 1: 1 – 14
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 10: 25 – 37
Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”
Luke 10: 37
From the gospel of Luke this morning we hear the familiar parable of the Good Samaritan. Jesus often taught in parables and in the gospel of Luke we find many, such as the parable of the prodigal son, the mustard seed, and the lost coin. In the parable of the Good Samaritan, we are invited into a world in which a man has been beaten and robbed and left for dead on the side of road. Three folk come along, a priest, a Levite and a Samaritan. The priest and the Levite walk on while the Samaritan stops, pouring oil and wine on the man’s wounds before taking him to an inn where he agrees to pay for all of his expenses.
When we encounter one of Jesus’ parables, we often go looking for the “moral of the story,” treating a parable as if a parable were no different than one of Aesop’s fables. Parables, unfortunately, are usually not so transparent. A parable creates a world in which we are invited to take our place, a world that disrupts our usual expectations, inviting us to see the world from a different perspective. So, while we may be tempted to say that the “point” of the parable of the Good Samaritan is to exhort us to be charitable to our neighbors, we may want to exercise a bit of caution - caution, because all of us here today are charitable folk, like the lawyer who comes to Jesus, asking: “Who is my neighbor?”
The lawyer to whom Jesus tells this parable is a student of the law of Moses, a good Jew and a righteous man. Jesus tells the parable of the Good Samaritan to a good man who desires to love God and his neighbor as himself. The lawyer is neither heartless nor cold. And Jesus invites this lawyer to step into a world where good people do some odd things.
The first “shock” of the story comes when we learn that a priest and a Levite pass by a man left for dead on the side of the road and do not even stop. The priest and the Levite were religious functionaries, folk who had responsibilities to lead the Jewish people in worship at the Temple in Jerusalem. Contact with this man on the side of the road would have rendered them unclean and unable to perform their religious duties. The priest and the Levite were not necessarily unkind, but rather trying to balance competing demands of the law – their obligation to help a stranger and their obligation to lead worship in the Temple.
The priest and the Levite could not afford to stop and help this man who might be dead. Much like we may not always be able to stop and help someone. I am happy to stop and help someone change a flat tire but if it happens on a Sunday morning at 10 a.m. as I am driving up 95 to Bowling Green for the 10:30 a.m. service, I will pass by rather than miss leading worship. So beware of being too hard on the priest and the Levite. You and I share much in common with these two who pass by.
And, then shock number two: the Samaritan, despised by the Jews, not only stops to help but offers unconditional aid, telling the innkeeper he will pay for whatever it costs to get this half dead man back on his feet. What is going on? Jesus tells a parable about a Good Samaritan to a basically good man, contrasting the actions of the Good Samaritan with those of two other fairly reasonable and decent people, the priest and the Levite. Is Jesus simply telling us, who are, I know, caring and kind, to be a little more caring and kind? I don’t think so.
Jesus did not teach in parables to make basically good people better. Jesus taught in parables to disturb his listeners into seeing the world in which we live in a new way, to see the world from God’s perspective rather than our own. A parable invites us to take our place in the drama of the story and consider what that might mean to us as we seek to live out our faith. The lawyer this morning no doubt wanted to be a good neighbor, but as Jesus invites him into the world of the parable, finally asking him which of the three proved to be a neighbor, the lawyer was faced with assuming the perspective of the half dead man on the side of the road. That perspective invited the lawyer to consider acts of kindness from the viewpoint of someone wholly unable to help himself. For the lawyer, an educated man with social standing in his community, to consider what it must be like to be powerless to help himself must have been sobering in the extreme.
And finally, we have the Good Samaritan who, in the words of theologian Arthur McGill, “seems strangely oblivious about his own needs.” The Samaritan, scorned by the Jews, not only stops to help someone who probably wouldn’t give him the time of day but then takes this man to an inn and promises to pay for whatever the innkeeper spends to get this man back on his feet. The Samaritan places no limits on the extent of his help nor does the Samaritan make his help conditional in any way. McGill notes the Samaritan’s actions are neither normal nor reasonable but wholly excessive. For McGill there is only one Good Samaritan and that is Christ.
We live in a culture that is always counting costs. The priest and the Levite, like all of us, give what we can afford to give, afraid if we give everything away we will be left with nothing, with no power to help ourselves. And yet, you and I are here today to worship a savior who chose not to call down a legion of angels when tempted by Satan, who chose not to defend himself when accused of treason by the emperor of Rome, and who was not able to persuade the Jewish religious leaders that he, rather than they, was following the will of God. If God was indeed bringing in the kingdom, Jesus was an odd way to do it. God seems to believe there is power in weakness, a power we can only come to know as we give ourselves away.
Sunday, July 11, 2020 Colossians 1: 1 – 14
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 10: 25 – 37
Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”
Luke 10: 37
From the gospel of Luke this morning we hear the familiar parable of the Good Samaritan. Jesus often taught in parables and in the gospel of Luke we find many, such as the parable of the prodigal son, the mustard seed, and the lost coin. In the parable of the Good Samaritan, we are invited into a world in which a man has been beaten and robbed and left for dead on the side of road. Three folk come along, a priest, a Levite and a Samaritan. The priest and the Levite walk on while the Samaritan stops, pouring oil and wine on the man’s wounds before taking him to an inn where he agrees to pay for all of his expenses.
When we encounter one of Jesus’ parables, we often go looking for the “moral of the story,” treating a parable as if a parable were no different than one of Aesop’s fables. Parables, unfortunately, are usually not so transparent. A parable creates a world in which we are invited to take our place, a world that disrupts our usual expectations, inviting us to see the world from a different perspective. So, while we may be tempted to say that the “point” of the parable of the Good Samaritan is to exhort us to be charitable to our neighbors, we may want to exercise a bit of caution - caution, because all of us here today are charitable folk, like the lawyer who comes to Jesus, asking: “Who is my neighbor?”
The lawyer to whom Jesus tells this parable is a student of the law of Moses, a good Jew and a righteous man. Jesus tells the parable of the Good Samaritan to a good man who desires to love God and his neighbor as himself. The lawyer is neither heartless nor cold. And Jesus invites this lawyer to step into a world where good people do some odd things.
The first “shock” of the story comes when we learn that a priest and a Levite pass by a man left for dead on the side of the road and do not even stop. The priest and the Levite were religious functionaries, folk who had responsibilities to lead the Jewish people in worship at the Temple in Jerusalem. Contact with this man on the side of the road would have rendered them unclean and unable to perform their religious duties. The priest and the Levite were not necessarily unkind, but rather trying to balance competing demands of the law – their obligation to help a stranger and their obligation to lead worship in the Temple.
The priest and the Levite could not afford to stop and help this man who might be dead. Much like we may not always be able to stop and help someone. I am happy to stop and help someone change a flat tire but if it happens on a Sunday morning at 10 a.m. as I am driving up 95 to Bowling Green for the 10:30 a.m. service, I will pass by rather than miss leading worship. So beware of being too hard on the priest and the Levite. You and I share much in common with these two who pass by.
And, then shock number two: the Samaritan, despised by the Jews, not only stops to help but offers unconditional aid, telling the innkeeper he will pay for whatever it costs to get this half dead man back on his feet. What is going on? Jesus tells a parable about a Good Samaritan to a basically good man, contrasting the actions of the Good Samaritan with those of two other fairly reasonable and decent people, the priest and the Levite. Is Jesus simply telling us, who are, I know, caring and kind, to be a little more caring and kind? I don’t think so.
Jesus did not teach in parables to make basically good people better. Jesus taught in parables to disturb his listeners into seeing the world in which we live in a new way, to see the world from God’s perspective rather than our own. A parable invites us to take our place in the drama of the story and consider what that might mean to us as we seek to live out our faith. The lawyer this morning no doubt wanted to be a good neighbor, but as Jesus invites him into the world of the parable, finally asking him which of the three proved to be a neighbor, the lawyer was faced with assuming the perspective of the half dead man on the side of the road. That perspective invited the lawyer to consider acts of kindness from the viewpoint of someone wholly unable to help himself. For the lawyer, an educated man with social standing in his community, to consider what it must be like to be powerless to help himself must have been sobering in the extreme.
And finally, we have the Good Samaritan who, in the words of theologian Arthur McGill, “seems strangely oblivious about his own needs.” The Samaritan, scorned by the Jews, not only stops to help someone who probably wouldn’t give him the time of day but then takes this man to an inn and promises to pay for whatever the innkeeper spends to get this man back on his feet. The Samaritan places no limits on the extent of his help nor does the Samaritan make his help conditional in any way. McGill notes the Samaritan’s actions are neither normal nor reasonable but wholly excessive. For McGill there is only one Good Samaritan and that is Christ.
We live in a culture that is always counting costs. The priest and the Levite, like all of us, give what we can afford to give, afraid if we give everything away we will be left with nothing, with no power to help ourselves. And yet, you and I are here today to worship a savior who chose not to call down a legion of angels when tempted by Satan, who chose not to defend himself when accused of treason by the emperor of Rome, and who was not able to persuade the Jewish religious leaders that he, rather than they, was following the will of God. If God was indeed bringing in the kingdom, Jesus was an odd way to do it. God seems to believe there is power in weakness, a power we can only come to know as we give ourselves away.
The Eighth Sunday After Pentecost Amos 8: 1 – 12
Sunday, July 18, 2010 Colossians 1: 15 – 28
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 10: 38 - 42
“Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me”
Luke 10: 40b
Jesus does the unexpected this morning in our gospel reading. After Martha welcomes Jesus into her home, Martha seems almost frantic to do what needs to be done to offer hospitality to her guest. Her sister, Mary, who ought to be helping Martha, is, instead, sitting at Jesus’ feet, “listening to what he was saying.” In what sounds like utter exasperation, Martha comes to Jesus, saying: “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” And Jesus responds: “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” Rather than encouraging Mary to go and help her “worried and distracted” sister, Jesus seems to be commending Mary for not helping.
This brief story of two sisters, one who is busy about the tasks of making a guest feel welcome and the other, who is content to sit and listen to Jesus, is a problem. The story makes a distinction between serving others as Martha does and prayerful listening to God, as Mary does. Given the choice, Jesus seems to be commending a life of quiet contemplation. Cleaning bathrooms, doing laundry, and making dinner, appear to be irrelevant. A life spent in prayer is “better” than a life spent feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and welcoming the stranger. And, yet, you and I are called to love the Lord our God with all our heart and with all our mind and with all our soul, and our neighbor as ourself. You and I are called to do both – to serve and to pray. We are called to be both a Martha and a Mary.
And, yet, Jesus commends Mary. Mary, in our text, is sitting at the Lord’s feet, quietly listening to what Jesus is saying. Sitting at someone’s feet was the posture of a student, a disciple of a master from whom you wished to learn something. In first century Palestine, women could not be students. Mary was assuming a role that was not given to women then and in many places of the world still is not. Mary’s “place” was in the kitchen and sitting at Jesus’ feet was “unseemly.”
When I was a seminary student, I traveled to Ethiopia, on the east coast of Africa, where our group of eight seminarians and one faculty member, a woman widely published and a member of the Anglican Communion Covenant Design Group, was invited to dinner one night at the home of a family who lived in Addis Ababa, the capitol of Ethiopia. As we entered, our host, the father of the family greeted us and as the evening unfolded, none of the women in the family who had prepared our dinner joined us but rather sat along a back wall behind a table laden with food, never saying a word. I was unnerved to say the least.
Mary crossed a boundary, in the words of Bishop N.T. Wright, and Martha was unnerved. Mary was not playing by the rules. Martha’s world was coming undone. And Martha did not know what to do.
Last week we heard the parable of the Good Samaritan and how someone who was despised by the Jews offered radical hospitality. And today, Martha is a bit unsettled as her sister does what only men were supposed to do. Our evangelist Luke seems to be saying something about boundaries and something about breaking them. Luke seems to be saying that whatever boundaries keep us apart, Jesus is tearing down.
Martha, like all of us, knew the rules we have determined to live by. Every group establishes certain norms, sometimes written, sometimes not. We all know, for example, that we are to obey the posted speed limit. We have agreed that in some places it is O.K. to drive 55 m.p.h. and in others, no more than 25. We post signs, drive accordingly or suffer the consequences.
At other times, the “rules” are less obvious. I know of nothing in the constitutions and canons of this church that says you may not say “Amen, sister!” in the middle of a sermon, but I have yet to be in an Episcopal church in which anyone has ever dared to comment on the sermon in that way. Our cultural norm as Episcopalians in Virginia is to remain quiet during the sermon.
Were someone to actually proclaim “Amen, sister!” in the middle of one of my sermons I suspect most of us, not the least me, would be surprised, taken off balance, not sure exactly how to respond. When someone breaks a rule, especially an unwritten rule, we take notice.
Martha knew the rules and she knew her place; Mary was breaking the rules and Martha had no clue what to do. Mary was upsetting the apple cart and Martha was unpinned. Keeping Mary in her customary place was, clearly, more comfortable for Martha, if not wholly satisfying for Mary.
You and I are created by God, for God. In the words of the great St. Augustine, “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in You.” You and I are not defined by our nationality nor our gender nor our occupations nor our family of origin. God determines who we are. And from time to time, who God calls us to be may take others by surprise, upset social convention, and open us to criticism.
Preaching the story of Mary and Martha in this day and age, when “being yourself” is viewed as permission to do anything you want, can be dangerous. We loathe being told what to do by others and in Mary, we can perceive a woman who has the courage to resist being defined by her gender and the expectations of others. But Mary is not simply blowing off cultural norms; Mary is acknowledging the primacy of her relationship with Christ. Mary is not seeking to be different for the sake of being different. Mary is responding to her Lord who calls her to come this way rather than another. And not for Mary’s sake, but for the sake of the world. All calls from God set us free from whatever keeps us from being free for God and the world God loves. Let’s not cheer for Mary because she got out of the kitchen; let’s cheer for Mary that through her, others came to know God’s love.
I end with a confession. I am not a person who likes being taken by surprise. I am a creature of habit and I like knowing what to expect. I like knowing one day is going to look a little like the day before. I like being prepared and surprises leave me feeling unprepared. What I have discovered is that God takes us by surprise over and over again. One day is never like another. I can never know for sure what will happen as much as I would like to. Against all reason, I wake up in the morning expecting the day to unfold in certain predictable ways. Sometimes the day does and sometimes the day does not. I can appreciate Martha’s dismay. Martha was counting on Mary to do what she had always done, so Martha could do as she had always done and Mary did not. Mary did something different. I can understand why Martha was upset.
You and I live and move and have our being in the shadow of a disturbing God, a God who disrupts expectations, who breaks boundaries and calls us to follow in his Name. The Messiah of Israel was not supposed to die and the Messiah did. And then, on the third day God raised Jesus from the dead. God was doing a new thing and whatever expectations Israel had for their promised Messiah were sorely tried and tested. Martha’s expectations are tried today. Ours will be as well.
Sunday, July 18, 2010 Colossians 1: 15 – 28
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 10: 38 - 42
“Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me”
Luke 10: 40b
Jesus does the unexpected this morning in our gospel reading. After Martha welcomes Jesus into her home, Martha seems almost frantic to do what needs to be done to offer hospitality to her guest. Her sister, Mary, who ought to be helping Martha, is, instead, sitting at Jesus’ feet, “listening to what he was saying.” In what sounds like utter exasperation, Martha comes to Jesus, saying: “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” And Jesus responds: “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” Rather than encouraging Mary to go and help her “worried and distracted” sister, Jesus seems to be commending Mary for not helping.
This brief story of two sisters, one who is busy about the tasks of making a guest feel welcome and the other, who is content to sit and listen to Jesus, is a problem. The story makes a distinction between serving others as Martha does and prayerful listening to God, as Mary does. Given the choice, Jesus seems to be commending a life of quiet contemplation. Cleaning bathrooms, doing laundry, and making dinner, appear to be irrelevant. A life spent in prayer is “better” than a life spent feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and welcoming the stranger. And, yet, you and I are called to love the Lord our God with all our heart and with all our mind and with all our soul, and our neighbor as ourself. You and I are called to do both – to serve and to pray. We are called to be both a Martha and a Mary.
And, yet, Jesus commends Mary. Mary, in our text, is sitting at the Lord’s feet, quietly listening to what Jesus is saying. Sitting at someone’s feet was the posture of a student, a disciple of a master from whom you wished to learn something. In first century Palestine, women could not be students. Mary was assuming a role that was not given to women then and in many places of the world still is not. Mary’s “place” was in the kitchen and sitting at Jesus’ feet was “unseemly.”
When I was a seminary student, I traveled to Ethiopia, on the east coast of Africa, where our group of eight seminarians and one faculty member, a woman widely published and a member of the Anglican Communion Covenant Design Group, was invited to dinner one night at the home of a family who lived in Addis Ababa, the capitol of Ethiopia. As we entered, our host, the father of the family greeted us and as the evening unfolded, none of the women in the family who had prepared our dinner joined us but rather sat along a back wall behind a table laden with food, never saying a word. I was unnerved to say the least.
Mary crossed a boundary, in the words of Bishop N.T. Wright, and Martha was unnerved. Mary was not playing by the rules. Martha’s world was coming undone. And Martha did not know what to do.
Last week we heard the parable of the Good Samaritan and how someone who was despised by the Jews offered radical hospitality. And today, Martha is a bit unsettled as her sister does what only men were supposed to do. Our evangelist Luke seems to be saying something about boundaries and something about breaking them. Luke seems to be saying that whatever boundaries keep us apart, Jesus is tearing down.
Martha, like all of us, knew the rules we have determined to live by. Every group establishes certain norms, sometimes written, sometimes not. We all know, for example, that we are to obey the posted speed limit. We have agreed that in some places it is O.K. to drive 55 m.p.h. and in others, no more than 25. We post signs, drive accordingly or suffer the consequences.
At other times, the “rules” are less obvious. I know of nothing in the constitutions and canons of this church that says you may not say “Amen, sister!” in the middle of a sermon, but I have yet to be in an Episcopal church in which anyone has ever dared to comment on the sermon in that way. Our cultural norm as Episcopalians in Virginia is to remain quiet during the sermon.
Were someone to actually proclaim “Amen, sister!” in the middle of one of my sermons I suspect most of us, not the least me, would be surprised, taken off balance, not sure exactly how to respond. When someone breaks a rule, especially an unwritten rule, we take notice.
Martha knew the rules and she knew her place; Mary was breaking the rules and Martha had no clue what to do. Mary was upsetting the apple cart and Martha was unpinned. Keeping Mary in her customary place was, clearly, more comfortable for Martha, if not wholly satisfying for Mary.
You and I are created by God, for God. In the words of the great St. Augustine, “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in You.” You and I are not defined by our nationality nor our gender nor our occupations nor our family of origin. God determines who we are. And from time to time, who God calls us to be may take others by surprise, upset social convention, and open us to criticism.
Preaching the story of Mary and Martha in this day and age, when “being yourself” is viewed as permission to do anything you want, can be dangerous. We loathe being told what to do by others and in Mary, we can perceive a woman who has the courage to resist being defined by her gender and the expectations of others. But Mary is not simply blowing off cultural norms; Mary is acknowledging the primacy of her relationship with Christ. Mary is not seeking to be different for the sake of being different. Mary is responding to her Lord who calls her to come this way rather than another. And not for Mary’s sake, but for the sake of the world. All calls from God set us free from whatever keeps us from being free for God and the world God loves. Let’s not cheer for Mary because she got out of the kitchen; let’s cheer for Mary that through her, others came to know God’s love.
I end with a confession. I am not a person who likes being taken by surprise. I am a creature of habit and I like knowing what to expect. I like knowing one day is going to look a little like the day before. I like being prepared and surprises leave me feeling unprepared. What I have discovered is that God takes us by surprise over and over again. One day is never like another. I can never know for sure what will happen as much as I would like to. Against all reason, I wake up in the morning expecting the day to unfold in certain predictable ways. Sometimes the day does and sometimes the day does not. I can appreciate Martha’s dismay. Martha was counting on Mary to do what she had always done, so Martha could do as she had always done and Mary did not. Mary did something different. I can understand why Martha was upset.
You and I live and move and have our being in the shadow of a disturbing God, a God who disrupts expectations, who breaks boundaries and calls us to follow in his Name. The Messiah of Israel was not supposed to die and the Messiah did. And then, on the third day God raised Jesus from the dead. God was doing a new thing and whatever expectations Israel had for their promised Messiah were sorely tried and tested. Martha’s expectations are tried today. Ours will be as well.
The Ninth Sunday After Pentecost Hosea 1: 2 – 10
Sunday, July 25, 2010 Colossians 2: 6 – 19
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 11: 1 – 13
Jesus was praying in a certain place, and after he had finished, one of his disciples said to him, “Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.”
Luke 11: 1
Several years ago, four Richmond teenagers, coming home from their school prom, crashed their car, injuring all four, two critically. The teenagers were all taken to MCV where parents were notified and a chaplain waited to meet the parents as they arrived. As doctors and nurses attended to the teenagers in the trauma room, a woman arrived in the ER looking desperate and frantic. Upon seeing the chaplain, the woman pleaded: “I’m Jewish. I do not know what God you pray to. But, please, please pray for my daughter!” This woman loved her daughter and was terrified that her daughter might die. Without apology, she wanted God to wake up and save her daughter and she could care less who beat on God’s door.
Hospitals are often a place of shameless prayers – not nicely worded collects or the customary graces we say before meals, but urgent, demanding, unabashedly honest cries for help in a world suddenly gone wrong. For sure, hospitals can be a place of great rejoicing and thanksgiving, but more often than not, a hospital is a place haunted by sorrow, grief and great tragedy. A hospital is a place where many prayers are said, often by folk who have never prayed before.
In our gospel reading this morning from Luke, the disciples ask Jesus to teach them to pray and Jesus responds with the familiar words of what we call the Lord’s Prayer. The Lord’s Prayer is also recorded in the gospel of Matthew in a slightly longer version, closer to the form of the prayer we now use. The Lord’s Prayer is a simple but bold prayer, a prayer in which we acknowledge our physical and spiritual needs – our need for food, for forgiveness, our need to be protected from evil – and the sovereignty of God, the creator and sustainer of the world. What we seek in the Lord’s Prayer is God’s kingdom, that place, in the words of the book of Revelation, where “Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”
Prayer, all prayer, is rooted in our desire for God, the God who desires our well-being and who like a loving Father gives only good gifts to his children. Prayer reflects our trust in God’s goodness and love and mercy, God’s providential care of God’s dearly beloved creation. We do not pray to a God who when we ask for a fish gives us a snake instead or who when we ask for an egg gives us a scorpion, our text tells us this morning. The object of our desire is a God who loves us, loves us enough to die for us.
Prayer, our desire for God, “turns out to be,” in the words of one commentator, “worship and praise, rather than a shopping list.” In prayer, we come before God, not an 800 number. We are told to ask God for those things we need but always with the recognition that we live and move and have our being within God’s kingdom, not the other way round. God does not work for us, we are called to work for God. Prayer is not magic, a request that God snap God’s fingers and do what God would never have thought of doing before we asked.
Prayer, as worship not a shopping list, is like what we do every Sunday. Every Sunday, after we hear the readings and a sermon, the ushers and oblation bearers bring to the altar our offerings of money, bread and wine at the Offertory. These offerings of money, bread and wine are symbolic, symbols of all that God has made, all of creation and all that we are and all that we have. At the Offertory, we bring into the presence of God the whole world.
And then, in the Eucharistic Prayer we lift them up to God, asking God to bless them, to transform them, to make the unholy holy, the ordinary extraordinary, the common uncommon, earth like heaven. In the Eucharist, we lift up the stuff of this world and ask God to break it open so that God’s glory might shine through. And God does, taking ordinary bread and wine and returning the same to us as the extraordinary – the body and blood of Christ, the bread of heaven and the cup of salvation.
Likewise, in prayer we offer up to God all our joys and sorrows, our celebrations and tribulations, all the “stuff’ of life in this world, asking God to transform the muddle and the mess and, yes, even our joys, into God’s good purposes and for God’s glory.
In prayer, like in the Eucharist, we are transformed, not God. We come to church bringing with us all the joys and sorrows, pains and pleasures of the week and leave with the words: “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord” or similar words. The liturgy, our shared worship, is meant to change us not God. God is neither arbitrary nor capricious and does not shower divine blessings upon some who just happen to ask and others who do not. God makes the rain to fall upon the righteous and the unrighteous. But God is free, free to work out God’s purposes in the world in God’s way and in God’s time. When we pray, we lift up to God our needs so that we can then be free to do God’s work in the world. We are to be bold and persistent in prayer because the character of God is always to show mercy and we are called to want the same. Whatever binds us, keeps us from showing forth God’s mercy in this world that God so dearly loves, we are called to ask God to free us from.
God loves us and the whole world and God does not, could not, ever, wish that a young woman would die or become incapacitated in a car crash, no matter what. God does not work like that. But God does have the power to make all things work together for the good. All that mother in the ER that night wanted was her daughter to be O.K. Her desire was nothing less than God’s desire. What this mother that night wanted was exactly what God wants for us at all times and in all places. How God chose to work this out was up to God and she would have to wait.
In the back of The Book of Common Prayer, we find a section called the Catechism which contains the teachings of the church. In the Catechism prayer is defined as our response to God, “by thought and by deeds, with or without words.” Prayer is a response to a prior act of God, the movement of the Holy Spirit within us drawing us to God in prayer. In other words, our desire to pray means God is already at work, reaching out to us in love even before we say a word. Our desire to pray is a gift to us from God, not dependent upon our words or lack of words, or even upon our knowing what to pray for.
“Teach us to pray” the disciples ask Jesus this morning. Teach us, Lord, in all the busyness of this life, to be still and know that you God. Teach us to trust in your love especially at those times when our world has turned upside down and inside out. Teach us to desire You above all things and before all things. Teach us, Lord, to be instruments of Your peace to others when their world is falling apart. Teach us, Lord, to pray, and then use us as you will always to the glory and honor of Your name.
Sunday, July 25, 2010 Colossians 2: 6 – 19
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 11: 1 – 13
Jesus was praying in a certain place, and after he had finished, one of his disciples said to him, “Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.”
Luke 11: 1
Several years ago, four Richmond teenagers, coming home from their school prom, crashed their car, injuring all four, two critically. The teenagers were all taken to MCV where parents were notified and a chaplain waited to meet the parents as they arrived. As doctors and nurses attended to the teenagers in the trauma room, a woman arrived in the ER looking desperate and frantic. Upon seeing the chaplain, the woman pleaded: “I’m Jewish. I do not know what God you pray to. But, please, please pray for my daughter!” This woman loved her daughter and was terrified that her daughter might die. Without apology, she wanted God to wake up and save her daughter and she could care less who beat on God’s door.
Hospitals are often a place of shameless prayers – not nicely worded collects or the customary graces we say before meals, but urgent, demanding, unabashedly honest cries for help in a world suddenly gone wrong. For sure, hospitals can be a place of great rejoicing and thanksgiving, but more often than not, a hospital is a place haunted by sorrow, grief and great tragedy. A hospital is a place where many prayers are said, often by folk who have never prayed before.
In our gospel reading this morning from Luke, the disciples ask Jesus to teach them to pray and Jesus responds with the familiar words of what we call the Lord’s Prayer. The Lord’s Prayer is also recorded in the gospel of Matthew in a slightly longer version, closer to the form of the prayer we now use. The Lord’s Prayer is a simple but bold prayer, a prayer in which we acknowledge our physical and spiritual needs – our need for food, for forgiveness, our need to be protected from evil – and the sovereignty of God, the creator and sustainer of the world. What we seek in the Lord’s Prayer is God’s kingdom, that place, in the words of the book of Revelation, where “Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”
Prayer, all prayer, is rooted in our desire for God, the God who desires our well-being and who like a loving Father gives only good gifts to his children. Prayer reflects our trust in God’s goodness and love and mercy, God’s providential care of God’s dearly beloved creation. We do not pray to a God who when we ask for a fish gives us a snake instead or who when we ask for an egg gives us a scorpion, our text tells us this morning. The object of our desire is a God who loves us, loves us enough to die for us.
Prayer, our desire for God, “turns out to be,” in the words of one commentator, “worship and praise, rather than a shopping list.” In prayer, we come before God, not an 800 number. We are told to ask God for those things we need but always with the recognition that we live and move and have our being within God’s kingdom, not the other way round. God does not work for us, we are called to work for God. Prayer is not magic, a request that God snap God’s fingers and do what God would never have thought of doing before we asked.
Prayer, as worship not a shopping list, is like what we do every Sunday. Every Sunday, after we hear the readings and a sermon, the ushers and oblation bearers bring to the altar our offerings of money, bread and wine at the Offertory. These offerings of money, bread and wine are symbolic, symbols of all that God has made, all of creation and all that we are and all that we have. At the Offertory, we bring into the presence of God the whole world.
And then, in the Eucharistic Prayer we lift them up to God, asking God to bless them, to transform them, to make the unholy holy, the ordinary extraordinary, the common uncommon, earth like heaven. In the Eucharist, we lift up the stuff of this world and ask God to break it open so that God’s glory might shine through. And God does, taking ordinary bread and wine and returning the same to us as the extraordinary – the body and blood of Christ, the bread of heaven and the cup of salvation.
Likewise, in prayer we offer up to God all our joys and sorrows, our celebrations and tribulations, all the “stuff’ of life in this world, asking God to transform the muddle and the mess and, yes, even our joys, into God’s good purposes and for God’s glory.
In prayer, like in the Eucharist, we are transformed, not God. We come to church bringing with us all the joys and sorrows, pains and pleasures of the week and leave with the words: “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord” or similar words. The liturgy, our shared worship, is meant to change us not God. God is neither arbitrary nor capricious and does not shower divine blessings upon some who just happen to ask and others who do not. God makes the rain to fall upon the righteous and the unrighteous. But God is free, free to work out God’s purposes in the world in God’s way and in God’s time. When we pray, we lift up to God our needs so that we can then be free to do God’s work in the world. We are to be bold and persistent in prayer because the character of God is always to show mercy and we are called to want the same. Whatever binds us, keeps us from showing forth God’s mercy in this world that God so dearly loves, we are called to ask God to free us from.
God loves us and the whole world and God does not, could not, ever, wish that a young woman would die or become incapacitated in a car crash, no matter what. God does not work like that. But God does have the power to make all things work together for the good. All that mother in the ER that night wanted was her daughter to be O.K. Her desire was nothing less than God’s desire. What this mother that night wanted was exactly what God wants for us at all times and in all places. How God chose to work this out was up to God and she would have to wait.
In the back of The Book of Common Prayer, we find a section called the Catechism which contains the teachings of the church. In the Catechism prayer is defined as our response to God, “by thought and by deeds, with or without words.” Prayer is a response to a prior act of God, the movement of the Holy Spirit within us drawing us to God in prayer. In other words, our desire to pray means God is already at work, reaching out to us in love even before we say a word. Our desire to pray is a gift to us from God, not dependent upon our words or lack of words, or even upon our knowing what to pray for.
“Teach us to pray” the disciples ask Jesus this morning. Teach us, Lord, in all the busyness of this life, to be still and know that you God. Teach us to trust in your love especially at those times when our world has turned upside down and inside out. Teach us to desire You above all things and before all things. Teach us, Lord, to be instruments of Your peace to others when their world is falling apart. Teach us, Lord, to pray, and then use us as you will always to the glory and honor of Your name.
