The Feast of the Epiphany Isaiah 60: 1 – 6
Sunday, January 6, 2013 Ephesians 3: 1 – 12
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 2: 1 - 12
In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men* from the East came to Jerusalem, 2asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising,* and have come to pay him homage.’
Matthew 2: 1 -2
Today is the Feast of Epiphany and the beginning of a season in the church year that celebrates the revelation of God in Christ. This morning a star reveals the birth of Christ to wise men from East; next Sunday, a voice from heaven will reveal that Jesus is the “beloved Son” at Jesus’ baptism; then we will hear how God was revealed at a wedding in Cana when Jesus turned water into wine. For the next five Sundays, we will be remembering that “in Christ, all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell,” in the words of Saint Paul.
This season of Epiphany – this season of revelation – is a season of surprise. No one expected God to reveal Godself in the form of a human being. Our Jewish ancestors knew that God’s hand had accomplished the Exodus from Egypt, made a bush to burn but not be destroyed, gave Abraham and Sarah a child in their old age, and then led the chosen people of God into and out of exile. But to say that God was fully and completely revealed in the person of Jesus of Nazareth was idolatry – the worship of a creature rather than the Creator. And a child born to a human mother is very much a part of the order of creation.
Indeed, for the Jews living in first century Palestine, part of their rub with Rome was the fact that the Roman Emperor believed he was a god and should be worshipped as such. For the Jews, no man was God and the Jews refused to worship the Roman emperor, a reality Rome found exasperating. But now a child is born, a child hailed as the very revelation of God.
What we know is that by the end of the first century, Christians were no longer welcome in the Jewish synagogues because Christians worshipped a human being. What we know is that the revelation of God in Christ provoked conflict among the Jews in the first century and continues to do so even now two thousand years later, among religious militants of all faiths. The birth of the “prince of peace” on Christmas revealed not only God but our human hubris which so often seeks to get rid of that which is strange or foreign to us, anything or anyone we cannot understand.
The gospel reading for this feast of the Epiphany is always the story of the visit of the wise men. These “wise men” were most probably astrologers or astronomers of Babylonian or Persian descent. Their wisdom was rooted in their ability to read the heavens which, for many ancient peoples, revealed the will of the gods. The star these “wise men” saw in the heavens reflected something of import happening on earth, presumably the birth of a king. And so they followed, hoping to find this child who the heavens had declared great. We do not know how many wise men came to Jerusalem; later tradition names three in accordance with the three gifts.
These wise men, these astrologers, were an abomination to the Jews who did not trust practitioners of magic and the arts of astrologers. But when they come to Jerusalem, looking for “the child who has been born king of the Jews,” we learn that the revelation given to these gentiles by a star is confirmed in the scriptures of Israel, scriptures that say the Messiah will be born in Bethlehem. The revelation of God given to the Jews in their sacred scriptures is now shared by gentiles from the East.
But the visit of the wise men to Jerusalem alerts King Herod, a puppet king of the Jews who worked for Rome, to a threat. Find this child, King Herod, tells these wise men; find this child so that I can kill him. The wise men do not comply, provoking King Herod to massacre all the children of Bethlehem under the age of two. The kingdom of God has come on earth and all King Herod can see is a rival for his throne and his power, a rival who must be eliminated.
In the long history of the Church, our confession that Jesus is Lord has often been used as a battle cry against those who do not believe as we do. Christians waged war on the Muslims during the crusades and sought to eradicate the Jews during the holocaust in World War II. Christians have not always treated others with grace and good will. And even though the story of the visit of the magi is familiar to most Christians, we can forget that these practitioners of astrology were foreigners and strangers, gentiles from the East who were outside the covenant God had made with Israel. For our evangelist Matthew, the first folk to worship Jesus were not members of the household of Israel, but strangers and aliens to the covenant.
And when the wise men left the Christ child, Matthew tells us only that they “left for their own country” and we never learn if these gentiles became followers of Christ. We do not know what happens to them after they leave and can only wonder what transformation God wrought in their lives after their journey to Bethlehem. What we do know is their worship of Jesus foreshadows the birth of the Church, that sacred mystery in which Saint Paul tells: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male or female; for we are all one in Christ Jesus.” What we know is that God’s revelation in Christ was given to us so that we might be one.
God used a star which astrologers could understand and the sacred scriptures of Israel to reveal Godself in the midst of a world that continues to be so often divided between “us” and “them,” those who are “in” and those who are “out.” Even we in the Church often define ourselves over against others, as “liberals” or “fundamentalists,” as “evangelicals” or “traditionalists,” as “born again” or “once baptized.” We often highlight our differences and forget that the revelation of God in Christ is an inexhaustible mystery that no one of us will ever fully understand but into which God invites us all. We all have gifts to bring to this child but they will not all be same.
In the light of the astrologers whose journey to the Christ child we remember this day, I checked my horoscope on December 31, for those born under the sign of Gemini, otherwise known as the Twins. I read as follows:
It may be hard to get attention today, but not tonight! Take time during the day for some serious soul searching and to review the highs and lows of the past year. The Twins are entertaining, witty and communicative, but tend to be flighty and crumble under pressure. Make new resolutions that you stand a good chance of sticking to: 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.' Give thanks to the Universe for the many blessings that you have. Tonight you ARE the party!!
I was born under the astrological sign of Gemini - the Twins – but went to bed on New Year’s Eve without making resolutions my “flighty and crumbling” spirit could adhere to, nor particularly mindful that I was “entertaining, witty and communicative.” I may have lost my chance for a good New Year and I clearly was not “the party,” at least on New Year’s Eve. But I still read my horoscope if only to wonder if perhaps the stars really do have something to say.
And the stars did, because taking stock of our lives has a long tradition in the church and resolving to do differently is what we mean by repentance. I prefer to wait until Lent to “take stock” and would rather spend this time enjoying the surprise of the season of Epiphany. But the stars held some truth, truth that resonated in my own tradition.
I do not intend to become an astrologer nor do I intend to give thanks to an impersonal universe that is morally neutral and just as apt to curse us as to bless us. I will give thanks to a God who loved us so much he became one with us, so that we might become one with him. I will give thanks to the God who created this universe, set the stars in the sky and gave us a savior to lead us into the fullness of all joy and peace. I will give thanks to this God who is faithful even when I am not and who promises to be with us no matter how many resolutions we make or break.
Sunday, January 6, 2013 Ephesians 3: 1 – 12
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 2: 1 - 12
In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men* from the East came to Jerusalem, 2asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising,* and have come to pay him homage.’
Matthew 2: 1 -2
Today is the Feast of Epiphany and the beginning of a season in the church year that celebrates the revelation of God in Christ. This morning a star reveals the birth of Christ to wise men from East; next Sunday, a voice from heaven will reveal that Jesus is the “beloved Son” at Jesus’ baptism; then we will hear how God was revealed at a wedding in Cana when Jesus turned water into wine. For the next five Sundays, we will be remembering that “in Christ, all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell,” in the words of Saint Paul.
This season of Epiphany – this season of revelation – is a season of surprise. No one expected God to reveal Godself in the form of a human being. Our Jewish ancestors knew that God’s hand had accomplished the Exodus from Egypt, made a bush to burn but not be destroyed, gave Abraham and Sarah a child in their old age, and then led the chosen people of God into and out of exile. But to say that God was fully and completely revealed in the person of Jesus of Nazareth was idolatry – the worship of a creature rather than the Creator. And a child born to a human mother is very much a part of the order of creation.
Indeed, for the Jews living in first century Palestine, part of their rub with Rome was the fact that the Roman Emperor believed he was a god and should be worshipped as such. For the Jews, no man was God and the Jews refused to worship the Roman emperor, a reality Rome found exasperating. But now a child is born, a child hailed as the very revelation of God.
What we know is that by the end of the first century, Christians were no longer welcome in the Jewish synagogues because Christians worshipped a human being. What we know is that the revelation of God in Christ provoked conflict among the Jews in the first century and continues to do so even now two thousand years later, among religious militants of all faiths. The birth of the “prince of peace” on Christmas revealed not only God but our human hubris which so often seeks to get rid of that which is strange or foreign to us, anything or anyone we cannot understand.
The gospel reading for this feast of the Epiphany is always the story of the visit of the wise men. These “wise men” were most probably astrologers or astronomers of Babylonian or Persian descent. Their wisdom was rooted in their ability to read the heavens which, for many ancient peoples, revealed the will of the gods. The star these “wise men” saw in the heavens reflected something of import happening on earth, presumably the birth of a king. And so they followed, hoping to find this child who the heavens had declared great. We do not know how many wise men came to Jerusalem; later tradition names three in accordance with the three gifts.
These wise men, these astrologers, were an abomination to the Jews who did not trust practitioners of magic and the arts of astrologers. But when they come to Jerusalem, looking for “the child who has been born king of the Jews,” we learn that the revelation given to these gentiles by a star is confirmed in the scriptures of Israel, scriptures that say the Messiah will be born in Bethlehem. The revelation of God given to the Jews in their sacred scriptures is now shared by gentiles from the East.
But the visit of the wise men to Jerusalem alerts King Herod, a puppet king of the Jews who worked for Rome, to a threat. Find this child, King Herod, tells these wise men; find this child so that I can kill him. The wise men do not comply, provoking King Herod to massacre all the children of Bethlehem under the age of two. The kingdom of God has come on earth and all King Herod can see is a rival for his throne and his power, a rival who must be eliminated.
In the long history of the Church, our confession that Jesus is Lord has often been used as a battle cry against those who do not believe as we do. Christians waged war on the Muslims during the crusades and sought to eradicate the Jews during the holocaust in World War II. Christians have not always treated others with grace and good will. And even though the story of the visit of the magi is familiar to most Christians, we can forget that these practitioners of astrology were foreigners and strangers, gentiles from the East who were outside the covenant God had made with Israel. For our evangelist Matthew, the first folk to worship Jesus were not members of the household of Israel, but strangers and aliens to the covenant.
And when the wise men left the Christ child, Matthew tells us only that they “left for their own country” and we never learn if these gentiles became followers of Christ. We do not know what happens to them after they leave and can only wonder what transformation God wrought in their lives after their journey to Bethlehem. What we do know is their worship of Jesus foreshadows the birth of the Church, that sacred mystery in which Saint Paul tells: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male or female; for we are all one in Christ Jesus.” What we know is that God’s revelation in Christ was given to us so that we might be one.
God used a star which astrologers could understand and the sacred scriptures of Israel to reveal Godself in the midst of a world that continues to be so often divided between “us” and “them,” those who are “in” and those who are “out.” Even we in the Church often define ourselves over against others, as “liberals” or “fundamentalists,” as “evangelicals” or “traditionalists,” as “born again” or “once baptized.” We often highlight our differences and forget that the revelation of God in Christ is an inexhaustible mystery that no one of us will ever fully understand but into which God invites us all. We all have gifts to bring to this child but they will not all be same.
In the light of the astrologers whose journey to the Christ child we remember this day, I checked my horoscope on December 31, for those born under the sign of Gemini, otherwise known as the Twins. I read as follows:
It may be hard to get attention today, but not tonight! Take time during the day for some serious soul searching and to review the highs and lows of the past year. The Twins are entertaining, witty and communicative, but tend to be flighty and crumble under pressure. Make new resolutions that you stand a good chance of sticking to: 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.' Give thanks to the Universe for the many blessings that you have. Tonight you ARE the party!!
I was born under the astrological sign of Gemini - the Twins – but went to bed on New Year’s Eve without making resolutions my “flighty and crumbling” spirit could adhere to, nor particularly mindful that I was “entertaining, witty and communicative.” I may have lost my chance for a good New Year and I clearly was not “the party,” at least on New Year’s Eve. But I still read my horoscope if only to wonder if perhaps the stars really do have something to say.
And the stars did, because taking stock of our lives has a long tradition in the church and resolving to do differently is what we mean by repentance. I prefer to wait until Lent to “take stock” and would rather spend this time enjoying the surprise of the season of Epiphany. But the stars held some truth, truth that resonated in my own tradition.
I do not intend to become an astrologer nor do I intend to give thanks to an impersonal universe that is morally neutral and just as apt to curse us as to bless us. I will give thanks to a God who loved us so much he became one with us, so that we might become one with him. I will give thanks to the God who created this universe, set the stars in the sky and gave us a savior to lead us into the fullness of all joy and peace. I will give thanks to this God who is faithful even when I am not and who promises to be with us no matter how many resolutions we make or break.
The First Sunday after the Epiphany Isaiah 43: 1 – 7
Sunday, January 13, 2013 Acts 8: 14 – 17
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 3: 15 -17, 21 – 22
and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved;* with you I am well pleased.’*
Luke 3: 22
Last Sunday we celebrated the feast of Epiphany and heard the story of the visit of the wise men to the Christ child. The season of Epiphany always begins with the revelation of God in Christ to the gentiles, the wise men from the East who followed a star to Bethlehem. This Sunday we are given another revelation, the revelation that this child is “the Beloved Son of God.”
This Sunday we hear the story of Jesus’ baptism, the moment when Jesus is named the Beloved Son of God. At his baptism, the Holy Spirit descends upon Jesus and a voice from heaven proclaims: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” At his baptism Jesus is revealed to be not merely the son of a Jewish carpenter but the very bearer of God’s Holy Spirit.
That Holy Spirit is the same Spirit that brought forth life at the beginning of creation when the Spirit of God “swept” or brooded over “the face of the deep” in the words of Genesis. And that Spirit is the same Spirit that will be poured out at Pentecost, galvanizing Jesus’ followers into the church. The Holy Spirit is the very power of God to bring forth life and that Spirit descends upon Jesus today at his baptism.
Baptism, that strange rite of initiation into the Church, is revealed this day to be an act intended to bring forth life. I was baptized when I was eleven on a Sunday afternoon in an empty church save for my parents and godparents. I do not recall having much choice in the matter nor minding much in truth. Dad thought it was a good idea so I did too. No one said much about the Holy Spirit or that I was beginning a journey intended to lead me into life. The occasion was solemn and more perfunctory than joyful.
My husband A.G. grew up in the Baptist church and one day the minister suggested to him that it was time for him to be baptized and so he was. I was sprinkled and he was dunked and we both probably got baptized more to please our families than out of any great desire to find new life.
One of the many things that changed when we Episcopalians began worshipping with the 1979 Book of Common Prayer and left behind the 1928 Book of Common Prayer involves baptism. Baptism took center stage in 1979, which included for the first time the Easter Vigil, the ancient yearly service of baptism, and the rubric that baptism is full initiation into the Church. No longer do we need to wait until we are confirmed to be able to enjoy the bread and the wine. Once we are baptized, we are members of the church. Period.
The framers of our “new” prayer book wanted to take seriously what happens in baptism, and what happens in baptism is serious indeed. But what is serious in baptism is what God is doing and not what we are doing. What God is doing in baptism is leading us into life.
Previously, folk oftentimes thought of baptism as either an assurance of going to heaven when we die or a necessary prerequisite for sainthood which most baptizands in my experience really do not want. Baptism for many was more a declaration about who we are – good folk who honor the traditions of our parents and who wish to avoid doing bad things. That baptism was the beginning of a journey intended to lead us into life was all but lost.
“Do you desire to be baptized?” Baptism in this church for an adult always begins with that question: “Do you desire to be baptized?” And baptism in this church always ends with a declaration: “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever.” What begins with a desire is met with a resounding promise – we belong to Christ forever.
The service of marriage begins the same way as the celebrant asks the bride and the groom if they want to get married. And the service of marriage also ends with a declaration when the celebrant says: “I now pronounce you man and wife.” But as we all know that declaration does not always last forever. The relationship of marriage is rooted in the desire of two human beings for one another and sometimes falls apart. The relationship established in baptism is rooted in God’s desire for us and God’s desire for us does not fail.
Which is why, in this church, baptism is a once in a lifetime event. Once baptized, we become part of a relationship that is “indissoluble” in the words of the prayer book, a relationship that is unbreakable, unbreakable because God is faithful to God’s promises even when we are not. The relationship we engage in baptism is a relationship with the God made known to us in Christ who said to his disciples: “Lo, I will be with you until the end of the age.”
When we are baptised, we are, like Christ, given a new identity. We are no longer just one of many, but a dearly beloved child of God, a very particular and never again to be repeated creation of God. When we are baptized we are not intended to become clones, made in the image of our mothers or fathers or even our godparents and godparents. When we are baptized we are intended to claim the truth that we are all made in the image of God and given the gift of the Holy Spirit to help us live into that reality.
We are different one from another and this morning at his baptism, Jesus is named the ultimate stranger – the beloved Son of God. “For you alone are the Holy One, you alone are the Lord, you alone are the Most High,” we sing in the Gloria. Only One is holy and that revelation gives us the freedom to live into what God would have us be – not lords nor gods but human beings with gifts to give and graces to share. Naming Christ as the only one who is holy frees us to be human, not perfect.
Every time someone is baptized the Church changes. Every time we welcome someone new into our midst, we welcome their gifts and their graces and their personalities and their warts and their weaknesses and their needs. Every time someone is baptized we become more, something different from what we were before that person was baptized. Every time someone is baptized we need to make room for someone else. No one applies for baptism; no one submits a resume and no one gets voted in. All anyone needs to say is: “I desire to be baptized.” Baptism is as simple and as complex as that.
Our hope in baptism is that God will lead us into our truly human selves, not the false selves that we so casually purvey to those around us. Our hope in baptism is that we will become the person God created us to be, naming us the way God named Jesus at his baptism as the particular persons God created us to be. Only One is Beloved with a capital B but all of us are beloved. Some of us will be “thorns in our side,” prophets who will push us in directions we will find uncomfortable; some of us will be conveyors of compassion who will encourage us when the going gets tough; some of us will be teachers, some healers, but all of us of us in the words of Saint Paul will be members of the one body we call the church.
One of the loveliest prayers in the whole of the prayer book is the prayer that the Bishop prays over the newly baptized:
Heavenly Father, we thank you that by water and the Holy
Spirit you have bestowed upon these your servants the
forgiveness of sin, and have raised them to the new life of
grace. Sustain them, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give them
an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to
persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy
and wonder in all your works. Amen.
Baptism does not make us saints but bearers of the Spirit, fellow sojourners with all those who seek to find life in the midst of a world bent upon death. I stand before you as one who wishes to find life.
Sunday, January 13, 2013 Acts 8: 14 – 17
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 3: 15 -17, 21 – 22
and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved;* with you I am well pleased.’*
Luke 3: 22
Last Sunday we celebrated the feast of Epiphany and heard the story of the visit of the wise men to the Christ child. The season of Epiphany always begins with the revelation of God in Christ to the gentiles, the wise men from the East who followed a star to Bethlehem. This Sunday we are given another revelation, the revelation that this child is “the Beloved Son of God.”
This Sunday we hear the story of Jesus’ baptism, the moment when Jesus is named the Beloved Son of God. At his baptism, the Holy Spirit descends upon Jesus and a voice from heaven proclaims: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” At his baptism Jesus is revealed to be not merely the son of a Jewish carpenter but the very bearer of God’s Holy Spirit.
That Holy Spirit is the same Spirit that brought forth life at the beginning of creation when the Spirit of God “swept” or brooded over “the face of the deep” in the words of Genesis. And that Spirit is the same Spirit that will be poured out at Pentecost, galvanizing Jesus’ followers into the church. The Holy Spirit is the very power of God to bring forth life and that Spirit descends upon Jesus today at his baptism.
Baptism, that strange rite of initiation into the Church, is revealed this day to be an act intended to bring forth life. I was baptized when I was eleven on a Sunday afternoon in an empty church save for my parents and godparents. I do not recall having much choice in the matter nor minding much in truth. Dad thought it was a good idea so I did too. No one said much about the Holy Spirit or that I was beginning a journey intended to lead me into life. The occasion was solemn and more perfunctory than joyful.
My husband A.G. grew up in the Baptist church and one day the minister suggested to him that it was time for him to be baptized and so he was. I was sprinkled and he was dunked and we both probably got baptized more to please our families than out of any great desire to find new life.
One of the many things that changed when we Episcopalians began worshipping with the 1979 Book of Common Prayer and left behind the 1928 Book of Common Prayer involves baptism. Baptism took center stage in 1979, which included for the first time the Easter Vigil, the ancient yearly service of baptism, and the rubric that baptism is full initiation into the Church. No longer do we need to wait until we are confirmed to be able to enjoy the bread and the wine. Once we are baptized, we are members of the church. Period.
The framers of our “new” prayer book wanted to take seriously what happens in baptism, and what happens in baptism is serious indeed. But what is serious in baptism is what God is doing and not what we are doing. What God is doing in baptism is leading us into life.
Previously, folk oftentimes thought of baptism as either an assurance of going to heaven when we die or a necessary prerequisite for sainthood which most baptizands in my experience really do not want. Baptism for many was more a declaration about who we are – good folk who honor the traditions of our parents and who wish to avoid doing bad things. That baptism was the beginning of a journey intended to lead us into life was all but lost.
“Do you desire to be baptized?” Baptism in this church for an adult always begins with that question: “Do you desire to be baptized?” And baptism in this church always ends with a declaration: “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own forever.” What begins with a desire is met with a resounding promise – we belong to Christ forever.
The service of marriage begins the same way as the celebrant asks the bride and the groom if they want to get married. And the service of marriage also ends with a declaration when the celebrant says: “I now pronounce you man and wife.” But as we all know that declaration does not always last forever. The relationship of marriage is rooted in the desire of two human beings for one another and sometimes falls apart. The relationship established in baptism is rooted in God’s desire for us and God’s desire for us does not fail.
Which is why, in this church, baptism is a once in a lifetime event. Once baptized, we become part of a relationship that is “indissoluble” in the words of the prayer book, a relationship that is unbreakable, unbreakable because God is faithful to God’s promises even when we are not. The relationship we engage in baptism is a relationship with the God made known to us in Christ who said to his disciples: “Lo, I will be with you until the end of the age.”
When we are baptised, we are, like Christ, given a new identity. We are no longer just one of many, but a dearly beloved child of God, a very particular and never again to be repeated creation of God. When we are baptized we are not intended to become clones, made in the image of our mothers or fathers or even our godparents and godparents. When we are baptized we are intended to claim the truth that we are all made in the image of God and given the gift of the Holy Spirit to help us live into that reality.
We are different one from another and this morning at his baptism, Jesus is named the ultimate stranger – the beloved Son of God. “For you alone are the Holy One, you alone are the Lord, you alone are the Most High,” we sing in the Gloria. Only One is holy and that revelation gives us the freedom to live into what God would have us be – not lords nor gods but human beings with gifts to give and graces to share. Naming Christ as the only one who is holy frees us to be human, not perfect.
Every time someone is baptized the Church changes. Every time we welcome someone new into our midst, we welcome their gifts and their graces and their personalities and their warts and their weaknesses and their needs. Every time someone is baptized we become more, something different from what we were before that person was baptized. Every time someone is baptized we need to make room for someone else. No one applies for baptism; no one submits a resume and no one gets voted in. All anyone needs to say is: “I desire to be baptized.” Baptism is as simple and as complex as that.
Our hope in baptism is that God will lead us into our truly human selves, not the false selves that we so casually purvey to those around us. Our hope in baptism is that we will become the person God created us to be, naming us the way God named Jesus at his baptism as the particular persons God created us to be. Only One is Beloved with a capital B but all of us are beloved. Some of us will be “thorns in our side,” prophets who will push us in directions we will find uncomfortable; some of us will be conveyors of compassion who will encourage us when the going gets tough; some of us will be teachers, some healers, but all of us of us in the words of Saint Paul will be members of the one body we call the church.
One of the loveliest prayers in the whole of the prayer book is the prayer that the Bishop prays over the newly baptized:
Heavenly Father, we thank you that by water and the Holy
Spirit you have bestowed upon these your servants the
forgiveness of sin, and have raised them to the new life of
grace. Sustain them, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give them
an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to
persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy
and wonder in all your works. Amen.
Baptism does not make us saints but bearers of the Spirit, fellow sojourners with all those who seek to find life in the midst of a world bent upon death. I stand before you as one who wishes to find life.
The Second Sunday after the Epiphany Isaiah 62: 1 – 5
Sunday, January 20, 2013 I Corinthians 12: 1 – 11
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 2: 1 – 11
11Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.
John 2: 11
My five year old granddaughter, Naomi, and her three year old sister Miriam, recently had an argument. Naomi said fairies live up in the sky and Miriam was convinced that fairies live on earth. The argument was no doubt prompted by a fairy costume I had given to Miriam for her birthday. The costume came with wings and a wand. Miriam found the wings to be a bit of a nuisance but she loved the wand and went around gently touching the wand to whatever and whomever might befit from a touch of magic.
Where exactly fairies live was never resolved, as far as I know. But the argument did nothing to diminish Miriam’s fascination with her fairy wand. Miriam would wave her wand over her baby brother Matthew to make him stop crying, over the spinach on her dinner plate to make it disappear, and even at the window to stop the rain and make the sun come out so she could go out to play. The power of a fairy wand was not lost on Miriam even if the origin of that power was up for debate.
Even at the age of three, Miriam knows what a world filled with joy would like, and with her fairy wand, Miriam with great seriousness sought to put an end to the tears of her brother, food that did not taste good and dreary rainy days. One day Miriam will discover that her fairy wand is only plastic and cannot work miracles, but I hope that Miriam never loses her vision of a world made new.
The vision of a world made new is given to us this morning in our gospel reading from John. Jesus is at a wedding in Cana and transforms water into wine. A wedding feast is about to run amok because the wine has run out when Jesus turns six huge jars of water into the finest of wine. Not only is disaster averted but the wedding guests are treated to the finest the vineyards have to offer. Miriam, I believe would delight in this story. But the story has nothing to do with the magic of a fairy’s wand and everything to do with the person of Jesus, the agent of God’s transforming love for the world.
Recently, some colleagues and I were in conversation about this gospel reading in which Jesus transforms water into wine, when one man asked: “Do people really believe in miracles?” And that question launched a barrage of answers mostly academic about what constitutes a miracle. And I kept thinking about Miriam and her hope that her fairy wand would make all things right in her world. The word “miracle” is probably not in Miriam’s three year old vocabulary, but Miriam firmly believed that her fairy wand could transform her world into a more joyful place.
My colleague went on to tell us a story about a man who had suffered a heart attack in his car while stopped for a red light. Two sheriff deputies were in a car behind him, saw what was happening as the man’s car begin to slide slowly into the intersection and were able to give him CPR. Those deputies saved his life but the man was reluctant to call what had happened a miracle - good fortune, perhaps, but not an act of God.
To call what happened to that man a miracle would of course lead to the inevitable question of why God does not intercede whenever anyone suffers a sudden debilitating health crisis while driving. Why did God save this man and not others in similar circumstances? I can understand why that man was reluctant to call what had happened to him a miracle.
But then I wondered aloud if this man was grateful for what had happened and my colleague said without hesitation: “Absolutely!” And I began to wonder if a miracle is anything that happens to us for which we are grateful. Maybe what constitutes a miracle is not whether the events were orchestrated on earth or in heaven but rather how we respond to what happens to us, particularly those events that could have turned out differently. Maybe a miracle is anything that we expect to turn out badly but does not and leaves us expressing gratitude.
Just about everything in the life of a three year old is beyond their control. Perhaps the fairy wand gave Miriam the power to bring into being what she would like to have happen all the time - no crying baby brothers, no spinach and no rain. When Miriam’s baby brother Matthew is cooing and smiling and laughing, when Miriam gets grapes for dinner and not spinach, and when the sun comes out and she can go out to play, Miriam is happy. She knows that does not happen all the time and she is learning in small ways something about gratitude.
What Jesus does in our gospel reading is extraordinary and no one but the servants know what happened. The miracle, if you will, is lost on all except the servants who filled the jars with water and then drew some water out for the chief steward to taste. Only the “wait staff” know what has happened. And then the chief steward says to the bridegroom: “Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” The guests, in other words, are all drunk and beyond being able to appreciate what has been done. No one but the servants can even begin to appreciate what has happened. Miracles, it would seem, do not always get everyone’s attention.
A miracle for Miriam is not getting spinach for dinner. For that Miriam is grateful and if her fairy wand can wave away spinach when it comes, all the better. But more importantly is Miriam’s vision, her vision of a world in which the things she wishes would not happen do not happen. That vision comes from somewhere and I want to say it comes from God.
Our gospel reading today is a bit like Miriam’s fairy wand as Jesus suddenly transforms water into wine. And we are apt to ask if that really happened. If Matthew stopped crying when Miriam waved her wand over his head, was it because Miriam had worked a miracle or Matthew was distracted for a few moments? And does it matter? What I know is that when a fussy baby stops crying, the whole household is grateful.
Miriam would be grateful if her baby brother never cried, she never had to eat spinach and the sun always shined. And that is pretty much what Miriam wanted to make happen when she waved her fairy wand. You and I know we cannot simply wave a wand and make those things happen. But we also know that sometimes in this world wonderful things happen, sometimes what we did not expect really does happen. Sometimes water really does turn into wine. And when it does we are first grateful and perhaps only secondarily wondering about how it happened.
Not everything that happens in this world can be explained. And like falling in love, although we know from science that we are apt to fall in love with someone based on our personality, we also know that falling in love is much more mysterious than simply matching up personality profiles. Part of what moves us to fall in love is rooted in this world and in personality profiles; but there is much about falling in love that is rooted in God’s inscrutable grace.
Miriam and Naomi were both right as they argued about where fairies live. Miriam and Naomi were grasping after a truth that our evangelist John would applaud – that God is both in but not of, this world. For our evangelist John, God is the Word made flesh, both one with, but not the same as, this world. We can celebrate the transformation of water into wine at the wedding in Cana but we cannot understand how that came to pass. We can, along with the wedding guests, be grateful that the wine did not run out but we cannot say how that happened. We can celebrate the love between two people but we cannot unfold completely the mystery that brought them together. Some things we know and some things are beyond our knowing.
Jesus transforms water into wine this morning and we are given a vision and a conundrum. The vision is of a world or a wedding that is made new by an amazing unexpected gift of wine. The conundrum is how that happened. Miriam, bless her young heart, simply waved her wand. Miriam has no clue about science and miracles and how stuff happens. Miriam simply believes that the way things are not necessarily the way things ought to be. And Miriam believes she can change them. Good for her!
That we all might believe that the world as we know it can be different, but not so arrogant as to believe we know how to make that new world come into being is our prayer this morning. That we might be as grateful and glad as guests at a wedding feast who have suddenly discovered new wine after the wine has run out, we pray as well. That we may, with three year old Miriam, hold fast to a world made new, knowing fairy wands are not real. I pray that we may take to heart that God really and truly sent Godself in the person of Jesus to make the wine flow, all of us to dance, and everyone everywhere to know joy.
Sunday, January 20, 2013 I Corinthians 12: 1 – 11
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 2: 1 – 11
11Jesus did this, the first of his signs, in Cana of Galilee, and revealed his glory; and his disciples believed in him.
John 2: 11
My five year old granddaughter, Naomi, and her three year old sister Miriam, recently had an argument. Naomi said fairies live up in the sky and Miriam was convinced that fairies live on earth. The argument was no doubt prompted by a fairy costume I had given to Miriam for her birthday. The costume came with wings and a wand. Miriam found the wings to be a bit of a nuisance but she loved the wand and went around gently touching the wand to whatever and whomever might befit from a touch of magic.
Where exactly fairies live was never resolved, as far as I know. But the argument did nothing to diminish Miriam’s fascination with her fairy wand. Miriam would wave her wand over her baby brother Matthew to make him stop crying, over the spinach on her dinner plate to make it disappear, and even at the window to stop the rain and make the sun come out so she could go out to play. The power of a fairy wand was not lost on Miriam even if the origin of that power was up for debate.
Even at the age of three, Miriam knows what a world filled with joy would like, and with her fairy wand, Miriam with great seriousness sought to put an end to the tears of her brother, food that did not taste good and dreary rainy days. One day Miriam will discover that her fairy wand is only plastic and cannot work miracles, but I hope that Miriam never loses her vision of a world made new.
The vision of a world made new is given to us this morning in our gospel reading from John. Jesus is at a wedding in Cana and transforms water into wine. A wedding feast is about to run amok because the wine has run out when Jesus turns six huge jars of water into the finest of wine. Not only is disaster averted but the wedding guests are treated to the finest the vineyards have to offer. Miriam, I believe would delight in this story. But the story has nothing to do with the magic of a fairy’s wand and everything to do with the person of Jesus, the agent of God’s transforming love for the world.
Recently, some colleagues and I were in conversation about this gospel reading in which Jesus transforms water into wine, when one man asked: “Do people really believe in miracles?” And that question launched a barrage of answers mostly academic about what constitutes a miracle. And I kept thinking about Miriam and her hope that her fairy wand would make all things right in her world. The word “miracle” is probably not in Miriam’s three year old vocabulary, but Miriam firmly believed that her fairy wand could transform her world into a more joyful place.
My colleague went on to tell us a story about a man who had suffered a heart attack in his car while stopped for a red light. Two sheriff deputies were in a car behind him, saw what was happening as the man’s car begin to slide slowly into the intersection and were able to give him CPR. Those deputies saved his life but the man was reluctant to call what had happened a miracle - good fortune, perhaps, but not an act of God.
To call what happened to that man a miracle would of course lead to the inevitable question of why God does not intercede whenever anyone suffers a sudden debilitating health crisis while driving. Why did God save this man and not others in similar circumstances? I can understand why that man was reluctant to call what had happened to him a miracle.
But then I wondered aloud if this man was grateful for what had happened and my colleague said without hesitation: “Absolutely!” And I began to wonder if a miracle is anything that happens to us for which we are grateful. Maybe what constitutes a miracle is not whether the events were orchestrated on earth or in heaven but rather how we respond to what happens to us, particularly those events that could have turned out differently. Maybe a miracle is anything that we expect to turn out badly but does not and leaves us expressing gratitude.
Just about everything in the life of a three year old is beyond their control. Perhaps the fairy wand gave Miriam the power to bring into being what she would like to have happen all the time - no crying baby brothers, no spinach and no rain. When Miriam’s baby brother Matthew is cooing and smiling and laughing, when Miriam gets grapes for dinner and not spinach, and when the sun comes out and she can go out to play, Miriam is happy. She knows that does not happen all the time and she is learning in small ways something about gratitude.
What Jesus does in our gospel reading is extraordinary and no one but the servants know what happened. The miracle, if you will, is lost on all except the servants who filled the jars with water and then drew some water out for the chief steward to taste. Only the “wait staff” know what has happened. And then the chief steward says to the bridegroom: “Everyone serves the good wine first, and then the inferior wine after the guests have become drunk. But you have kept the good wine until now.” The guests, in other words, are all drunk and beyond being able to appreciate what has been done. No one but the servants can even begin to appreciate what has happened. Miracles, it would seem, do not always get everyone’s attention.
A miracle for Miriam is not getting spinach for dinner. For that Miriam is grateful and if her fairy wand can wave away spinach when it comes, all the better. But more importantly is Miriam’s vision, her vision of a world in which the things she wishes would not happen do not happen. That vision comes from somewhere and I want to say it comes from God.
Our gospel reading today is a bit like Miriam’s fairy wand as Jesus suddenly transforms water into wine. And we are apt to ask if that really happened. If Matthew stopped crying when Miriam waved her wand over his head, was it because Miriam had worked a miracle or Matthew was distracted for a few moments? And does it matter? What I know is that when a fussy baby stops crying, the whole household is grateful.
Miriam would be grateful if her baby brother never cried, she never had to eat spinach and the sun always shined. And that is pretty much what Miriam wanted to make happen when she waved her fairy wand. You and I know we cannot simply wave a wand and make those things happen. But we also know that sometimes in this world wonderful things happen, sometimes what we did not expect really does happen. Sometimes water really does turn into wine. And when it does we are first grateful and perhaps only secondarily wondering about how it happened.
Not everything that happens in this world can be explained. And like falling in love, although we know from science that we are apt to fall in love with someone based on our personality, we also know that falling in love is much more mysterious than simply matching up personality profiles. Part of what moves us to fall in love is rooted in this world and in personality profiles; but there is much about falling in love that is rooted in God’s inscrutable grace.
Miriam and Naomi were both right as they argued about where fairies live. Miriam and Naomi were grasping after a truth that our evangelist John would applaud – that God is both in but not of, this world. For our evangelist John, God is the Word made flesh, both one with, but not the same as, this world. We can celebrate the transformation of water into wine at the wedding in Cana but we cannot understand how that came to pass. We can, along with the wedding guests, be grateful that the wine did not run out but we cannot say how that happened. We can celebrate the love between two people but we cannot unfold completely the mystery that brought them together. Some things we know and some things are beyond our knowing.
Jesus transforms water into wine this morning and we are given a vision and a conundrum. The vision is of a world or a wedding that is made new by an amazing unexpected gift of wine. The conundrum is how that happened. Miriam, bless her young heart, simply waved her wand. Miriam has no clue about science and miracles and how stuff happens. Miriam simply believes that the way things are not necessarily the way things ought to be. And Miriam believes she can change them. Good for her!
That we all might believe that the world as we know it can be different, but not so arrogant as to believe we know how to make that new world come into being is our prayer this morning. That we might be as grateful and glad as guests at a wedding feast who have suddenly discovered new wine after the wine has run out, we pray as well. That we may, with three year old Miriam, hold fast to a world made new, knowing fairy wands are not real. I pray that we may take to heart that God really and truly sent Godself in the person of Jesus to make the wine flow, all of us to dance, and everyone everywhere to know joy.
The Third Sunday after the Epiphany Nehemiah 8: 1- 3. 5 – 6, 8 – 10
Sunday, January 27, 2013 I Corinthians 12: 12 – 31a
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 4: 14 – 21
‘The Spirit of the lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.’
Luke 4: 18 - 19
Jesus reveals, this morning in our gospel reading from Luke, that “the year of the Lord’s favor” has finally arrived. Reading words written by the prophet Isaiah, six hundred years earlier, Jesus proclaims that with the advent of this “year of the Lord’s favor,” the poor are given good news, the captives are released, the blind are given their sight and the oppressed are allowed to go free. For the poor, the captive, the blind and the oppressed, now is the time when God will bless them.
Jesus is reading in the synagogue, reading to faithful Jews who always knew they had been favored by God. God had freed then from slavery in Egypt, led them into a land flowing with milk and honey and given them a way of life to enable them to live in safety and security. For the Jews, God had given them their very lives – all that they were and all that they had. In remembrance of this God from whose hand they had received so many good things, the Jews did some strange things – like setting aside one day every week to worship and not work, one year every seven years for the land to lie fallow and to rest, and one year every forty-nine years for a year called the “Jubilee” year.
Every week the Hebrews celebrated the Sabbath. On the Sabbath all Hebrews refrained from work to remember the God who had brought them out of slavery in Egypt. On the Sabbath all Hebrews honored the God who after creating the world and everything in it, rested, taking delight in the work of God’s hand.
And then every seven years, the Hebrews celebrated a Sabbath year, a year in which the land rested, no one sowed and no one reaped. Everyone took from what the land left behind or offered up voluntarily. Every seventh year the land would lie fallow; the gleanings from the land would provide for the needs of the people. Every seventh year, the Hebrews remembered the land belonged to God.
And after seven Sabbath years – after forty-nine years – the Hebrews would celebrate the Jubilee Year. Every fifty years we read in Leviticus the land of the Hebrews would lie fallow, no one would sow nor reap. And in that year families would return to their ancestral homes including indentured slaves. Every fifty years, the Hebrews cancelled all debts and started over again, erasing all economic disparities between the people. The Jubilee year was a regular reminder that all that they had – the land and the wealth that came from it – was given to them by God. In the Jubilee year, the Jews remembered that God had favored them and they sought to favor one another, especially those who had fallen into debt and servitude.
The Jubilee Year was a Sabbath year - a time of rest for the land and the people - but the Jubilee Year was also a time of restoration – a time when disparities caused by economics were set to rights. The Jubilee year cleaned the slate, erasing the disparities that kept some of the people from enjoying Sabbath rest.
The Jubilee year was the year of the Lord’s favor, in the words of the prophet Isaiah. Good news for the poor, release for the captives, and freedom for the oppressed. We do not know if or how long the Jubilee year mandated in Leviticus was celebrated. What we do know is that this Jubilee year would have eliminated the accumulation of wealth, made the holding of private property practically impossible and wrecked havoc on most modern economic systems. Every fifty years, all debts were erased, all land holdings were returned to their original owners and everyone in Israel began with what God had given them at the beginning. Every fifty years, the clock was turned back. All of that was written into scripture to remind the Jews that all they had had come from God.
And now Jesus says: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” In Jesus’ ministry, the great year of Jubilee is coming to pass. The world is being renewed and restored and no one, least the poor and oppressed will be excluded.
Next Sunday, Annelizabeth Ferrigan and Alexis Kelleher are going to be confirmed. This morning they are going to tell us why. This morning we are going to hear why two bright and talented young women wish to live out their lives within this community of faith. I have journeyed with these young women for the past six months and we have talked about this God we worship and who we have come to know in Christ. We have talked about the demands of our faith and the hope of God that all might know the “favor of God.” And we have talked about ourselves, about how God created us to be, not like one another, but instruments nonetheless of God’s grace. I believe Annelizabeth and Alexis know that they have been favored by God and desire to show forth God’s favor on others.
Next Sunday, at our service of confirmation, we all will join with Annelizabeth and Alexis and affirm our faith in the words of the Nicene Creed and will follow that affirmation responding to five questions. Our time together these past six months has been structured by those five questions. One of those questions is: “Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?” When I asked the girls how they might do that, they first gave me a bit of a quizzical stare. But as we talked through what that question might mean, we settled on writing an essay and then delivering it in this parish, to all of you. If you think they are not a bit nervous, you are wrong. Claiming our faith in public is hugely hard. These girls want to make their baptismal promises their own and they are taking what I hope will be the first of many risks, in faith.
I am not a big believer in coincidences and when I realized that today’s gospel reading was about Jesus getting up in the synagogue for the first time and that today happened to be the day I had asked the girls to share their thoughts with all of you I was bemused and delighted. Today is a most fitting and appropriate day to hear from these latest confirmands. To Annelizabeth and Alexis, please know how grateful I am for the journey we have made together and for your desire to be confirmed. Know that that what you are doing today and will do next Sunday is a gift to all of us and “good news.” I am persuaded that as you continue on this adventure of faith, that you both will be as much of a blessing to others as you are for all of us today. We all say “thank you”.
Sunday, January 27, 2013 I Corinthians 12: 12 – 31a
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 4: 14 – 21
‘The Spirit of the lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.’
Luke 4: 18 - 19
Jesus reveals, this morning in our gospel reading from Luke, that “the year of the Lord’s favor” has finally arrived. Reading words written by the prophet Isaiah, six hundred years earlier, Jesus proclaims that with the advent of this “year of the Lord’s favor,” the poor are given good news, the captives are released, the blind are given their sight and the oppressed are allowed to go free. For the poor, the captive, the blind and the oppressed, now is the time when God will bless them.
Jesus is reading in the synagogue, reading to faithful Jews who always knew they had been favored by God. God had freed then from slavery in Egypt, led them into a land flowing with milk and honey and given them a way of life to enable them to live in safety and security. For the Jews, God had given them their very lives – all that they were and all that they had. In remembrance of this God from whose hand they had received so many good things, the Jews did some strange things – like setting aside one day every week to worship and not work, one year every seven years for the land to lie fallow and to rest, and one year every forty-nine years for a year called the “Jubilee” year.
Every week the Hebrews celebrated the Sabbath. On the Sabbath all Hebrews refrained from work to remember the God who had brought them out of slavery in Egypt. On the Sabbath all Hebrews honored the God who after creating the world and everything in it, rested, taking delight in the work of God’s hand.
And then every seven years, the Hebrews celebrated a Sabbath year, a year in which the land rested, no one sowed and no one reaped. Everyone took from what the land left behind or offered up voluntarily. Every seventh year the land would lie fallow; the gleanings from the land would provide for the needs of the people. Every seventh year, the Hebrews remembered the land belonged to God.
And after seven Sabbath years – after forty-nine years – the Hebrews would celebrate the Jubilee Year. Every fifty years we read in Leviticus the land of the Hebrews would lie fallow, no one would sow nor reap. And in that year families would return to their ancestral homes including indentured slaves. Every fifty years, the Hebrews cancelled all debts and started over again, erasing all economic disparities between the people. The Jubilee year was a regular reminder that all that they had – the land and the wealth that came from it – was given to them by God. In the Jubilee year, the Jews remembered that God had favored them and they sought to favor one another, especially those who had fallen into debt and servitude.
The Jubilee Year was a Sabbath year - a time of rest for the land and the people - but the Jubilee Year was also a time of restoration – a time when disparities caused by economics were set to rights. The Jubilee year cleaned the slate, erasing the disparities that kept some of the people from enjoying Sabbath rest.
The Jubilee year was the year of the Lord’s favor, in the words of the prophet Isaiah. Good news for the poor, release for the captives, and freedom for the oppressed. We do not know if or how long the Jubilee year mandated in Leviticus was celebrated. What we do know is that this Jubilee year would have eliminated the accumulation of wealth, made the holding of private property practically impossible and wrecked havoc on most modern economic systems. Every fifty years, all debts were erased, all land holdings were returned to their original owners and everyone in Israel began with what God had given them at the beginning. Every fifty years, the clock was turned back. All of that was written into scripture to remind the Jews that all they had had come from God.
And now Jesus says: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” In Jesus’ ministry, the great year of Jubilee is coming to pass. The world is being renewed and restored and no one, least the poor and oppressed will be excluded.
Next Sunday, Annelizabeth Ferrigan and Alexis Kelleher are going to be confirmed. This morning they are going to tell us why. This morning we are going to hear why two bright and talented young women wish to live out their lives within this community of faith. I have journeyed with these young women for the past six months and we have talked about this God we worship and who we have come to know in Christ. We have talked about the demands of our faith and the hope of God that all might know the “favor of God.” And we have talked about ourselves, about how God created us to be, not like one another, but instruments nonetheless of God’s grace. I believe Annelizabeth and Alexis know that they have been favored by God and desire to show forth God’s favor on others.
Next Sunday, at our service of confirmation, we all will join with Annelizabeth and Alexis and affirm our faith in the words of the Nicene Creed and will follow that affirmation responding to five questions. Our time together these past six months has been structured by those five questions. One of those questions is: “Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?” When I asked the girls how they might do that, they first gave me a bit of a quizzical stare. But as we talked through what that question might mean, we settled on writing an essay and then delivering it in this parish, to all of you. If you think they are not a bit nervous, you are wrong. Claiming our faith in public is hugely hard. These girls want to make their baptismal promises their own and they are taking what I hope will be the first of many risks, in faith.
I am not a big believer in coincidences and when I realized that today’s gospel reading was about Jesus getting up in the synagogue for the first time and that today happened to be the day I had asked the girls to share their thoughts with all of you I was bemused and delighted. Today is a most fitting and appropriate day to hear from these latest confirmands. To Annelizabeth and Alexis, please know how grateful I am for the journey we have made together and for your desire to be confirmed. Know that that what you are doing today and will do next Sunday is a gift to all of us and “good news.” I am persuaded that as you continue on this adventure of faith, that you both will be as much of a blessing to others as you are for all of us today. We all say “thank you”.
Last Sunday after The Epiphany Exodus 34: 29 -35
Sunday, February 10, 2013 2 Corinthians 3: 12 – 4: 2
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 9: 28 – 43a
Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus* took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray.
Luke 9: 28
The season of Epiphany comes to an end this morning as we hear the story of the Transfiguration, a moment when Peter, James and John, are overwhelmed by the glory of God. The disciples are on a mountain with Jesus, praying, when suddenly, “the appearance of Jesus’ face changed, and his clothes became a dazzling white.” Moses and Elijah appear as well, and after a cloud overshadows the frightened disciples, a voice from heaven proclaims the words we heard at Jesus’ baptism: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”
The account of the Transfiguration is a strange story, a mystical vision of Jesus transformed, radiant with the light of God. Peter, James and John are given a vision of the glory of God that is beyond anything we can understand. Nothing in our experience comes close to what Peter, James and John experience on the mountain this morning; about the only thing we can understand in this story is Peter’s predictable impetuosity in wanting to build three dwellings for Moses, Elijah and Jesus. Peter, as always, is reluctant to sit still before a mystery he cannot understand.
We can, accordingly, approach this story with skepticism or with awe and wonder.
If we approach the story of the Transfiguration with awe and wonder, we notice that Moses and Elijah are talking with Jesus. Moses, the great law giver, and Elijah, the great prophet, are talking with Jesus “about his departure,” a word in Greek meaning “exodus.” All of the law and all of the prophets were given to the people of Israel in response to the Exodus – that singular event in which God rescued an oppressed people from slavery in Egypt. The law and the prophets were gifts from God to God’s people meant to lead God’s people into a life of freedom. And now, Moses and Elijah are speaking with Jesus about Jesus’ exodus, Jesus’ death which Jesus “will accomplish at Jerusalem.”
At the heart of this mystical vision is the revelation of a new exodus, an exodus to be accomplished by Jesus on the cross.
The story of the Transfiguration, which we hear this morning from the gospel of Luke, is also narrated in the gospels of Matthew and Mark. In all three gospels the story of the Transfiguration follows Jesus’ first prediction that he going to suffer and die and be raised on the third day. Yet, even though Jesus tells the disciples three times that he is going to die, when the time comes, all of them are taken by surprise and in fear for their lives, abandon Jesus to his fate, including Peter, James and John who, this morning, are given a vision of a glorified Christ.
Three of Jesus’ closest disciples are overwhelmed by the glory of God but resist the necessity of the cross that stands between them and that glory.
This past Thursday, A.G. and I joined a very dear old friend as she buried her mother in South Dakota. Standing at the cemetery, a young woman who was a neighbor of my friend’s mother, declared: “Bad news always comes in three’s. This is the second funeral we’ve attended in a month. I can’t help but worry about what is going to happen next.” This woman’s husband is seriously ill and I had to wonder if she was not fearful that he might be the next to die.
In response, I said: “Yes, death does haunt us.” I did not say I do not believe that bad news always comes in three’s even though I remember my mother saying the same thing. What I know is that we are not immune from suffering and death and sometimes we are given more than we believe we can endure. Every now and again, we can be overwhelmed with grief and loss. Such overwhelming this morning is countered by another overwhelming, as Peter, James and John are overwhelmed by the glory of God. On their way to Jerusalem where the promised Messiah will die an agonizing death, long before anyone discovers the empty tomb on Easter morning, in the midst of the disciples’ continued misunderstanding of Jesus’ mission – Peter, James and John, and all of us, are given a vision, a blindingly mysterious vision of God’s glory.
And this vision of Jesus transfigured is the last reading we hear before we begin our journey through Lent beginning this coming Wednesday. On Wednesday evening we will celebrate the liturgy for Ash Wednesday, marking ourselves with ashes with the somber words: “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” Beginning on Wednesday, you and I will take a forty day journey into the reality of who we are as human beings – creatures destined for death yet created for life. We will remember all the many ways we have sought to escape the limits of our mortal nature, refusing to acknowledge our dependence upon God and God’s grace.
We make our journey through Lent not so that we all might be brought to despair but rather so that “we may show forth God’s glory in the world.” The glory of God overwhelms Peter, James and John this morning; they will be overwhelmed later with grief when Jesus dies; three days after that, they will be overwhelmed with joy. In between, they will falter, unable to do what Jesus has given them the power to do – to show forth the glory of God.
Like the disciples, we too will falter and fumble, often failing to show forth the glory of God, many times preferring to show forth our own goodness and greatness. Lent is a journey into humility as we consider what we mean when say “we are but dust and to dust we shall return.” We are “but dust”; we are not God.
On the other hand, God has chosen us to show forth God’s glory in this world, to proclaim and to live into the truth of the resurrection. We will, as the gospels all tell us, need to die to ourselves and dying to ourselves will be no easier for us than it was for those first disciples.
I often think that if I had had an experience like that of Peter, James and John, I could “act with great boldness,” in the words from Saint Paul in our reading from 2 Corinthians. Had I seen Jesus transformed, radiant in light and heard that voice from heaven, telling me: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” I sometimes think I could be fearless, heedless of the trials of this life. And I am comforted that immediately after receiving this vision, Peter, James and John come down from the mountain only to hear Jesus castigate them as a “faithless and perverse generation.” In spite of this mysterious and glorious vision, the disciples still did not get it right.
As I stood at the grave this week of my friend’s mother looking at the casket, the grave into which her body would be lowered and listened to the preacher say she had gone to be with the Lord, I wondered if the glory of the Lord which we so often claim in death is sometimes lost to us in life. We commend the dead into God’s hands; do we commend ourselves into God’s hand in life? Do we appropriate and appreciate the glory of God in this life or just hope that God will welcome us into heaven when we die?
We buried my friend’s mom in Deadwood, South Dakota. Deadwood, South Dakota, was an infamous town and came to be known as the burying ground of Wild Bill Hickock and Calamity Jane. When the state offered to legalize gambling in Deadwood, the state insisted that in return, Deadwood would make prostitution illegal. The prostitutes protested but gambling won out and prostitution was made illegal, at least on the books. Out of this venue came a remarkable woman, my dear friend and a woman who served as a chaplain at MCV for twenty-five years. I would not be here in this pulpit this day had it not been for her companionship.
I have had no visions but I have had companions. And everytime I go to Deadwood, which is not often, I am bemused by what God can do. My friend was one of the first women at Yale Divinity School to study pastoral care. Long before women were seen as acceptable ministers, Marlyne forged ahead, becoming ordained in the Church of Christ. From there, Marlyne was determined to shepherd others, me being one of them, into the mysteries of ministry.
On Thursday, following the graveside service, Marlyne and A.G. and I drove into the Black Hills. On all sides we were surrounded by steep cliffs. The movie Dancing with Wolves was filmed in those black hills. The scenery is beautiful but very rough. ‘Tis hard to appreciate how folk could live in that rough terrain. But folk did, notably the Indians which are no longer there. Marlyne says her Dad hunted and fished in those harsh environs.
Marlyne like me is not given to visions but for a moment we were all taken up into a landscape that is simply unimaginable and this after a day of great grief. The cliffs were there as they always had been, and Spearfish Creek was running wild and free, as always. We would soon part but the mysteries of God’s glory and grace would continue in those hills, unchanged for centuries, in the beauty of those black hills, in the love of neighbors one for another, and in the love of a daughter for her mom and dad, often tried, but never broken. On Thursday I had a glimpse of a world held firm by the hand of God, always changing but holding fast.
Sunday, February 10, 2013 2 Corinthians 3: 12 – 4: 2
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 9: 28 – 43a
Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus* took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray.
Luke 9: 28
The season of Epiphany comes to an end this morning as we hear the story of the Transfiguration, a moment when Peter, James and John, are overwhelmed by the glory of God. The disciples are on a mountain with Jesus, praying, when suddenly, “the appearance of Jesus’ face changed, and his clothes became a dazzling white.” Moses and Elijah appear as well, and after a cloud overshadows the frightened disciples, a voice from heaven proclaims the words we heard at Jesus’ baptism: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”
The account of the Transfiguration is a strange story, a mystical vision of Jesus transformed, radiant with the light of God. Peter, James and John are given a vision of the glory of God that is beyond anything we can understand. Nothing in our experience comes close to what Peter, James and John experience on the mountain this morning; about the only thing we can understand in this story is Peter’s predictable impetuosity in wanting to build three dwellings for Moses, Elijah and Jesus. Peter, as always, is reluctant to sit still before a mystery he cannot understand.
We can, accordingly, approach this story with skepticism or with awe and wonder.
If we approach the story of the Transfiguration with awe and wonder, we notice that Moses and Elijah are talking with Jesus. Moses, the great law giver, and Elijah, the great prophet, are talking with Jesus “about his departure,” a word in Greek meaning “exodus.” All of the law and all of the prophets were given to the people of Israel in response to the Exodus – that singular event in which God rescued an oppressed people from slavery in Egypt. The law and the prophets were gifts from God to God’s people meant to lead God’s people into a life of freedom. And now, Moses and Elijah are speaking with Jesus about Jesus’ exodus, Jesus’ death which Jesus “will accomplish at Jerusalem.”
At the heart of this mystical vision is the revelation of a new exodus, an exodus to be accomplished by Jesus on the cross.
The story of the Transfiguration, which we hear this morning from the gospel of Luke, is also narrated in the gospels of Matthew and Mark. In all three gospels the story of the Transfiguration follows Jesus’ first prediction that he going to suffer and die and be raised on the third day. Yet, even though Jesus tells the disciples three times that he is going to die, when the time comes, all of them are taken by surprise and in fear for their lives, abandon Jesus to his fate, including Peter, James and John who, this morning, are given a vision of a glorified Christ.
Three of Jesus’ closest disciples are overwhelmed by the glory of God but resist the necessity of the cross that stands between them and that glory.
This past Thursday, A.G. and I joined a very dear old friend as she buried her mother in South Dakota. Standing at the cemetery, a young woman who was a neighbor of my friend’s mother, declared: “Bad news always comes in three’s. This is the second funeral we’ve attended in a month. I can’t help but worry about what is going to happen next.” This woman’s husband is seriously ill and I had to wonder if she was not fearful that he might be the next to die.
In response, I said: “Yes, death does haunt us.” I did not say I do not believe that bad news always comes in three’s even though I remember my mother saying the same thing. What I know is that we are not immune from suffering and death and sometimes we are given more than we believe we can endure. Every now and again, we can be overwhelmed with grief and loss. Such overwhelming this morning is countered by another overwhelming, as Peter, James and John are overwhelmed by the glory of God. On their way to Jerusalem where the promised Messiah will die an agonizing death, long before anyone discovers the empty tomb on Easter morning, in the midst of the disciples’ continued misunderstanding of Jesus’ mission – Peter, James and John, and all of us, are given a vision, a blindingly mysterious vision of God’s glory.
And this vision of Jesus transfigured is the last reading we hear before we begin our journey through Lent beginning this coming Wednesday. On Wednesday evening we will celebrate the liturgy for Ash Wednesday, marking ourselves with ashes with the somber words: “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” Beginning on Wednesday, you and I will take a forty day journey into the reality of who we are as human beings – creatures destined for death yet created for life. We will remember all the many ways we have sought to escape the limits of our mortal nature, refusing to acknowledge our dependence upon God and God’s grace.
We make our journey through Lent not so that we all might be brought to despair but rather so that “we may show forth God’s glory in the world.” The glory of God overwhelms Peter, James and John this morning; they will be overwhelmed later with grief when Jesus dies; three days after that, they will be overwhelmed with joy. In between, they will falter, unable to do what Jesus has given them the power to do – to show forth the glory of God.
Like the disciples, we too will falter and fumble, often failing to show forth the glory of God, many times preferring to show forth our own goodness and greatness. Lent is a journey into humility as we consider what we mean when say “we are but dust and to dust we shall return.” We are “but dust”; we are not God.
On the other hand, God has chosen us to show forth God’s glory in this world, to proclaim and to live into the truth of the resurrection. We will, as the gospels all tell us, need to die to ourselves and dying to ourselves will be no easier for us than it was for those first disciples.
I often think that if I had had an experience like that of Peter, James and John, I could “act with great boldness,” in the words from Saint Paul in our reading from 2 Corinthians. Had I seen Jesus transformed, radiant in light and heard that voice from heaven, telling me: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” I sometimes think I could be fearless, heedless of the trials of this life. And I am comforted that immediately after receiving this vision, Peter, James and John come down from the mountain only to hear Jesus castigate them as a “faithless and perverse generation.” In spite of this mysterious and glorious vision, the disciples still did not get it right.
As I stood at the grave this week of my friend’s mother looking at the casket, the grave into which her body would be lowered and listened to the preacher say she had gone to be with the Lord, I wondered if the glory of the Lord which we so often claim in death is sometimes lost to us in life. We commend the dead into God’s hands; do we commend ourselves into God’s hand in life? Do we appropriate and appreciate the glory of God in this life or just hope that God will welcome us into heaven when we die?
We buried my friend’s mom in Deadwood, South Dakota. Deadwood, South Dakota, was an infamous town and came to be known as the burying ground of Wild Bill Hickock and Calamity Jane. When the state offered to legalize gambling in Deadwood, the state insisted that in return, Deadwood would make prostitution illegal. The prostitutes protested but gambling won out and prostitution was made illegal, at least on the books. Out of this venue came a remarkable woman, my dear friend and a woman who served as a chaplain at MCV for twenty-five years. I would not be here in this pulpit this day had it not been for her companionship.
I have had no visions but I have had companions. And everytime I go to Deadwood, which is not often, I am bemused by what God can do. My friend was one of the first women at Yale Divinity School to study pastoral care. Long before women were seen as acceptable ministers, Marlyne forged ahead, becoming ordained in the Church of Christ. From there, Marlyne was determined to shepherd others, me being one of them, into the mysteries of ministry.
On Thursday, following the graveside service, Marlyne and A.G. and I drove into the Black Hills. On all sides we were surrounded by steep cliffs. The movie Dancing with Wolves was filmed in those black hills. The scenery is beautiful but very rough. ‘Tis hard to appreciate how folk could live in that rough terrain. But folk did, notably the Indians which are no longer there. Marlyne says her Dad hunted and fished in those harsh environs.
Marlyne like me is not given to visions but for a moment we were all taken up into a landscape that is simply unimaginable and this after a day of great grief. The cliffs were there as they always had been, and Spearfish Creek was running wild and free, as always. We would soon part but the mysteries of God’s glory and grace would continue in those hills, unchanged for centuries, in the beauty of those black hills, in the love of neighbors one for another, and in the love of a daughter for her mom and dad, often tried, but never broken. On Thursday I had a glimpse of a world held firm by the hand of God, always changing but holding fast.
The First Sunday in Lent Deuteronomy 26: 1 – 11
Sunday, February 17, 2013 Romans 10: 8b – 13
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 4: 1 – 13
After his baptism, Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil.
Luke 4: 1
My son Andrew was three when he locked himself into the bathroom. I heard the door shut followed by an ominous “click.” “Andrew,” I asked at the door, “Are you in there?” “Yup,” came the reply. “What are you doing?” “Nothing,” Andrew answered. “Will you open the door?” “Nope.”
I could hear the cupboard doors under the sink opening and closing and began to do a mental review of what he might be discovering. Would he climb onto the vanity and explore the medicine cabinet, I wondered, as I dashed to the kitchen for a cookie. “Andrew,” I called again at the door, “Would you like a cookie?” slipping an Oreo under the door. Within seconds, Andrew had opened the door and was asking for another cookie. Never underestimate the power of temptation.
On this, the first Sunday in Lent, we hear the familiar story of Jesus’ temptations by the devil in the wilderness. This morning Jesus is tempted to turn stones into bread and he has not eaten for forty days; tempted to bring all the kingdoms of the world under his rule; and tempted to throw himself off the pinnacle of the Temple in Jerusalem, defying the law of gravity. All three times Jesus refuses.
Jesus’ adversary this morning is the devil. In the Bible, the devil is not the hideous creature dressed in red with a long tail, horns and a pitchfork, which we have inherited from the Middle Ages. In the Bible, the devil works for God, trying the souls of folk to see whether they love God above all else. With apologies to Tony Spencer, in the Bible, the devil is God’s prosecuting attorney.
Jesus has just been baptized and heard a voice from heaven proclaim: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” And now this morning immediately after his baptism, Jesus is led into the desert to be tempted – tried would be a better word. Jesus has been ordained the Son of God and now the devil wants to know how Jesus will live into that identity. Will Jesus exercise his ministry within the limits of his human being or transgress the bounds of his humanity?
Jesus has not eaten for forty days and Jesus is hungry – surely God does not want his Beloved Son to die of starvation. “Command this stone to become a loaf of bread,” the devil tempts. Jesus is not the only one in the world to be hungry; Jesus could have used his power to eradicate hunger from the earth. And Jesus refuses.
Jesus is the one with whom God is well pleased – surely God wants the kingdoms of the world to be ruled by him. “To you I will give all the authority over all the kingdoms of the world,” the devil offers. All Jesus has to do is bow down before the devil and Jesus could usher in God’s kingdom, a world of justice and peace, without another word and without the cross. And Jesus refuses.
And finally, if Jesus is the beloved of God, would not an overwhelming miracle convince everyone of that truth? “Throw yourself off the Temple,” the devil says. Defy the law of gravity and everyone will come and worship you.
Three times the devil tempts Jesus and three times Jesus refuses to take the bait. Remember the story of the Garden of Eden? The snake only had to invite Eve once to take the apple and be like God and Eve succumbed. Jesus is not Eve. Indeed, Jesus is not unlike anyone of us. Jesus is the one who was in the words of the letter of Hebrews “tempted as one of us, but did not sin.”
“If anyone is having trouble believing that Jesus was really tempted, then he or she needs to keep in mind that temptation is an indication of strength, not of weakness,” writes theologian Fred Craddock. “We are not tempted to do what we cannot do but what is within our power.” Eve could be tempted because God gave Eve the freedom to agree with the snake. Jesus could be tempted because Jesus knew he was the Beloved of God.
What the devil was offering Jesus was a way to do good in the world and right away. Turn these stones into bread and eat because God needs you. Take charge of the kingdoms of the world because you are God’s ordained Son. And if you defy the law of gravity, no one will dispute your greatness. Jesus could have done amazing things had he accepted the challenge of the devil. But Jesus refused.
Jesus could have said “Yes” and had Jesus said “Yes” Jesus could have accomplished his mission fairly smoothly and certainly without the blood that was shed on the cross. But Jesus refused.
What the devil offers Jesus this morning is not a choice between doing something good and something evil, but rather a choice between being human and being God. Jesus chose to be human.
This past Wednesday, on Ash Wednesday, some of us gathered to mark ourselves with ashes and hear the sobering words: “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” This past Wednesday, the first day of Lent, we remembered we are, for better and for worse, mortal and not God. Afterwards we prayed a long litany of penitence, similar to the litany with which we opened the service this morning, confessing our pride, hypocrisy, impatience, self-indulgent ways, anger, envy, love of comfort, dishonesty and our failure to commend the hope within us. This past Wednesday evening, like this morning, we confessed our humanity, a mixed bag of wanting to do God’s will and wanting to satisfy “the devices and desires of our own hearts,” in the words of the prayer book.
Being human is a good thing, God tells us. We humans, are made in the likeness of God and given dominion over the non-human creation, the plants and the animals. We can take pride in our humanity. We can take pride that we are creatures who can think and reason and want to make sense of this world in which we live. We have a singular calling and we are not to demean the creatures God created us to be. We can do more than just live by instinct with only a desire to survive – we can sing and paint and write and dream.
On the other hand, we are not God. After Bishop Lee voted for the consecration of Gene Robinson as a bishop in the church in 2003, Bishop Lee held a number of public forums. I attended one that was held in Alexandria. The meeting was tense and fraught with folk who thought Bishop Lee was the devil incarnate. And Bishop Lee made a comment I will remember for the rest of my life: “You know,” Bishop Lee responded to his accusers, “We both could be wrong.”
Knowing we are graced and gifted and made in the image of God is a part of who we are as human beings; knowing we can be wrong is also a part of what it means to be human. “What are human beings, the psalmist asks, “that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?” “You have made them a little lower than God, and crowned them with glory and honor.” We are made in the image of God but we are not God. Jesus was tempted and tried as we all are, but Jesus insisted on being human, truly human, obedient to God in all things, assured that his Father loved him. Jesus trusted that God would give him bread to eat, bring all kingdoms under his rule, and display God’s power. And God did, but not before Jesus knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane praying, “Father, let this cup pass from me.”
Jesus could have chosen a different way and the devil this morning tempts him to do so. The devil’s way would have avoided a whole lot of pain and heartache, but Jesus refuses. Jesus chose the way of God, a way of suffering and death. That way led to an empty tomb and resurrection life.
Jesus chose not to save himself, and we who follow this Lord, will be tempted over and over again to become our own saviors, tempted to privilege our wills and ways over those of others. In thought, word and deed, we will be tempted to show forth our glory rather than the glory of God. May this Lent, be for all of us, a time of self-examination and prayer, toward the end that we, and the whole world, may know the gift of life, life abundant and life forevermore.
Sunday, February 17, 2013 Romans 10: 8b – 13
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 4: 1 – 13
After his baptism, Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil.
Luke 4: 1
My son Andrew was three when he locked himself into the bathroom. I heard the door shut followed by an ominous “click.” “Andrew,” I asked at the door, “Are you in there?” “Yup,” came the reply. “What are you doing?” “Nothing,” Andrew answered. “Will you open the door?” “Nope.”
I could hear the cupboard doors under the sink opening and closing and began to do a mental review of what he might be discovering. Would he climb onto the vanity and explore the medicine cabinet, I wondered, as I dashed to the kitchen for a cookie. “Andrew,” I called again at the door, “Would you like a cookie?” slipping an Oreo under the door. Within seconds, Andrew had opened the door and was asking for another cookie. Never underestimate the power of temptation.
On this, the first Sunday in Lent, we hear the familiar story of Jesus’ temptations by the devil in the wilderness. This morning Jesus is tempted to turn stones into bread and he has not eaten for forty days; tempted to bring all the kingdoms of the world under his rule; and tempted to throw himself off the pinnacle of the Temple in Jerusalem, defying the law of gravity. All three times Jesus refuses.
Jesus’ adversary this morning is the devil. In the Bible, the devil is not the hideous creature dressed in red with a long tail, horns and a pitchfork, which we have inherited from the Middle Ages. In the Bible, the devil works for God, trying the souls of folk to see whether they love God above all else. With apologies to Tony Spencer, in the Bible, the devil is God’s prosecuting attorney.
Jesus has just been baptized and heard a voice from heaven proclaim: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” And now this morning immediately after his baptism, Jesus is led into the desert to be tempted – tried would be a better word. Jesus has been ordained the Son of God and now the devil wants to know how Jesus will live into that identity. Will Jesus exercise his ministry within the limits of his human being or transgress the bounds of his humanity?
Jesus has not eaten for forty days and Jesus is hungry – surely God does not want his Beloved Son to die of starvation. “Command this stone to become a loaf of bread,” the devil tempts. Jesus is not the only one in the world to be hungry; Jesus could have used his power to eradicate hunger from the earth. And Jesus refuses.
Jesus is the one with whom God is well pleased – surely God wants the kingdoms of the world to be ruled by him. “To you I will give all the authority over all the kingdoms of the world,” the devil offers. All Jesus has to do is bow down before the devil and Jesus could usher in God’s kingdom, a world of justice and peace, without another word and without the cross. And Jesus refuses.
And finally, if Jesus is the beloved of God, would not an overwhelming miracle convince everyone of that truth? “Throw yourself off the Temple,” the devil says. Defy the law of gravity and everyone will come and worship you.
Three times the devil tempts Jesus and three times Jesus refuses to take the bait. Remember the story of the Garden of Eden? The snake only had to invite Eve once to take the apple and be like God and Eve succumbed. Jesus is not Eve. Indeed, Jesus is not unlike anyone of us. Jesus is the one who was in the words of the letter of Hebrews “tempted as one of us, but did not sin.”
“If anyone is having trouble believing that Jesus was really tempted, then he or she needs to keep in mind that temptation is an indication of strength, not of weakness,” writes theologian Fred Craddock. “We are not tempted to do what we cannot do but what is within our power.” Eve could be tempted because God gave Eve the freedom to agree with the snake. Jesus could be tempted because Jesus knew he was the Beloved of God.
What the devil was offering Jesus was a way to do good in the world and right away. Turn these stones into bread and eat because God needs you. Take charge of the kingdoms of the world because you are God’s ordained Son. And if you defy the law of gravity, no one will dispute your greatness. Jesus could have done amazing things had he accepted the challenge of the devil. But Jesus refused.
Jesus could have said “Yes” and had Jesus said “Yes” Jesus could have accomplished his mission fairly smoothly and certainly without the blood that was shed on the cross. But Jesus refused.
What the devil offers Jesus this morning is not a choice between doing something good and something evil, but rather a choice between being human and being God. Jesus chose to be human.
This past Wednesday, on Ash Wednesday, some of us gathered to mark ourselves with ashes and hear the sobering words: “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” This past Wednesday, the first day of Lent, we remembered we are, for better and for worse, mortal and not God. Afterwards we prayed a long litany of penitence, similar to the litany with which we opened the service this morning, confessing our pride, hypocrisy, impatience, self-indulgent ways, anger, envy, love of comfort, dishonesty and our failure to commend the hope within us. This past Wednesday evening, like this morning, we confessed our humanity, a mixed bag of wanting to do God’s will and wanting to satisfy “the devices and desires of our own hearts,” in the words of the prayer book.
Being human is a good thing, God tells us. We humans, are made in the likeness of God and given dominion over the non-human creation, the plants and the animals. We can take pride in our humanity. We can take pride that we are creatures who can think and reason and want to make sense of this world in which we live. We have a singular calling and we are not to demean the creatures God created us to be. We can do more than just live by instinct with only a desire to survive – we can sing and paint and write and dream.
On the other hand, we are not God. After Bishop Lee voted for the consecration of Gene Robinson as a bishop in the church in 2003, Bishop Lee held a number of public forums. I attended one that was held in Alexandria. The meeting was tense and fraught with folk who thought Bishop Lee was the devil incarnate. And Bishop Lee made a comment I will remember for the rest of my life: “You know,” Bishop Lee responded to his accusers, “We both could be wrong.”
Knowing we are graced and gifted and made in the image of God is a part of who we are as human beings; knowing we can be wrong is also a part of what it means to be human. “What are human beings, the psalmist asks, “that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?” “You have made them a little lower than God, and crowned them with glory and honor.” We are made in the image of God but we are not God. Jesus was tempted and tried as we all are, but Jesus insisted on being human, truly human, obedient to God in all things, assured that his Father loved him. Jesus trusted that God would give him bread to eat, bring all kingdoms under his rule, and display God’s power. And God did, but not before Jesus knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane praying, “Father, let this cup pass from me.”
Jesus could have chosen a different way and the devil this morning tempts him to do so. The devil’s way would have avoided a whole lot of pain and heartache, but Jesus refuses. Jesus chose the way of God, a way of suffering and death. That way led to an empty tomb and resurrection life.
Jesus chose not to save himself, and we who follow this Lord, will be tempted over and over again to become our own saviors, tempted to privilege our wills and ways over those of others. In thought, word and deed, we will be tempted to show forth our glory rather than the glory of God. May this Lent, be for all of us, a time of self-examination and prayer, toward the end that we, and the whole world, may know the gift of life, life abundant and life forevermore.
The Third Sunday in Lent Exodus 3:1 -15
Sunday, March 3, 2013 I Corinthians 10: 1 – 13
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 13: 1 -9
Moses was keeping the flock of his father-in-law Jethro, the priest of Midian; he led his flock beyond the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God.
Exodus 3: 1
Moses encounters a burning bush this morning and when he stops to look, he comes away with a mission and a name for God. At the burning bush, Moses is called by God to go into Egypt and lead the Israelites out of slavery into freedom. And when Moses wants to know who this God is that is sending him off on this daring mission, God tells Moses “I am who I am.”
“Who are you?” Moses asks God and Moses wants to know before Moses risks his life on behalf of a bunch of slaves. “I am who I am,” God says. And from that day to this, no one is quite sure what God meant.
“I am who I am” is just one of many ways scholars have translated a very unusual Hebrew word. The Hebrew word “Yahweh” is a play on the verb “to be” and says only that God is. Nothing more about God is revealed in this name except that God is and God will be. God gives Moses God’s name but the name God gives to Moses reveals only that this God is the God who shows up.
“I am who I am” is probably not the way most of us think about God. When we think about God, we want to say more than “God is;” we want to say that God is good or just or merciful or that God is love. But what is revealed to Moses this day is not that God is love but that God is present. Who this God is that is present is yet to be revealed. Only after Moses and the Israelites begin their journey with this God who is present will they come to know something of the character of God. For now, all Moses knows is that God will be with him.
I suspect Moses would have liked to know a little bit more about God before confronting the Pharoah of Egypt! What Moses discovers in his confrontation with Pharoah is that God does show up – hardening Pharoah’s heart so that he refuses to free the slaves, visiting ten plagues upon Egypt and finally parting the Red Sea. The Israelites came to know God as their deliverer; the Egyptians came to know this God as their judge.
The story of the Exodus is the singularly most important story for the people who came to be known as Israel. In the Exodus, a band of poor oppressed slaves living in Egypt under Pharoah was miraculously set free. Moses was instrumental but these people always knew that Moses was not wholly responsible for doing the impossible. Like the burning bush, the Exodus was an act of God who, as we hear this morning, observed the misery of God’s people, heard their cries, knew their sufferings and determined to rescue them. This God, known to them as Yahweh, was a God who saves. Yahweh was not the God of the philosophers who caused all things to be, but then stepped back to exist in silent splendor. Yahweh was a God who desired to be with and for the people of Israel. In the Exodus this people came to know a God who wanted these people to be free.
Reading the Old Testament is not easy and for those who have, many of the stories challenge the way we think about God and God’s ways. The burning bush is a good example. Moses sees a bush on fire but that is not consumed and Moses turns aside to take a look. We want to know how a bush can be in flames but not incinerated. Moses did, too, which is why he stopped to look. But the burning bush simply serves to get Moses’ attention. The burning bush gets Moses to turn aside from tending his flocks, a little like a doorbell prompts us to leave what we are doing and open the door. If we get too hung up on the burning bush we will miss the whole point – God wants Moses’ attention and God got it.
Later, in the story of the Exodus we hear how the waters of the Nile were turned to blood; frogs, knats, flies and locusts swarmed over the land; boils festered on the Egyptians; and finally all the firstborn in Egypt died. How all these plagues took place is less important than the reality that in the end Pharoah agreed to free the Israelites. God wanted the attention of the Egyptians and God got it.
What we find in the Old Testament is a testament to a God we do not know but who reveals Godself to us in and through the history of the people of Israel. And for Israel, this God was always a God who saves and delivers his people. Israel never forgot the story of the Exodus and the God who brought them out of slavery into freedom.
For Israel, knowing God was dependent upon loving God. Only by loving God with their whole heart, mind, and strength would Israel come to know something about this God whose works and ways were often mysterious and always beyond their control. Israel’s history is fraught with con men and cheats, unjust kings and horrific violence. Israel’s history is not always pretty and over and over again we are challenged by the God we meet in the Old Testament. God does not always act the way we want God to act.
But God does act, showing up in the events of our everyday lives, in the people we meet and the circumstances we face. And this God who shows up is always acting to save us, to deliver us, to redeem us. This God is the God we meet in Jesus whose whole life was spent so that, in the words of the gospel of John, “we might not perish but have everlasting life.”
In this season of Lent as we contemplate all the many ways we have grieved the heart of God by what we have done and by what we have left undone, let us not forget all the many ways God has showed up in our lives, acting to save us. As we remember our unfaithfulness, let us also remember God’s faithfulness. Throughout the centuries, Israel would look back upon the Exodus as the defining act of God, the act through which they came to know God as their deliverer. In times of exile and heartbreak, Israel would look back and remember what God had done. And we, especially at those times when our world seems out of control, need to remember those times when God has showed up, blessing us in ways we never could have orchestrated on our own.
Most of us, I daresay, do not encounter burning bushes as did Moses. But if you have ever been loved or forgiven by someone you have hurt or heard the sound of a child laughing or enjoyed the company of a good friend, God has showed up. God shows up far more often than most of us are willing to acknowledge. We may wish that God would come among us with all the drama of a burning bush and with signs and wonders we could not help but see. Seeing God’s hand in the ordinary day to day reality of our lives – lives punctuated by both joy and sorrow – is not always easy.
What Israel knew was that their very existence as a people was determined by the Exodus and the grace of God who brought them out of slavery and into freedom. The Exodus marked the beginning of a relationship, a relationship initiated by God who chose Israel to be God’s people and who promised to be with them. Israel did not always choose to be with God but God always was with Israel.
And always with us. We may not always understand what God is up to and may wonder if indeed God is around at all. We may wish that God would do this or that – like take away our troubles and replace them with good things – but God, the last time I checked, has not asked for our advice about running the universe. What God wants is to be God for us. God does not need us to be God; God can do that without any help from us. What God wants is to be with us and for us, and through us to show forth God’s glory in this world.
You and I cannot show forth what we have not seen. If we have not seen the glory of God at work in our own lives, have never experienced the power of God at work within us, in the words of Saint Paul, “doing infinitely more than we can ask or imagine,” we will have no good news to share and not much to say to a world convicted of its own righteousness and power.
“Remove the sandals from your feet,” God commands Moses, “for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.” When have you stood on holy ground? And when you did stand on holy ground, did you remember to take off your shoes and give thanks to God?
Sunday, March 3, 2013 I Corinthians 10: 1 – 13
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 13: 1 -9
Moses was keeping the flock of his father-in-law Jethro, the priest of Midian; he led his flock beyond the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God.
Exodus 3: 1
Moses encounters a burning bush this morning and when he stops to look, he comes away with a mission and a name for God. At the burning bush, Moses is called by God to go into Egypt and lead the Israelites out of slavery into freedom. And when Moses wants to know who this God is that is sending him off on this daring mission, God tells Moses “I am who I am.”
“Who are you?” Moses asks God and Moses wants to know before Moses risks his life on behalf of a bunch of slaves. “I am who I am,” God says. And from that day to this, no one is quite sure what God meant.
“I am who I am” is just one of many ways scholars have translated a very unusual Hebrew word. The Hebrew word “Yahweh” is a play on the verb “to be” and says only that God is. Nothing more about God is revealed in this name except that God is and God will be. God gives Moses God’s name but the name God gives to Moses reveals only that this God is the God who shows up.
“I am who I am” is probably not the way most of us think about God. When we think about God, we want to say more than “God is;” we want to say that God is good or just or merciful or that God is love. But what is revealed to Moses this day is not that God is love but that God is present. Who this God is that is present is yet to be revealed. Only after Moses and the Israelites begin their journey with this God who is present will they come to know something of the character of God. For now, all Moses knows is that God will be with him.
I suspect Moses would have liked to know a little bit more about God before confronting the Pharoah of Egypt! What Moses discovers in his confrontation with Pharoah is that God does show up – hardening Pharoah’s heart so that he refuses to free the slaves, visiting ten plagues upon Egypt and finally parting the Red Sea. The Israelites came to know God as their deliverer; the Egyptians came to know this God as their judge.
The story of the Exodus is the singularly most important story for the people who came to be known as Israel. In the Exodus, a band of poor oppressed slaves living in Egypt under Pharoah was miraculously set free. Moses was instrumental but these people always knew that Moses was not wholly responsible for doing the impossible. Like the burning bush, the Exodus was an act of God who, as we hear this morning, observed the misery of God’s people, heard their cries, knew their sufferings and determined to rescue them. This God, known to them as Yahweh, was a God who saves. Yahweh was not the God of the philosophers who caused all things to be, but then stepped back to exist in silent splendor. Yahweh was a God who desired to be with and for the people of Israel. In the Exodus this people came to know a God who wanted these people to be free.
Reading the Old Testament is not easy and for those who have, many of the stories challenge the way we think about God and God’s ways. The burning bush is a good example. Moses sees a bush on fire but that is not consumed and Moses turns aside to take a look. We want to know how a bush can be in flames but not incinerated. Moses did, too, which is why he stopped to look. But the burning bush simply serves to get Moses’ attention. The burning bush gets Moses to turn aside from tending his flocks, a little like a doorbell prompts us to leave what we are doing and open the door. If we get too hung up on the burning bush we will miss the whole point – God wants Moses’ attention and God got it.
Later, in the story of the Exodus we hear how the waters of the Nile were turned to blood; frogs, knats, flies and locusts swarmed over the land; boils festered on the Egyptians; and finally all the firstborn in Egypt died. How all these plagues took place is less important than the reality that in the end Pharoah agreed to free the Israelites. God wanted the attention of the Egyptians and God got it.
What we find in the Old Testament is a testament to a God we do not know but who reveals Godself to us in and through the history of the people of Israel. And for Israel, this God was always a God who saves and delivers his people. Israel never forgot the story of the Exodus and the God who brought them out of slavery into freedom.
For Israel, knowing God was dependent upon loving God. Only by loving God with their whole heart, mind, and strength would Israel come to know something about this God whose works and ways were often mysterious and always beyond their control. Israel’s history is fraught with con men and cheats, unjust kings and horrific violence. Israel’s history is not always pretty and over and over again we are challenged by the God we meet in the Old Testament. God does not always act the way we want God to act.
But God does act, showing up in the events of our everyday lives, in the people we meet and the circumstances we face. And this God who shows up is always acting to save us, to deliver us, to redeem us. This God is the God we meet in Jesus whose whole life was spent so that, in the words of the gospel of John, “we might not perish but have everlasting life.”
In this season of Lent as we contemplate all the many ways we have grieved the heart of God by what we have done and by what we have left undone, let us not forget all the many ways God has showed up in our lives, acting to save us. As we remember our unfaithfulness, let us also remember God’s faithfulness. Throughout the centuries, Israel would look back upon the Exodus as the defining act of God, the act through which they came to know God as their deliverer. In times of exile and heartbreak, Israel would look back and remember what God had done. And we, especially at those times when our world seems out of control, need to remember those times when God has showed up, blessing us in ways we never could have orchestrated on our own.
Most of us, I daresay, do not encounter burning bushes as did Moses. But if you have ever been loved or forgiven by someone you have hurt or heard the sound of a child laughing or enjoyed the company of a good friend, God has showed up. God shows up far more often than most of us are willing to acknowledge. We may wish that God would come among us with all the drama of a burning bush and with signs and wonders we could not help but see. Seeing God’s hand in the ordinary day to day reality of our lives – lives punctuated by both joy and sorrow – is not always easy.
What Israel knew was that their very existence as a people was determined by the Exodus and the grace of God who brought them out of slavery and into freedom. The Exodus marked the beginning of a relationship, a relationship initiated by God who chose Israel to be God’s people and who promised to be with them. Israel did not always choose to be with God but God always was with Israel.
And always with us. We may not always understand what God is up to and may wonder if indeed God is around at all. We may wish that God would do this or that – like take away our troubles and replace them with good things – but God, the last time I checked, has not asked for our advice about running the universe. What God wants is to be God for us. God does not need us to be God; God can do that without any help from us. What God wants is to be with us and for us, and through us to show forth God’s glory in this world.
You and I cannot show forth what we have not seen. If we have not seen the glory of God at work in our own lives, have never experienced the power of God at work within us, in the words of Saint Paul, “doing infinitely more than we can ask or imagine,” we will have no good news to share and not much to say to a world convicted of its own righteousness and power.
“Remove the sandals from your feet,” God commands Moses, “for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.” When have you stood on holy ground? And when you did stand on holy ground, did you remember to take off your shoes and give thanks to God?
The Fourth Sunday in Lent Joshua 5: 9 – 12
Sunday, March 10, 2013 2 Corinthians 5: 16 – 21
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 15: 1 – 3, 11b – 32
“And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; 24for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” And they began to celebrate.”
Luke 15: 23 - 24
Many years ago, A.G. worked in a stone quarry. The quarry was invisible from the main road and the entrance was marked by a modest sign noting the name of the quarry and the address. One year on his birthday, the kids and I took an old bed sheet and on it, painted: “Happy Birthday, A.G.” in big red letters. The night before his birthday we took the sheet down to the quarry and hung it over the sign at the entrance. A.G. always got to work before the sun came up so we knew he would not see the sign until after the news of his birthday had been leaked to those coming to the quarry in the daylight.
What we did not know was that on that day, A.G. was expecting a very large and expensive piece of machinery that was being hauled to the quarry from the Midwest. The load required special permits and the route had been planned meticulously. But because the sign was covered with a bed sheet, the driver missed the quarry entrance, causing confusion, a good bit of consternation and lost time. The kids and I were delighted by what we had done until we learned of the chaos we had caused!
This morning we hear the parable of the prodigal son from the gospel of Luke. A young son squanders his fortune and is reduced to poverty, decides to go home and apologize to his father who throws his arms around him and rejoices that his prodigal son has come home. And all this happens in the shadow of a frowning and angry older brother who never left home in the first place.
And we rejoice that God must be like this father who welcomes his erring son home knowing we have all “sinned against God in thought, word, and deed,” as we say in our confession. The story of the prodigal son is comforting, giving us hope that we, like the prodigal son, will be welcomed by God when we ask God to forgive us “for those things we have done and for those things we have left undone.”
But there is a surprise in this story that we are apt to gloss over and that is the party the father throws in celebration for the return of his son. Upon the return of the prodigal son, the father gives his son a robe and a ring and a party. The robe and the ring were signs that this prodigal son had been re-instated into the family, made once more an inheritor of his father’s property. This prodigal son had turned his back on his family when he left, taking his share of his inheritance with him, never intending to return. And now, the father gives him a robe and a ring, all signs that the father has accepted him back into the family, in spite of what has happened.
The father is acting in accord with a long Judeo Christian tradition that bids us to forgive one another, restoring the penitent to full communion within the fellowship of faith. The father gives his prodigal son a robe and a ring as signs of his forgiveness, and the restoration of a relationship that had been broken.
But then the father calls for a fatted calf, saying: “And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; 24for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” And they began to celebrate.” The father gives this prodigal son a party. The robe and the ring are not enough for this father who now calls for music and dancing and a great celebration.
“Of course, let the younger son return home,” writes theologian Fred Craddock.
Judaism and Christianity have clear provisions for the restoration of the penitent returnee, but where does it say that such provisions include a banquet with music and dancing? Yes, let the prodigal return, but to bread and water, not fatted calf; in sackcloth, not a new robe; wearing ashes, not a new ring; in tears, not in merriment; kneeling, not dancing.
Is not a party a bit inappropriate under the circumstances? Imagine if your seventeen year old daughter crashed the car, acknowledged she was wrong to be texting at the time and that she is sorry. You call your insurance agent to straighten things out and you talk with your daughter about what she did wrong. You may or may not buy your daughter a new car. But would you ever consider throwing her a party?
Throwing a party is, in my mind, rewarding bad behavior. Bad behavior needs to be condemned not condoned and throwing a party sounds awfully close to giving permission for bad behaviors to continue.
And it is the party which gets the older brother’s attention. Without the party, and the music and the dancing, the older brother may not have been so angry. But when the older brother heard the music and saw the dancing he refused to go in. That his father had restored his profligate brother to the good graces of the family was one thing; the party, though, was outrageous.
And wholly undeserved. The prodigal son had squandered a fortune, left his older brother to work the family farm by himself and, in all likelihood, the prodigal son would repeat his irresponsible behavior in the future. The older brother is the one who deserves a party, a party to celebrate his responsibility, his maturity, his unselfish long suffering behavior.
In the story of the prodigal son, we meet a father who behaves in a way that exceeds our sense of justice and fairness. When the prodigal son comes to his senses and acknowledges his guilt, the father forgives him, offering him a place, once more, within the family. The father acts justly when he honors his son’s remorse. But when the father kills the fatted calf and throws a party, justice is exceeded and our sense of fairness is offended, as we take our place alongside the angry law-abiding dutiful older brother. We might say that from our perspective, the prodigal son deserves to be forgiven if he is sorry, but the prodigal son in no way deserves a party.
What the father does in this wonderful parable is exhibit not just forgiveness, but grace, a free and wholly undeserved gift when he throws a party for his prodigal son. Martin Luther, the great Protestant reformer, said we are saved by grace through faith. Luther’s insight was based upon his reading of the letters of Paul, and came at a time in the Church when some folk were deemed “more worthy” than others – bishops, priests, monks and nuns were understood to be “holier” than the local bread baker. For Luther, no one of us can do anything to earn any merit before God. We are saved by the grace of God and not by our “good deeds” whatever they may be.
But like the older brother in this parable, we can, from time to time, feel privileged by our good deeds and good ideas and good opinions, awarding to ourselves “merit points” for good behavior. Rather than celebrate the grace of God who has called us all together to this place at this time, we can be tempted to celebrate ourselves. The older brother in our parable was responsible and righteous and dutiful. The older brother was already “good” in the eyes of his father. All the older brother had to do was join the party. All the older brother had to do was celebrate, to dance and to sing. And the older brother hesitates and we never discover if he joins the party or chooses to stay outside.
The Catholic Church has been front page news recently with the resignation of Pope Benedict. As the cardinals of the Catholic Church are assembling in Rome, new allegations of sexual abuse are surfacing and new concerns around protecting the privacy of the cardinals and their deliberations is frustrating those among us who “want to know.” New Hanover Presbyterian Church on 301, just south of here, has also been besieged as some members want to split from the Presbytery of the James. The Presbytery of the James is under attack for being too liberal in the eyes of some.
What is very clear is that the church, both our Protestant and Catholic brothers and sisters, is struggling. And we are struggling because we all want to believe that the church is somehow not a part of this fallen creation, is somehow pure and undefiled, “filled with all truth” in the words of one of our collects. The Church is not and never has been.
What the church has done, for over two thousand years is gather – to pray, to hear scripture, and to break bread with folk we may not know. Out of this gathering, folk have gone forth to organize and to demonstrate, to help and to heal, to preach and to teach, all in celebration that the kingdom of God has come among us.
The church is not pure and rarely holy, but the church is alive, living into the reality that God has come among us. I am bemused by some of our Catholic brothers and sisters that they believe priests should be reincarnations of Jesus and free from sin. And I am bemused by some of our Protestant brothers and sisters who believe the way into the kingdom is known only to them and not those with whom they disagree. Over and over again, I am surprised that this thing we call church persists. And I am convinced this thing we call church persists only by the grace of God. At the end of the day, I am bemused that none of us seems to feel that learning the electric slide is constitutive to our spiritual health.
Sunday, March 10, 2013 2 Corinthians 5: 16 – 21
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 15: 1 – 3, 11b – 32
“And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; 24for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” And they began to celebrate.”
Luke 15: 23 - 24
Many years ago, A.G. worked in a stone quarry. The quarry was invisible from the main road and the entrance was marked by a modest sign noting the name of the quarry and the address. One year on his birthday, the kids and I took an old bed sheet and on it, painted: “Happy Birthday, A.G.” in big red letters. The night before his birthday we took the sheet down to the quarry and hung it over the sign at the entrance. A.G. always got to work before the sun came up so we knew he would not see the sign until after the news of his birthday had been leaked to those coming to the quarry in the daylight.
What we did not know was that on that day, A.G. was expecting a very large and expensive piece of machinery that was being hauled to the quarry from the Midwest. The load required special permits and the route had been planned meticulously. But because the sign was covered with a bed sheet, the driver missed the quarry entrance, causing confusion, a good bit of consternation and lost time. The kids and I were delighted by what we had done until we learned of the chaos we had caused!
This morning we hear the parable of the prodigal son from the gospel of Luke. A young son squanders his fortune and is reduced to poverty, decides to go home and apologize to his father who throws his arms around him and rejoices that his prodigal son has come home. And all this happens in the shadow of a frowning and angry older brother who never left home in the first place.
And we rejoice that God must be like this father who welcomes his erring son home knowing we have all “sinned against God in thought, word, and deed,” as we say in our confession. The story of the prodigal son is comforting, giving us hope that we, like the prodigal son, will be welcomed by God when we ask God to forgive us “for those things we have done and for those things we have left undone.”
But there is a surprise in this story that we are apt to gloss over and that is the party the father throws in celebration for the return of his son. Upon the return of the prodigal son, the father gives his son a robe and a ring and a party. The robe and the ring were signs that this prodigal son had been re-instated into the family, made once more an inheritor of his father’s property. This prodigal son had turned his back on his family when he left, taking his share of his inheritance with him, never intending to return. And now, the father gives him a robe and a ring, all signs that the father has accepted him back into the family, in spite of what has happened.
The father is acting in accord with a long Judeo Christian tradition that bids us to forgive one another, restoring the penitent to full communion within the fellowship of faith. The father gives his prodigal son a robe and a ring as signs of his forgiveness, and the restoration of a relationship that had been broken.
But then the father calls for a fatted calf, saying: “And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; 24for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” And they began to celebrate.” The father gives this prodigal son a party. The robe and the ring are not enough for this father who now calls for music and dancing and a great celebration.
“Of course, let the younger son return home,” writes theologian Fred Craddock.
Judaism and Christianity have clear provisions for the restoration of the penitent returnee, but where does it say that such provisions include a banquet with music and dancing? Yes, let the prodigal return, but to bread and water, not fatted calf; in sackcloth, not a new robe; wearing ashes, not a new ring; in tears, not in merriment; kneeling, not dancing.
Is not a party a bit inappropriate under the circumstances? Imagine if your seventeen year old daughter crashed the car, acknowledged she was wrong to be texting at the time and that she is sorry. You call your insurance agent to straighten things out and you talk with your daughter about what she did wrong. You may or may not buy your daughter a new car. But would you ever consider throwing her a party?
Throwing a party is, in my mind, rewarding bad behavior. Bad behavior needs to be condemned not condoned and throwing a party sounds awfully close to giving permission for bad behaviors to continue.
And it is the party which gets the older brother’s attention. Without the party, and the music and the dancing, the older brother may not have been so angry. But when the older brother heard the music and saw the dancing he refused to go in. That his father had restored his profligate brother to the good graces of the family was one thing; the party, though, was outrageous.
And wholly undeserved. The prodigal son had squandered a fortune, left his older brother to work the family farm by himself and, in all likelihood, the prodigal son would repeat his irresponsible behavior in the future. The older brother is the one who deserves a party, a party to celebrate his responsibility, his maturity, his unselfish long suffering behavior.
In the story of the prodigal son, we meet a father who behaves in a way that exceeds our sense of justice and fairness. When the prodigal son comes to his senses and acknowledges his guilt, the father forgives him, offering him a place, once more, within the family. The father acts justly when he honors his son’s remorse. But when the father kills the fatted calf and throws a party, justice is exceeded and our sense of fairness is offended, as we take our place alongside the angry law-abiding dutiful older brother. We might say that from our perspective, the prodigal son deserves to be forgiven if he is sorry, but the prodigal son in no way deserves a party.
What the father does in this wonderful parable is exhibit not just forgiveness, but grace, a free and wholly undeserved gift when he throws a party for his prodigal son. Martin Luther, the great Protestant reformer, said we are saved by grace through faith. Luther’s insight was based upon his reading of the letters of Paul, and came at a time in the Church when some folk were deemed “more worthy” than others – bishops, priests, monks and nuns were understood to be “holier” than the local bread baker. For Luther, no one of us can do anything to earn any merit before God. We are saved by the grace of God and not by our “good deeds” whatever they may be.
But like the older brother in this parable, we can, from time to time, feel privileged by our good deeds and good ideas and good opinions, awarding to ourselves “merit points” for good behavior. Rather than celebrate the grace of God who has called us all together to this place at this time, we can be tempted to celebrate ourselves. The older brother in our parable was responsible and righteous and dutiful. The older brother was already “good” in the eyes of his father. All the older brother had to do was join the party. All the older brother had to do was celebrate, to dance and to sing. And the older brother hesitates and we never discover if he joins the party or chooses to stay outside.
The Catholic Church has been front page news recently with the resignation of Pope Benedict. As the cardinals of the Catholic Church are assembling in Rome, new allegations of sexual abuse are surfacing and new concerns around protecting the privacy of the cardinals and their deliberations is frustrating those among us who “want to know.” New Hanover Presbyterian Church on 301, just south of here, has also been besieged as some members want to split from the Presbytery of the James. The Presbytery of the James is under attack for being too liberal in the eyes of some.
What is very clear is that the church, both our Protestant and Catholic brothers and sisters, is struggling. And we are struggling because we all want to believe that the church is somehow not a part of this fallen creation, is somehow pure and undefiled, “filled with all truth” in the words of one of our collects. The Church is not and never has been.
What the church has done, for over two thousand years is gather – to pray, to hear scripture, and to break bread with folk we may not know. Out of this gathering, folk have gone forth to organize and to demonstrate, to help and to heal, to preach and to teach, all in celebration that the kingdom of God has come among us.
The church is not pure and rarely holy, but the church is alive, living into the reality that God has come among us. I am bemused by some of our Catholic brothers and sisters that they believe priests should be reincarnations of Jesus and free from sin. And I am bemused by some of our Protestant brothers and sisters who believe the way into the kingdom is known only to them and not those with whom they disagree. Over and over again, I am surprised that this thing we call church persists. And I am convinced this thing we call church persists only by the grace of God. At the end of the day, I am bemused that none of us seems to feel that learning the electric slide is constitutive to our spiritual health.
The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday Isaiah 50: 4 – 9a
Sunday, March 24, 2013 Philippians 2: 5 – 11
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 22: 14 – 23: 56
Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” Having said this, he breathed his last.
Luke 23: 46
The liturgy on Palm Sunday is very strange. Every Palm Sunday, we begin, as we did this morning outside, acclaiming:
Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord.
Peace in heaven and glory in the highest.
And then, with palms in hand, we process around the church singing “All glory, laud, and honor to thee, Redeemer, King.”
Next thing we know, we are in the church, hearing the story of the passion, joining the crowds when they shout: “Crucify him!”
Today is properly known as The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday. And today we move from palms to passion, from jubilation to condemnation as we take our place with the crowds who at first rejoiced as Jesus rode into Jerusalem and then, within days, demanded his death.
We begin this day hearing how the crowds shouted: “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” as Jesus rides into Jerusalem. The word “Hosanna!” is an Aramaic word meaning “Save us!” and is an exclamation of praise and thanksgiving as God’s long awaited promised Messiah comes to set God’s people free. Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey, in humility, just as the prophet Zechariah had written five hundred years earlier - a clear sign that God’ s promise was coming true. Israel’s day of deliverance had come and no more would they be forced to live as a people oppressed by Rome.
But then, once in Jerusalem, Jesus refuses to take up arms against Rome and does nothing to save himself, calling down upon himself a charge of blasphemy by the high priest and the confusion of the Roman governor Pilate who sees no reason to put Jesus to death. Jesus refuses to answer the charges against him. As the story of the passion unfolds, Jesus looks less and less like a savior, resulting in the condemnation of the crowd who shout: “Crucify him!” and sheer contempt for this man who saved others but could not save himself. Whatever hope of salvation folk had when Jesus rode into Jerusalem quickly drains away.
And in our reading of the passion according to Luke, Jesus submits to the horror, praying: “Father, if you are wiling, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.” As the story of the passion comes to a close, we are left with Jesus’ last words: “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit” and a dead body.
Now I know that we all know the “end of the story” and that today’s reading of the passion will be followed next Sunday, on Easter, with the story of the empty tomb. We know the end of the story and we know that “God raised Jesus from the dead on the third day,” in the words of Saint Paul. But for now, all we know is that Jesus hands himself over to God and suffers death.
Today is the first day of Holy Week, the most dramatic week of the liturgical year. Today we hear the story of the passion according to Luke, on Thursday we will remember the events of the Last Supper, and then, on Friday, we will hear the passion according to John and strip the altar. We begin a journey this morning from hope into despair, from joyous expectation into a wrenching desolation. When we leave this church on Friday night, all signs and symbols of our faith will be gone. The story will be appear to have come to an end.
This week is holy because in all of the suffering of that last week of Jesus’ life, God was supremely present, bringing about God’s good purposes in a way no one could see or even begin to imagine. The darkness of Holy Week was overwhelming but not God forsaken. But no one, save Jesus, according to our evangelist Luke, could see through that darkness. According to our evangelist Luke, even on the cross Jesus pronounced forgiveness to a criminal, assured that both he and that criminal would know the mercy of God. In the passion according to Luke, Jesus hands himself over into the arms of a loving father, assured that God’s love will not fail.
Which brings us round to the “So what?” of Holy Week. During Holy Week we are asked to step into that place and time where God was hidden, where the love, mercy and peace of God was, for all who had eyes to see, utterly absent. And who among us has not known times when darkness seems to surround us on all sides, when all hope is lost, when we can see nothing but despair and misery? I pray that for most of us those times are fleeting but also know for some of us those times can linger sometimes beyond human endurance.
Holy Week is not for the faint of heart. Holy Week invites us into the darkest depths of despair, bidding us to remember that God was not absent the day Jesus died, although no one, not even Jesus I would offer, knew what would happen three days later. What Jesus knew was that his life and his death were born of the will of God.
Holy Week is counter cultural, going against a cultural ethos that bids us to “accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative.” Many would like to go from waving palms to hunting Easter eggs and skip all the stuff in between. But “the stuff in between” is exactly the stuff of our lives, the stuff that keeps you awake at night or, for some, depresses us so we cannot get out of bed in the morning. Holy week is “holy” because in the very midst of all the “stuff,” all the suffering and despair, God is present.
Hallmark has not a clue what do with Holy Week and for weeks has been selling cute cuddly plushy pink rabbits and fuzzy yellow ducks. The grocery stores have no clue what to do with Holy Week and have set aside aisles devoted to candy wrapped in the colors of spring. The malls have no clue what to do about Holy Week and are marketing the latest in spring fashion beginning with a new Easter outfit.
Nobody seems to know what to with Holy Week because Holy Week is dismal and dreary and shrouded in grief as Jesus makes his way to the cross. And we live in a culture that does not do dismal and dreary and resists grieving over the many awful things that happen to us in this world. And awful things do happen - babies are born with abnormalities, floods destroy homes, terrorists kill the innocent, and children are abused. During Holy Week we watch Jesus suffer evil, the same evil that continues to infect the world in which we live.
Denying the horror of evil and the awful things that come our way does not solve the problem. And consoling ourselves or others by saying: “Look on the bright side, things could be worse,” trivializes the reality of suffering. We, you and I, cannot overcome evil, but must be “delivered from evil” as we pray in the Lord’s prayer. Easter is our assurance that God will overcome evil - that God, not evil, will have the last word.
But we will miss the joy of Easter if we gloss over Holy Week and minimize the suffering we see all around us. Holy Week is a reality check that we live in a world where awful things do happen and not always by our own hand. Not everything can be fixed and oftentimes we can only grieve in the face of things we cannot change. But rather than grieve, we tell ourselves things are not really so bad and why cry over spilled milk. Yet, our tears bear witness to us that we are creatures who fall in love and who do suffer when we lose the people and things we cherish. In the words of Ecclesiastes, “there is a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”
For the ancient church, the grief of Holy Week came to an end at the Great Vigil of Easter, on Saturday night. The Great Vigil begins outside as a fire is kindled and the paschal candle is lit and carried into a darkened church. On that night, we celebrate the victory over death won for us by Christ. The vigil is a joyous service, during which we celebrate the first Eucharist of Easter with glad “Alleluia’s” accompanied by organ, trumpet and bells. We, in the Episcopal Church, do not wait until sunrise to share the good news!
And ‘tis that good news that in God’s new creation, “death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away,” in the words of the book of Revelation, that we share in the midst of this world of suffering and grief. Such joy cannot be experienced if we shut our eyes to suffering and sorrow. We cannot have one without the other.
Holy Week is for all of us who are human and whose heart despairs in the midst of things we cannot understand. The solace of Holy Week is the solace of solidarity – God really knows what it’s like to be human.
Linger in Holy Week this year. Come to the service on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Come because you are human and being human means we will suffer. Come because the “one who comes in the name of the Lord” was human just like us. And come, in hope, remembering that on third day, God raised Jesus from the dead.
Sunday, March 24, 2013 Philippians 2: 5 – 11
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 22: 14 – 23: 56
Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.” Having said this, he breathed his last.
Luke 23: 46
The liturgy on Palm Sunday is very strange. Every Palm Sunday, we begin, as we did this morning outside, acclaiming:
Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord.
Peace in heaven and glory in the highest.
And then, with palms in hand, we process around the church singing “All glory, laud, and honor to thee, Redeemer, King.”
Next thing we know, we are in the church, hearing the story of the passion, joining the crowds when they shout: “Crucify him!”
Today is properly known as The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday. And today we move from palms to passion, from jubilation to condemnation as we take our place with the crowds who at first rejoiced as Jesus rode into Jerusalem and then, within days, demanded his death.
We begin this day hearing how the crowds shouted: “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” as Jesus rides into Jerusalem. The word “Hosanna!” is an Aramaic word meaning “Save us!” and is an exclamation of praise and thanksgiving as God’s long awaited promised Messiah comes to set God’s people free. Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey, in humility, just as the prophet Zechariah had written five hundred years earlier - a clear sign that God’ s promise was coming true. Israel’s day of deliverance had come and no more would they be forced to live as a people oppressed by Rome.
But then, once in Jerusalem, Jesus refuses to take up arms against Rome and does nothing to save himself, calling down upon himself a charge of blasphemy by the high priest and the confusion of the Roman governor Pilate who sees no reason to put Jesus to death. Jesus refuses to answer the charges against him. As the story of the passion unfolds, Jesus looks less and less like a savior, resulting in the condemnation of the crowd who shout: “Crucify him!” and sheer contempt for this man who saved others but could not save himself. Whatever hope of salvation folk had when Jesus rode into Jerusalem quickly drains away.
And in our reading of the passion according to Luke, Jesus submits to the horror, praying: “Father, if you are wiling, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.” As the story of the passion comes to a close, we are left with Jesus’ last words: “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit” and a dead body.
Now I know that we all know the “end of the story” and that today’s reading of the passion will be followed next Sunday, on Easter, with the story of the empty tomb. We know the end of the story and we know that “God raised Jesus from the dead on the third day,” in the words of Saint Paul. But for now, all we know is that Jesus hands himself over to God and suffers death.
Today is the first day of Holy Week, the most dramatic week of the liturgical year. Today we hear the story of the passion according to Luke, on Thursday we will remember the events of the Last Supper, and then, on Friday, we will hear the passion according to John and strip the altar. We begin a journey this morning from hope into despair, from joyous expectation into a wrenching desolation. When we leave this church on Friday night, all signs and symbols of our faith will be gone. The story will be appear to have come to an end.
This week is holy because in all of the suffering of that last week of Jesus’ life, God was supremely present, bringing about God’s good purposes in a way no one could see or even begin to imagine. The darkness of Holy Week was overwhelming but not God forsaken. But no one, save Jesus, according to our evangelist Luke, could see through that darkness. According to our evangelist Luke, even on the cross Jesus pronounced forgiveness to a criminal, assured that both he and that criminal would know the mercy of God. In the passion according to Luke, Jesus hands himself over into the arms of a loving father, assured that God’s love will not fail.
Which brings us round to the “So what?” of Holy Week. During Holy Week we are asked to step into that place and time where God was hidden, where the love, mercy and peace of God was, for all who had eyes to see, utterly absent. And who among us has not known times when darkness seems to surround us on all sides, when all hope is lost, when we can see nothing but despair and misery? I pray that for most of us those times are fleeting but also know for some of us those times can linger sometimes beyond human endurance.
Holy Week is not for the faint of heart. Holy Week invites us into the darkest depths of despair, bidding us to remember that God was not absent the day Jesus died, although no one, not even Jesus I would offer, knew what would happen three days later. What Jesus knew was that his life and his death were born of the will of God.
Holy Week is counter cultural, going against a cultural ethos that bids us to “accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative.” Many would like to go from waving palms to hunting Easter eggs and skip all the stuff in between. But “the stuff in between” is exactly the stuff of our lives, the stuff that keeps you awake at night or, for some, depresses us so we cannot get out of bed in the morning. Holy week is “holy” because in the very midst of all the “stuff,” all the suffering and despair, God is present.
Hallmark has not a clue what do with Holy Week and for weeks has been selling cute cuddly plushy pink rabbits and fuzzy yellow ducks. The grocery stores have no clue what to do with Holy Week and have set aside aisles devoted to candy wrapped in the colors of spring. The malls have no clue what to do about Holy Week and are marketing the latest in spring fashion beginning with a new Easter outfit.
Nobody seems to know what to with Holy Week because Holy Week is dismal and dreary and shrouded in grief as Jesus makes his way to the cross. And we live in a culture that does not do dismal and dreary and resists grieving over the many awful things that happen to us in this world. And awful things do happen - babies are born with abnormalities, floods destroy homes, terrorists kill the innocent, and children are abused. During Holy Week we watch Jesus suffer evil, the same evil that continues to infect the world in which we live.
Denying the horror of evil and the awful things that come our way does not solve the problem. And consoling ourselves or others by saying: “Look on the bright side, things could be worse,” trivializes the reality of suffering. We, you and I, cannot overcome evil, but must be “delivered from evil” as we pray in the Lord’s prayer. Easter is our assurance that God will overcome evil - that God, not evil, will have the last word.
But we will miss the joy of Easter if we gloss over Holy Week and minimize the suffering we see all around us. Holy Week is a reality check that we live in a world where awful things do happen and not always by our own hand. Not everything can be fixed and oftentimes we can only grieve in the face of things we cannot change. But rather than grieve, we tell ourselves things are not really so bad and why cry over spilled milk. Yet, our tears bear witness to us that we are creatures who fall in love and who do suffer when we lose the people and things we cherish. In the words of Ecclesiastes, “there is a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”
For the ancient church, the grief of Holy Week came to an end at the Great Vigil of Easter, on Saturday night. The Great Vigil begins outside as a fire is kindled and the paschal candle is lit and carried into a darkened church. On that night, we celebrate the victory over death won for us by Christ. The vigil is a joyous service, during which we celebrate the first Eucharist of Easter with glad “Alleluia’s” accompanied by organ, trumpet and bells. We, in the Episcopal Church, do not wait until sunrise to share the good news!
And ‘tis that good news that in God’s new creation, “death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away,” in the words of the book of Revelation, that we share in the midst of this world of suffering and grief. Such joy cannot be experienced if we shut our eyes to suffering and sorrow. We cannot have one without the other.
Holy Week is for all of us who are human and whose heart despairs in the midst of things we cannot understand. The solace of Holy Week is the solace of solidarity – God really knows what it’s like to be human.
Linger in Holy Week this year. Come to the service on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Come because you are human and being human means we will suffer. Come because the “one who comes in the name of the Lord” was human just like us. And come, in hope, remembering that on third day, God raised Jesus from the dead.
Easter Day: The Sunday of the Resurrection Acts 10: 34 – 43
Sunday, March 31, 2013 I Corinthians 15: 19 - 26
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 20: 1 - 18
Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”: and she told them that he had said these things to her.
John 20: 18
Alleluia. Christ is risen
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.
That acclamation is being made all over the world today, as folk gather together to celebrate Easter. The news of the empty tomb is greeted with joy and usually with great fanfare as we do this morning. Our choir sounds like the heavenly host, lovely white lilies grace the altar and windows, and this church is full with family and friends. Today is a glad and glorious day as we celebrate the good news that the tomb was empty.
At the heart of Christian faith is the claim made in all four of our gospels that Jesus was crucified and on the third day was raised from the dead. All of our evangelists know the startling claim they are making and do not shy away from letting us know just how unbelievable was the news that Jesus had been raised from the dead. All four gospels tell us that women were the first to make the discovery and, in the ancient world, women were not perceived to be reliable witnesses. And in the account of the Resurrection which we hear this morning from the gospel of John, Mary initially believes the body has been stolen.
Unreliable women make the discovery and no one actually sees the Resurrection so the possibility that the grave had been robbed was plausible. Our evangelists are, just as we are this morning, making an impossible claim. And next Sunday, as we always do on the Sunday after Easter, we will hear the story of Doubting Thomas who, like all of us, struggles to understand the impossible.
And so, throughout the history of the Church, arguments have been made to make the impossible more possible. Perhaps, some argue, the Resurrection was simply the emotional response of distraught disciples following the horror of the crucifixion. Perhaps, the Shroud of Turin will “prove” that the Resurrection really happened. Maybe Jesus did not really die but was just unconscious for three days. And for some, the whole idea of Resurrection is simply the product of the imaginations of a primitive and unscientific people and best forgotten.
Of course, the Church has not forgotten the Resurrection and in a minute when we confess our faith the words of the Nicene Creed we will say: “We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.” Our hope is that what happened to Jesus will happen to us; we look forward to God doing the impossible again – resurrecting our dead bodies.
Which we all know is impossible.
What may be possible is that our soul will go to heaven when we die. That possibility was given to us by the Greek philosopher Plato four hundred years before Christ. For Plato, we have immortal souls, a part of us that will live on forever. When we die, we leave behind our physical bodies, which only serve to keep us trapped in this world of time and matter.
Unfortunately, Mary this morning discovers an empty tomb, a tomb without a body and then meets a person who calls her by name and who she then recognizes as Jesus. If Plato was right, Mary should have found a body and met a ghost. But what Mary meets is a man with a body.
Alternatively, what might be possible is that when we die, we, following the cycles of nature, we will “come back to life,” like spring follows winter. Death is a little bit like hibernation and really not final and permanent. On this account, Jesus’ resurrection is not so impossible – it happens to daffodils all the time.
Our claim this morning that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead is an impossible claim and not a claim we can “prove” nor understand in the way we can understand the law of gravity. What we confess this day is that God did the impossible and we look forward in hope to that day when God will do the impossible one last time – creating a new heaven and a new earth in which we will live in bodies no longer subject to death in a world that knows only justice and peace and joy.
That hope is founded on the Resurrection and is far grander and more beautiful than any idea we might come up with to understand what happens when we die. Jesus’ risen body, a body that was recognizable and which could be touched and which ate breakfast on the beach with his disciples, is the hope and the promise God gives to us. What God has promised, God will bring about.
Today we celebrate what Saint Paul calls the “first fruits,” the first window we are given on what life in this new heaven and new earth will be like. We are given this morning a vision of things yet to come and this vision is glorious beyond words. In Jesus’ resurrection, God’s kingdom has come, a kingdom in which in the words of Revelation: “Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”
And we, just like our evangelists, are sent into the world to proclaim this vision, this promise, and to anticipate that coming kingdom now – to strive for justice and peace, relieve suffering, to comfort the afflicted and bring hope to the hopeless. The story of the Resurrection which we hear this morning is not meant simply to be a private consolation, an assurance that we will “go to heaven when we die.” The story of the Resurrection is “good news for all people” and those who most need to hear this story and see the kingdom of God incarnated in deeds of mercy and compassion, are all those for whom life in this world cannot pass away soon enough.
The news we hear this morning is impossibly good news – maybe too good to be true. I sometimes wonder if we are afraid to hope for so much, to really believe that this world in which live – a world filled with suffering and violence and broken relationships and mistrust – will ever be different. Afraid to hope that God indeed can and will make all things new, we “make do” as best we can for as long as we can. We settle for ‘happiness” in whatever form we can find it, not daring to believe that joy, not just happiness, is God’s desire for us.
And even the Church has, from time to time, not always been a place that takes to heart this vision of God’s coming Kingdom. The church can and has been for many, a place, not of comfort and joy, but rather a place of pain and grief. And sadly, many have just “given up” and walked away, unable or unwilling to believe that God can make all things new in the church as well as the world.
In the gospels, we find Jesus enjoying the fellowship of all kind of folk on any number of occasions, and most of these encounters took place over a meal. And when Jesus taught about the kingdom of God, he often likened God’s kingdom to a wedding feast, a great banquet with fine food and wine to which all are invited – the rich and the poor, the weak and the strong, the young and the old, the fit and the lame, the sinner and the saint. In a few minutes we will be invited to share in a great feast, joining one another at the altar to eat bread and to drink wine, “the holy food and drink of new and unending life” in Christ, as I will say in the Eucharistic Prayer. This meal that we share is not a quaint ritual but a foretaste of the heavenly banquet we look forward to with Christ in the world to come. And on that day, in the words of Saint Paul, we who “now see in a mirror, dimly,” “will then see face to face” and we, who now “know only in part; then will know fully, even as we have been fully known.”
Rejoice this day and enjoy this day and give thanks this day. Come, feast on the gifts of God and hold fast to the impossible words we hear this morning from Mary Magdalene, whose tears were turned to joy, sending her out to announce for all the world to hear: “I have seen the Lord!”
Alleluia. Christ is risen
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.
Sunday, March 31, 2013 I Corinthians 15: 19 - 26
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 20: 1 - 18
Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”: and she told them that he had said these things to her.
John 20: 18
Alleluia. Christ is risen
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.
That acclamation is being made all over the world today, as folk gather together to celebrate Easter. The news of the empty tomb is greeted with joy and usually with great fanfare as we do this morning. Our choir sounds like the heavenly host, lovely white lilies grace the altar and windows, and this church is full with family and friends. Today is a glad and glorious day as we celebrate the good news that the tomb was empty.
At the heart of Christian faith is the claim made in all four of our gospels that Jesus was crucified and on the third day was raised from the dead. All of our evangelists know the startling claim they are making and do not shy away from letting us know just how unbelievable was the news that Jesus had been raised from the dead. All four gospels tell us that women were the first to make the discovery and, in the ancient world, women were not perceived to be reliable witnesses. And in the account of the Resurrection which we hear this morning from the gospel of John, Mary initially believes the body has been stolen.
Unreliable women make the discovery and no one actually sees the Resurrection so the possibility that the grave had been robbed was plausible. Our evangelists are, just as we are this morning, making an impossible claim. And next Sunday, as we always do on the Sunday after Easter, we will hear the story of Doubting Thomas who, like all of us, struggles to understand the impossible.
And so, throughout the history of the Church, arguments have been made to make the impossible more possible. Perhaps, some argue, the Resurrection was simply the emotional response of distraught disciples following the horror of the crucifixion. Perhaps, the Shroud of Turin will “prove” that the Resurrection really happened. Maybe Jesus did not really die but was just unconscious for three days. And for some, the whole idea of Resurrection is simply the product of the imaginations of a primitive and unscientific people and best forgotten.
Of course, the Church has not forgotten the Resurrection and in a minute when we confess our faith the words of the Nicene Creed we will say: “We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.” Our hope is that what happened to Jesus will happen to us; we look forward to God doing the impossible again – resurrecting our dead bodies.
Which we all know is impossible.
What may be possible is that our soul will go to heaven when we die. That possibility was given to us by the Greek philosopher Plato four hundred years before Christ. For Plato, we have immortal souls, a part of us that will live on forever. When we die, we leave behind our physical bodies, which only serve to keep us trapped in this world of time and matter.
Unfortunately, Mary this morning discovers an empty tomb, a tomb without a body and then meets a person who calls her by name and who she then recognizes as Jesus. If Plato was right, Mary should have found a body and met a ghost. But what Mary meets is a man with a body.
Alternatively, what might be possible is that when we die, we, following the cycles of nature, we will “come back to life,” like spring follows winter. Death is a little bit like hibernation and really not final and permanent. On this account, Jesus’ resurrection is not so impossible – it happens to daffodils all the time.
Our claim this morning that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead is an impossible claim and not a claim we can “prove” nor understand in the way we can understand the law of gravity. What we confess this day is that God did the impossible and we look forward in hope to that day when God will do the impossible one last time – creating a new heaven and a new earth in which we will live in bodies no longer subject to death in a world that knows only justice and peace and joy.
That hope is founded on the Resurrection and is far grander and more beautiful than any idea we might come up with to understand what happens when we die. Jesus’ risen body, a body that was recognizable and which could be touched and which ate breakfast on the beach with his disciples, is the hope and the promise God gives to us. What God has promised, God will bring about.
Today we celebrate what Saint Paul calls the “first fruits,” the first window we are given on what life in this new heaven and new earth will be like. We are given this morning a vision of things yet to come and this vision is glorious beyond words. In Jesus’ resurrection, God’s kingdom has come, a kingdom in which in the words of Revelation: “Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”
And we, just like our evangelists, are sent into the world to proclaim this vision, this promise, and to anticipate that coming kingdom now – to strive for justice and peace, relieve suffering, to comfort the afflicted and bring hope to the hopeless. The story of the Resurrection which we hear this morning is not meant simply to be a private consolation, an assurance that we will “go to heaven when we die.” The story of the Resurrection is “good news for all people” and those who most need to hear this story and see the kingdom of God incarnated in deeds of mercy and compassion, are all those for whom life in this world cannot pass away soon enough.
The news we hear this morning is impossibly good news – maybe too good to be true. I sometimes wonder if we are afraid to hope for so much, to really believe that this world in which live – a world filled with suffering and violence and broken relationships and mistrust – will ever be different. Afraid to hope that God indeed can and will make all things new, we “make do” as best we can for as long as we can. We settle for ‘happiness” in whatever form we can find it, not daring to believe that joy, not just happiness, is God’s desire for us.
And even the Church has, from time to time, not always been a place that takes to heart this vision of God’s coming Kingdom. The church can and has been for many, a place, not of comfort and joy, but rather a place of pain and grief. And sadly, many have just “given up” and walked away, unable or unwilling to believe that God can make all things new in the church as well as the world.
In the gospels, we find Jesus enjoying the fellowship of all kind of folk on any number of occasions, and most of these encounters took place over a meal. And when Jesus taught about the kingdom of God, he often likened God’s kingdom to a wedding feast, a great banquet with fine food and wine to which all are invited – the rich and the poor, the weak and the strong, the young and the old, the fit and the lame, the sinner and the saint. In a few minutes we will be invited to share in a great feast, joining one another at the altar to eat bread and to drink wine, “the holy food and drink of new and unending life” in Christ, as I will say in the Eucharistic Prayer. This meal that we share is not a quaint ritual but a foretaste of the heavenly banquet we look forward to with Christ in the world to come. And on that day, in the words of Saint Paul, we who “now see in a mirror, dimly,” “will then see face to face” and we, who now “know only in part; then will know fully, even as we have been fully known.”
Rejoice this day and enjoy this day and give thanks this day. Come, feast on the gifts of God and hold fast to the impossible words we hear this morning from Mary Magdalene, whose tears were turned to joy, sending her out to announce for all the world to hear: “I have seen the Lord!”
Alleluia. Christ is risen
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.
The Second Sunday of Easter Acts 5:27 – 32
Sunday, April 7, 2013 Revelation 1: 4 – 8
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 20: 19 - 31
Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”
John 20: 21
“Peace be with you” Jesus says to his disciples this morning who huddle in fear behind locked doors on the night of Easter. The disciples have heard the news which we heard last Sunday, on Easter morning, when Mary announced to them: “I have seen the Lord!” But now the disciples are fearful and, until they, like Mary, see Jesus, they do they rejoice. Thomas is not with the others, and he too cannot believe until he sees Jesus, bearing the scars of the crucifixion.
And each time, Jesus appears, his greeting is the same: “Peace be with you” Jesus bids the disciples, first to the eleven and then to Thomas.
“Peace be with you” was a common Jewish greeting, spoken to others in Hebrew – shalom alechem. To bid others shalom alechem was as common as saying “good morning” or “good-bye.”
But with the help of Christian activist Wes Brook-Howard, I learned this week that “good-bye” is actually a contraction of “God be with you.” And so, he notes:
Just as “good-bye,” when considered in its root meaning, is a powerful prayer for the other, so Jesus’ greeting offers the disciples exactly what they need in their locked-up situation. The “peace” Jesus gives is not that which the world gives. The two previous occasions on which Jesus spoke of peace, both in the Last Supper discourse, involved the challenge to allow his peace to give courage that dissipates their fear of the world’s persecution. Now that moment has come. Jesus’ peace is not the superficial calm that consists of either the mere absence of fighting or the repression and denial of conflict. Instead, it is the centeredness that comes from acknowledging fear but simultaneously trusting in God’s victory over the world.
In other words, the “peace” which Jesus gives to the disciples is not the get-away of a Calgon bath but the assurance that the victory over evil and sin has been won. And with that assurance, the disciples are then sent into the world – “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And the disciples are sent, we hear this morning, to forgive sins, or not, inspirited by the Holy Spirit, the spirit of God. “When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them; if you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”
For our evangelist John, the spirit of God draws us into communion with God and one another. Sin separates us from God and from one another. What God wants us is for us all to be one, the oneness that can only be achieved by the practice of forgiveness.
“Peace” or shalom for our Jewish brothers and sisters was not the absence of struggle but the presence of love, in the words of Frederick Buechner. Shalom signified harmony and wholeness, the recognition that God had created an orderly world in which all things had their place. Each one of us belongs here, even though we will not all see things the same way. Forgiveness invites us to see others as God sees them – dearly beloved creatures of God – and to make room for those who are “other” than us.
Our reading this morning is the only time in the gospel of John that forgiveness is mentioned. And for John forgiveness was an internal affair – a mandate given to the community of disciples, the church. The disciples were to determine how to order their common life and decide what would sustain that order and what would disrupt that order. The church was to model in their common life the peace of God.
Unfortunately, we live in a culture that privileges the individual over the community, and when we dislike something or someone we simply walk away. Working through our disagreements and conflicts is messy and hard work and it will always be easier to just “quit.” For many, the church is nothing more than a voluntary association of individuals to which we can choose to belong or choose not to when it suits. For our evangelist John, God chooses us, we do not choose God. And we have been chosen to be a communion not a club, bound together by baptism not blood.
Does this mean that anything goes? Is the peace of God nothing more than a call to “co-exist”? Hardly, if we take our text seriously. Jesus gives the disciples the responsibility not only to forgive sins but also to “retain” sins. Forgiveness, if forgiveness means anything at all, means acknowledging that some actions, are disruptive to our common life, bent upon destroying, rather than building up our community. Forgiveness requires that we take our relationships one with another seriously enough to have the courage to speak the truth to one another in love, in the words of Saint Paul. Accordingly, buried deep within our prayer book is a rubric which, although rarely used, acknowledges that sometimes the bond of communion must be broken.
Turn with me if you will to page 409 in The Book of Common Prayer.
If the priest knows that a person who is living a notoriously evil life
intends to come to Communion, the priest shall speak to that person
privately, and tell him that he may not come to the Holy Table until he
has given clear proof of repentance and amendment of life.
The priest shall follow the same procedure with those who have done
wrong to their neighbors and are a scandal to the other members of the
congregation, not allowing such persons to receive Communion until
they have made restitution for the wrong they have done, or have at least
promised to do so.
When the priest sees that there is hatred between members of the
congregation, he shall speak privately to them, telling them that they
may not receive Communion until they have forgiven each other.
And if the person or persons on one side truly forgive the others and
desire and promise to make up for their faults, but those on the other side
refuse to forgive, the priest shall allow those who are penitent to come to
Communion, but not those who are stubborn.
In all such cases, the priest is required to notify the bishop, within
fourteen days at the most, giving the reasons for refusing Communion.
Ouch! Those are strong words which remind us of the significance of our common life and what we are showing forth to the world when we share the bread and wine together. Our witness, in other words, begins with us and the way we are able or unable to make real the peace of God through our common life.
The communion we share every Sunday is a sharing in the body and blood of Christ. We are to become what we eat, the body and blood of Christ in the world. We will not always like one another, let alone love one another, and we will not all agree on matters that confront us. Thomas, this morning, obviously is not persuaded by the testimony of his brothers nor were they by the testimony of Mary. They each had to “see for themselves” and so must we.
It took a week for Thomas to make his confession of faith – to see what the others had seen – and during that week Thomas was still accorded the gift of fellowship, even though he did not believe what the others told him. And at the end of the day, it was an act of God that brought Thomas around; all the disciples did was keep Thomas in the fold. Jesus did show up and does show up, often at the most unexpected times and places. ‘Tis only when we fear Jesus will not show up that we get into trouble, preferring to separate ourselves from others, rather than work through the inevitable conflicts of sharing a common life.
God did not give us a protocol but a practice. Forgiveness is never easy and never about forgetting but is the costly work we must do if we want to share a life with others. Jesus appears to the disciples bearing the marks of his crucifixion but does not say: “Where were you when they killed me?” No, Jesus appears with his scars and with the knowledge that all of the disciples, save the three Mary’s and the beloved disciple in the gospel of John, were painfully absent when he died, and Jesus shows up bidding them peace. When we bid one another “peace” this morning, remember that Jesus could have said something else and so can we. And shake a hand that may have already or might in the future offend you, betray you or abandon you. We remember we have no peace to share with the world if there is no peace in us.
And may the peace of the Lord be always with us.
Sunday, April 7, 2013 Revelation 1: 4 – 8
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 20: 19 - 31
Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”
John 20: 21
“Peace be with you” Jesus says to his disciples this morning who huddle in fear behind locked doors on the night of Easter. The disciples have heard the news which we heard last Sunday, on Easter morning, when Mary announced to them: “I have seen the Lord!” But now the disciples are fearful and, until they, like Mary, see Jesus, they do they rejoice. Thomas is not with the others, and he too cannot believe until he sees Jesus, bearing the scars of the crucifixion.
And each time, Jesus appears, his greeting is the same: “Peace be with you” Jesus bids the disciples, first to the eleven and then to Thomas.
“Peace be with you” was a common Jewish greeting, spoken to others in Hebrew – shalom alechem. To bid others shalom alechem was as common as saying “good morning” or “good-bye.”
But with the help of Christian activist Wes Brook-Howard, I learned this week that “good-bye” is actually a contraction of “God be with you.” And so, he notes:
Just as “good-bye,” when considered in its root meaning, is a powerful prayer for the other, so Jesus’ greeting offers the disciples exactly what they need in their locked-up situation. The “peace” Jesus gives is not that which the world gives. The two previous occasions on which Jesus spoke of peace, both in the Last Supper discourse, involved the challenge to allow his peace to give courage that dissipates their fear of the world’s persecution. Now that moment has come. Jesus’ peace is not the superficial calm that consists of either the mere absence of fighting or the repression and denial of conflict. Instead, it is the centeredness that comes from acknowledging fear but simultaneously trusting in God’s victory over the world.
In other words, the “peace” which Jesus gives to the disciples is not the get-away of a Calgon bath but the assurance that the victory over evil and sin has been won. And with that assurance, the disciples are then sent into the world – “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And the disciples are sent, we hear this morning, to forgive sins, or not, inspirited by the Holy Spirit, the spirit of God. “When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them; if you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”
For our evangelist John, the spirit of God draws us into communion with God and one another. Sin separates us from God and from one another. What God wants us is for us all to be one, the oneness that can only be achieved by the practice of forgiveness.
“Peace” or shalom for our Jewish brothers and sisters was not the absence of struggle but the presence of love, in the words of Frederick Buechner. Shalom signified harmony and wholeness, the recognition that God had created an orderly world in which all things had their place. Each one of us belongs here, even though we will not all see things the same way. Forgiveness invites us to see others as God sees them – dearly beloved creatures of God – and to make room for those who are “other” than us.
Our reading this morning is the only time in the gospel of John that forgiveness is mentioned. And for John forgiveness was an internal affair – a mandate given to the community of disciples, the church. The disciples were to determine how to order their common life and decide what would sustain that order and what would disrupt that order. The church was to model in their common life the peace of God.
Unfortunately, we live in a culture that privileges the individual over the community, and when we dislike something or someone we simply walk away. Working through our disagreements and conflicts is messy and hard work and it will always be easier to just “quit.” For many, the church is nothing more than a voluntary association of individuals to which we can choose to belong or choose not to when it suits. For our evangelist John, God chooses us, we do not choose God. And we have been chosen to be a communion not a club, bound together by baptism not blood.
Does this mean that anything goes? Is the peace of God nothing more than a call to “co-exist”? Hardly, if we take our text seriously. Jesus gives the disciples the responsibility not only to forgive sins but also to “retain” sins. Forgiveness, if forgiveness means anything at all, means acknowledging that some actions, are disruptive to our common life, bent upon destroying, rather than building up our community. Forgiveness requires that we take our relationships one with another seriously enough to have the courage to speak the truth to one another in love, in the words of Saint Paul. Accordingly, buried deep within our prayer book is a rubric which, although rarely used, acknowledges that sometimes the bond of communion must be broken.
Turn with me if you will to page 409 in The Book of Common Prayer.
If the priest knows that a person who is living a notoriously evil life
intends to come to Communion, the priest shall speak to that person
privately, and tell him that he may not come to the Holy Table until he
has given clear proof of repentance and amendment of life.
The priest shall follow the same procedure with those who have done
wrong to their neighbors and are a scandal to the other members of the
congregation, not allowing such persons to receive Communion until
they have made restitution for the wrong they have done, or have at least
promised to do so.
When the priest sees that there is hatred between members of the
congregation, he shall speak privately to them, telling them that they
may not receive Communion until they have forgiven each other.
And if the person or persons on one side truly forgive the others and
desire and promise to make up for their faults, but those on the other side
refuse to forgive, the priest shall allow those who are penitent to come to
Communion, but not those who are stubborn.
In all such cases, the priest is required to notify the bishop, within
fourteen days at the most, giving the reasons for refusing Communion.
Ouch! Those are strong words which remind us of the significance of our common life and what we are showing forth to the world when we share the bread and wine together. Our witness, in other words, begins with us and the way we are able or unable to make real the peace of God through our common life.
The communion we share every Sunday is a sharing in the body and blood of Christ. We are to become what we eat, the body and blood of Christ in the world. We will not always like one another, let alone love one another, and we will not all agree on matters that confront us. Thomas, this morning, obviously is not persuaded by the testimony of his brothers nor were they by the testimony of Mary. They each had to “see for themselves” and so must we.
It took a week for Thomas to make his confession of faith – to see what the others had seen – and during that week Thomas was still accorded the gift of fellowship, even though he did not believe what the others told him. And at the end of the day, it was an act of God that brought Thomas around; all the disciples did was keep Thomas in the fold. Jesus did show up and does show up, often at the most unexpected times and places. ‘Tis only when we fear Jesus will not show up that we get into trouble, preferring to separate ourselves from others, rather than work through the inevitable conflicts of sharing a common life.
God did not give us a protocol but a practice. Forgiveness is never easy and never about forgetting but is the costly work we must do if we want to share a life with others. Jesus appears to the disciples bearing the marks of his crucifixion but does not say: “Where were you when they killed me?” No, Jesus appears with his scars and with the knowledge that all of the disciples, save the three Mary’s and the beloved disciple in the gospel of John, were painfully absent when he died, and Jesus shows up bidding them peace. When we bid one another “peace” this morning, remember that Jesus could have said something else and so can we. And shake a hand that may have already or might in the future offend you, betray you or abandon you. We remember we have no peace to share with the world if there is no peace in us.
And may the peace of the Lord be always with us.
The Third Sunday of Easter Acts 9: 1- 20
Sunday, April 14, 2013 Revelation 5:11 – 14
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 21:1-19
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?’ He said to him, ‘Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Feed my lambs.’
John 21: 15
The disciples meet Jesus on the beach this morning, in our reading from the gospel of John. Jesus invites them to a breakfast of bread and fish cooked over a charcoal fire. The last time the disciples gathered with Jesus to share a meal together was on the night before he died, when, in the gospel of John, Jesus washed their feet and commanded them to “love one another as I have loved you.”
A lot has happened between that Last Supper and this morning’s breakfast. Jesus was arrested, tried and crucified. Peter denied knowing Jesus three times. Jesus appeared to Mary three days later at the empty tomb and later appeared to the frightened and disbelieving disciples gathered behind locked doors. But the story is not over for our evangelist John and now Jesus invites the disciples to breakfast after a night of unsuccessful fishing.
After all that has happened, Peter is fishing. Peter was a fisherman long before Peter met Jesus. Perhaps Peter found comfort doing something familiar after all the strange events he had witnessed recently. Or perhaps Peter did not know what to do now, now that Jesus was no longer with him as Jesus had been before. Maybe fishing was the only way Peter knew how to cope with the “new normal.”
More probably, fishing for our evangelist John was a symbolic way of describing the mission of the church - to draw all people into the knowledge and love of God. The disciples catch nothing until the stranger on the shore tells them where to cast their nets. Only then do they find more fish than they can handle and recognize the mysterious stranger as Jesus.
And Peter, true to form, jumps into the water and swims to shore, leaving his companions to do the hard work of hauling in the catch. Peter, who said to Jesus at the last supper, “Lord, I will lay down my life for you,” now, once more, acts quickly to demonstrate his love for Jesus.
But after breakfast, Jesus asks Peter “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” And not once, but three times Jesus asks Peter: “Do you love me?” Three times Peter had denied Jesus over a charcoal fire in the courtyard of the high priest on the eve of the crucifixion and now Peter is asked three times by a charcoal fire to confess his love anew. And Peter is hurt, chastened by Jesus’ repeated question: “Do you love me?”
And each time Jesus asks Peter if Peter loves him, Peter receives, in the words of Bishop Tom Wright, “not a pat on the back,” but “a fresh challenge” and “a new commission.” After each question Jesus tells Peter to “feed my lambs,” “tend my sheep,” and finally “feed my sheep.” In spite of all that Peter has done, Jesus entrusts Peter with a mission and a ministry, the same mission as that of Jesus himself, the good shepherd. Peter is not just forgiven but commissioned, sent into the world to shepherd the flock.
Last Sunday at adult education I shared the following story I had read in a book entitled Christian Belief by Alec Vidler. Vidler writes:
A tradesman in a certain town found that one of his trusted men had been systematically stealing from his warehouse for years. Some people might have been soft and let him off the punishment, which is a kind of indulgence that modern men profess to admire though they seldom practice it themselves. Other people would have hard-boiled and would have cast the culprit adrift. But this man’s employer did neither the one nor the other. He let him be tried and sentenced and sent to prison. But when the man came out of prison his employer was there to greet him with the words: ‘Your place is open for you; come back; we will start afresh.’ And when the man reached home, he found his wages had been paid in full to his wife all the time he had been in prison. He was punished; but he was forgiven, and creatively forgiven. The forgiveness of God is like that.
And that is the way Jesus forgives Peter this morning, not ignoring his failures but entrusting to him the ministry of pastoring the church. Jesus has, in the words of Vidler, raised Peter “from a condition of abject shame to wondering gratitude.”
Peter, it seems, had to grow into his ministry and his maturation depended upon the painful recognition of his failures. Peter had not loved Jesus but had abandoned Jesus when Peter’s own life was threatened. Peter, who tradition holds, was crucified upside down by the Roman Emperor Nero, was an ordinary human being, who like all of us, was sinful and flawed but to whom Jesus entrusted the message of salvation. Before Peter could proclaim the good news, Peter had to receive the good news.
Receiving the good news that “Christ died for us” is the challenge of Easter. We have journeyed through Lent, remembering “our sins and offenses.” And now in Easter, we are given the good news that “Christ died for us” and we are sent into the world to bear witness to God’s love – chastened like Peter, that we have done wrong and we have been forgiven. And not in some abstract or academic way.
“Do you love me more than these?” Jesus asks Peter and all of us. And yes, Lord, I want to say, I love you, but I also love my husband and children and grandchildren, the esteem of my friends and neighbors, my comfortable lifestyle, my world to make sense, to feel needed, my wisdom and knowledge, my physical well-being, to name just a few of my loves. I love a lot of things Lord. “But do you love me?” Jesus asks.
That question haunts me. Is Jesus asking Peter and us, to fit Jesus in among our many other loves or is Jesus asking Peter to love Jesus before all else? I have a sneaky suspicion Jesus is asking Peter to love Jesus more than anything else. Jesus intruded into Peter’s life claiming lordship and Peter, like all of us, suddenly discovered that Peter had some other loves, most notably Peter’s desire to save his own skin and his unwillingness to die for Jesus.
We have been forgiven and we have been forgiven not because we cheated on our taxes or were unfaithful to our spouse or told a lie. We have been forgiven, because like Peter, we have loved some things more than we have loved God - like family and comfort and the desire to be loved and liked. We have been forgiven because our God is a jealous God and we love many gods.
Peter is hurt this morning and perhaps we are too when we realize that loving God with all of our heart and mind and strength is not as easy as it looks. What we want is a God who is not so demanding, so insistent that we must leave everything behind us in order to be free to follow. We are hurt to know that we, like Peter, have not loved God with all that we are and all that we have. We like Peter, need to be hurt before we can heal; forgiven before we can forgive, saved before we can save.
“Come and have breakfast.” Of all the many verses in the Bible that is my favorite. The last supper was solemn, shadowed by the crucifixion. But this meal is different, alive with the possibilities of a new day. After a long night on duty as a chaplain at MCV, breakfast was always a welcome celebration. The night was over, my shift was ending and eating eggs and bacon with others who had shared in the griefs of the night before was delightful. We were all there –doctors and nurses and chaplains and the house cleaning staff. Through the windows of the cafeteria we all could see the sun coming up. Tired and hungry, we shared a meal together before going home to rest. Nobody ever said much. We were too tired to talk. The last duty I had as a chaplain on those night shifts came at 8:00 a.m.in the chapel when I would review what had happened the night before to those coming on duty. “Gun shot in the ER at 6:00 p.m.” “Death on main nine at 8:00 p.m.” “Car crash in ER at11:00 p.m.” “Brain death declared in neuroscience unit at midnight.” “Premature infant died in PICU at 2:00 a.m.” One morning, the night chaplain lost it altogether, and cried her way through morning report. Most of the time we were able to keep it together and hand off the horror of the night to those who would come after.
When I worked the night shift as a chaplain at MCV I was always glad for breakfast. Glad for food, glad for the end of my shift, glad to see the sun rising on a new day, glad to be getting away from the horrors of inner city Richmond and the ever present question about why God allows horrible things to happen. Breakfast meant I was getting a reprieve, kind of like Peter this morning, who gets a reprieve, a breakfast after which Peter is forgiven for his faithless fears and then sent back into the world to do what he needs to do, to feed God’s sheep and tend God’s lambs.
Sunday, April 14, 2013 Revelation 5:11 – 14
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 21:1-19
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, ‘Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?’ He said to him, ‘Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Feed my lambs.’
John 21: 15
The disciples meet Jesus on the beach this morning, in our reading from the gospel of John. Jesus invites them to a breakfast of bread and fish cooked over a charcoal fire. The last time the disciples gathered with Jesus to share a meal together was on the night before he died, when, in the gospel of John, Jesus washed their feet and commanded them to “love one another as I have loved you.”
A lot has happened between that Last Supper and this morning’s breakfast. Jesus was arrested, tried and crucified. Peter denied knowing Jesus three times. Jesus appeared to Mary three days later at the empty tomb and later appeared to the frightened and disbelieving disciples gathered behind locked doors. But the story is not over for our evangelist John and now Jesus invites the disciples to breakfast after a night of unsuccessful fishing.
After all that has happened, Peter is fishing. Peter was a fisherman long before Peter met Jesus. Perhaps Peter found comfort doing something familiar after all the strange events he had witnessed recently. Or perhaps Peter did not know what to do now, now that Jesus was no longer with him as Jesus had been before. Maybe fishing was the only way Peter knew how to cope with the “new normal.”
More probably, fishing for our evangelist John was a symbolic way of describing the mission of the church - to draw all people into the knowledge and love of God. The disciples catch nothing until the stranger on the shore tells them where to cast their nets. Only then do they find more fish than they can handle and recognize the mysterious stranger as Jesus.
And Peter, true to form, jumps into the water and swims to shore, leaving his companions to do the hard work of hauling in the catch. Peter, who said to Jesus at the last supper, “Lord, I will lay down my life for you,” now, once more, acts quickly to demonstrate his love for Jesus.
But after breakfast, Jesus asks Peter “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” And not once, but three times Jesus asks Peter: “Do you love me?” Three times Peter had denied Jesus over a charcoal fire in the courtyard of the high priest on the eve of the crucifixion and now Peter is asked three times by a charcoal fire to confess his love anew. And Peter is hurt, chastened by Jesus’ repeated question: “Do you love me?”
And each time Jesus asks Peter if Peter loves him, Peter receives, in the words of Bishop Tom Wright, “not a pat on the back,” but “a fresh challenge” and “a new commission.” After each question Jesus tells Peter to “feed my lambs,” “tend my sheep,” and finally “feed my sheep.” In spite of all that Peter has done, Jesus entrusts Peter with a mission and a ministry, the same mission as that of Jesus himself, the good shepherd. Peter is not just forgiven but commissioned, sent into the world to shepherd the flock.
Last Sunday at adult education I shared the following story I had read in a book entitled Christian Belief by Alec Vidler. Vidler writes:
A tradesman in a certain town found that one of his trusted men had been systematically stealing from his warehouse for years. Some people might have been soft and let him off the punishment, which is a kind of indulgence that modern men profess to admire though they seldom practice it themselves. Other people would have hard-boiled and would have cast the culprit adrift. But this man’s employer did neither the one nor the other. He let him be tried and sentenced and sent to prison. But when the man came out of prison his employer was there to greet him with the words: ‘Your place is open for you; come back; we will start afresh.’ And when the man reached home, he found his wages had been paid in full to his wife all the time he had been in prison. He was punished; but he was forgiven, and creatively forgiven. The forgiveness of God is like that.
And that is the way Jesus forgives Peter this morning, not ignoring his failures but entrusting to him the ministry of pastoring the church. Jesus has, in the words of Vidler, raised Peter “from a condition of abject shame to wondering gratitude.”
Peter, it seems, had to grow into his ministry and his maturation depended upon the painful recognition of his failures. Peter had not loved Jesus but had abandoned Jesus when Peter’s own life was threatened. Peter, who tradition holds, was crucified upside down by the Roman Emperor Nero, was an ordinary human being, who like all of us, was sinful and flawed but to whom Jesus entrusted the message of salvation. Before Peter could proclaim the good news, Peter had to receive the good news.
Receiving the good news that “Christ died for us” is the challenge of Easter. We have journeyed through Lent, remembering “our sins and offenses.” And now in Easter, we are given the good news that “Christ died for us” and we are sent into the world to bear witness to God’s love – chastened like Peter, that we have done wrong and we have been forgiven. And not in some abstract or academic way.
“Do you love me more than these?” Jesus asks Peter and all of us. And yes, Lord, I want to say, I love you, but I also love my husband and children and grandchildren, the esteem of my friends and neighbors, my comfortable lifestyle, my world to make sense, to feel needed, my wisdom and knowledge, my physical well-being, to name just a few of my loves. I love a lot of things Lord. “But do you love me?” Jesus asks.
That question haunts me. Is Jesus asking Peter and us, to fit Jesus in among our many other loves or is Jesus asking Peter to love Jesus before all else? I have a sneaky suspicion Jesus is asking Peter to love Jesus more than anything else. Jesus intruded into Peter’s life claiming lordship and Peter, like all of us, suddenly discovered that Peter had some other loves, most notably Peter’s desire to save his own skin and his unwillingness to die for Jesus.
We have been forgiven and we have been forgiven not because we cheated on our taxes or were unfaithful to our spouse or told a lie. We have been forgiven, because like Peter, we have loved some things more than we have loved God - like family and comfort and the desire to be loved and liked. We have been forgiven because our God is a jealous God and we love many gods.
Peter is hurt this morning and perhaps we are too when we realize that loving God with all of our heart and mind and strength is not as easy as it looks. What we want is a God who is not so demanding, so insistent that we must leave everything behind us in order to be free to follow. We are hurt to know that we, like Peter, have not loved God with all that we are and all that we have. We like Peter, need to be hurt before we can heal; forgiven before we can forgive, saved before we can save.
“Come and have breakfast.” Of all the many verses in the Bible that is my favorite. The last supper was solemn, shadowed by the crucifixion. But this meal is different, alive with the possibilities of a new day. After a long night on duty as a chaplain at MCV, breakfast was always a welcome celebration. The night was over, my shift was ending and eating eggs and bacon with others who had shared in the griefs of the night before was delightful. We were all there –doctors and nurses and chaplains and the house cleaning staff. Through the windows of the cafeteria we all could see the sun coming up. Tired and hungry, we shared a meal together before going home to rest. Nobody ever said much. We were too tired to talk. The last duty I had as a chaplain on those night shifts came at 8:00 a.m.in the chapel when I would review what had happened the night before to those coming on duty. “Gun shot in the ER at 6:00 p.m.” “Death on main nine at 8:00 p.m.” “Car crash in ER at11:00 p.m.” “Brain death declared in neuroscience unit at midnight.” “Premature infant died in PICU at 2:00 a.m.” One morning, the night chaplain lost it altogether, and cried her way through morning report. Most of the time we were able to keep it together and hand off the horror of the night to those who would come after.
When I worked the night shift as a chaplain at MCV I was always glad for breakfast. Glad for food, glad for the end of my shift, glad to see the sun rising on a new day, glad to be getting away from the horrors of inner city Richmond and the ever present question about why God allows horrible things to happen. Breakfast meant I was getting a reprieve, kind of like Peter this morning, who gets a reprieve, a breakfast after which Peter is forgiven for his faithless fears and then sent back into the world to do what he needs to do, to feed God’s sheep and tend God’s lambs.
The Fourth Sunday of Easter Acts 9:36- 43
April 21, 2013 Revelation 7: 9 – 17
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 10: 22 -30
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want.”
Psalm 23: 1
Blood ran in the streets of Boston this past Monday as two bombs exploded during the Boston Marathon. Scores of people were injured, three people died, one of whom was eight years old, and runners lost their legs to flying shrapnel. As families and friends stood at the finish line, cheering those who completed the twenty-six mile race, first one explosion and then another, transformed an occasion of joy into a nightmare.
Now this morning we celebrate Jesus as “the good shepherd of God’s people,” in the words of our opening collect, hearing the familiar words of the twenty-third psalm: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want.” “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” the psalmist continues, “I shall fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” The shadow of death darkened Boston on Monday and a Texas farm town on Wednesday night when a fertilizer plant exploded.
“Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” the psalmist ends, “and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” The words we hear this morning are words we often hear at funerals and after this week of tragedy, words of hope in the midst of a world awash in grief, words of faith in a world filled with fear.
On Monday, at the Boston marathon, emergency medical personnel were on site to assist over-heated and exhausted runners. When the bombs exploded, their mission changed and they pushed over barriers to help those who had been injured in the explosions. Folk used the lanyards to which their ID’s were attached as tourniquets. And Google established a site to help folk connect with those at the marathon, folk anxious to know what was happening but hampered by overworked cell phone towers. On Monday, we did see death and destruction and fear, but we also saw something else – we saw life and love and acts of faith as folk offered help to the injured sometimes at the risk of their own lives.
We are in the midst of Easter, a season in which we proclaim: “Alleluia! The Lord is risen. The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!” But on Monday, we got a very graphic picture that we are proclaiming our Easter message of the risen Christ life - the good shepherd - in a world besieged by death and destruction and fear. During Easter we affirm that Christ is risen, raised from the dead into new life, and on Monday we watched in horror, yet again, as the world in which we live was brought to grief and chaos and death and destruction. What happened on Monday is not new – what happened on Monday happened in Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941; in Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995, and in New York City on September 11, 2001, to name just a few. And whether or not the perpetrators of the explosions in Boston on Monday are brought to justice, the battle between the goodness and mercy of the good shepherd and the ugliness and hatred that would “snatch” that away in our reading from the gospel of John, will go on.
The Boston marathon was iconic in lots of ways. Saint Paul uses the metaphor of a race to describe our life of faith in his First letter to the Corinthians saying:
Do you not know that in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may win it. Athletes exercise self-control in all things; they do it to receive a perishable garland, but we an imperishable one.
And in the letter to the Hebrews we read:
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.
Faith is like running a race –a race against fear and hopelessness and despair. And for the sake of what? For the sake of the joy of the kingdom of God, in the words of the letter to the Hebrews; the “springs of the water of life,” in the words we hear this morning from the book of Revelation. What we are running towards is the kingdom of God, a kingdom in which “God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”
Today we proclaim our faith in a world paralyzed by fear. With each new encounter with evil, our response is to ramp up security measures and pass more legislation. And whereas, those actions hopefully will save lives, no act of Congress nor any enhancement of video surveillance will ever eradicate evil. Only God can do that which is why we pray every Sunday in the Lord’s Prayer to be “delivered from evil.”
In the meantime, you are I are running a race, a race of faith, tasked over and over again to take the risk that we are running toward a kingdom of joy and peace and justice not just for some but for all. Faith keeps us running; fear puts us on the sidelines.
Some of the runners in the Boston marathon were in wheelchairs. Not all the participants had two strong legs. Next year, I suspect, some who ran in this year’s race on two legs, will run again but from a wheel chair. And between this year and next, amputees will need to learn to live in a new way, parents will have to comfort traumatized children who watched this horror, jobs will be lost and savings depleted to pay medical bills. You and I saw only the tip of the iceberg on Monday. The losses will be huge and the griefs unimaginable and most of us will never know the depth of what happened on Monday.
Some folk may just give up. If I found my joy in running and lost my legs I might fear that God is my shepherd and that I shall not be in want. I am not sure I would trust that God was leading me beside still waters. I would be afraid, afraid of the future, afraid I could not cope in a world that was suddenly very different from the one I had always known. I am not sure if I was a runner and I lost my legs on Monday if I would participate in the 2014 marathon.
But many, I suspect, will endure, doing the hard work of struggling to find new life after all that they have lost. That there is new life on the far side of suffering and grief is the message of Easter. That God is the good shepherd and “will lead us beside still waters” is God’s promise to us and one we can choose to trust in or despair of ever knowing. Fear tempts us to believe that the goodness and mercy of God will not follow us all the days of our lives; faith knows otherwise.
“We Got Him” was the front page headline on yesterday’s Richmond Times Dispatch. The city of Boston was jubilant as were others all over the country. Boston, whose mass transit system had been shut down and whose one million inhabitants had been warned to stay in their homes, was no longer hostage to the fear of another attack. After a week of wondering when the nightmare might end, Boston was celebrating Friday night.
But on Monday as chaos descended upon Boston, no one knew what was happening nor what might happen in the hours and days to come. In the midst of that uncertainty, though, strangers helped one another, tying tourniquets, bandaging wounds and connecting folk with loved ones. In the midst of the fear of Monday, folk responded with compassion and love.
Life in this world is uncertain and will be until God’s kingdom comes. We can choose to live in fear or we can choose to live in faith, anticipating with our psalmist that “surely God’s goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our life.” We can risk loving our neighbors as ourselves even if those neighbors turn out to be our enemies because the Lord is a good shepherd we shall never be in want. Indeed, “in the presence of those who trouble me” the Lord will spread a table before us, feeding us with bread and wine to give us “strength and courage” to follow the Lord wherever he leads us.
April 21, 2013 Revelation 7: 9 – 17
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 10: 22 -30
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want.”
Psalm 23: 1
Blood ran in the streets of Boston this past Monday as two bombs exploded during the Boston Marathon. Scores of people were injured, three people died, one of whom was eight years old, and runners lost their legs to flying shrapnel. As families and friends stood at the finish line, cheering those who completed the twenty-six mile race, first one explosion and then another, transformed an occasion of joy into a nightmare.
Now this morning we celebrate Jesus as “the good shepherd of God’s people,” in the words of our opening collect, hearing the familiar words of the twenty-third psalm: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want.” “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” the psalmist continues, “I shall fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” The shadow of death darkened Boston on Monday and a Texas farm town on Wednesday night when a fertilizer plant exploded.
“Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” the psalmist ends, “and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” The words we hear this morning are words we often hear at funerals and after this week of tragedy, words of hope in the midst of a world awash in grief, words of faith in a world filled with fear.
On Monday, at the Boston marathon, emergency medical personnel were on site to assist over-heated and exhausted runners. When the bombs exploded, their mission changed and they pushed over barriers to help those who had been injured in the explosions. Folk used the lanyards to which their ID’s were attached as tourniquets. And Google established a site to help folk connect with those at the marathon, folk anxious to know what was happening but hampered by overworked cell phone towers. On Monday, we did see death and destruction and fear, but we also saw something else – we saw life and love and acts of faith as folk offered help to the injured sometimes at the risk of their own lives.
We are in the midst of Easter, a season in which we proclaim: “Alleluia! The Lord is risen. The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!” But on Monday, we got a very graphic picture that we are proclaiming our Easter message of the risen Christ life - the good shepherd - in a world besieged by death and destruction and fear. During Easter we affirm that Christ is risen, raised from the dead into new life, and on Monday we watched in horror, yet again, as the world in which we live was brought to grief and chaos and death and destruction. What happened on Monday is not new – what happened on Monday happened in Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941; in Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995, and in New York City on September 11, 2001, to name just a few. And whether or not the perpetrators of the explosions in Boston on Monday are brought to justice, the battle between the goodness and mercy of the good shepherd and the ugliness and hatred that would “snatch” that away in our reading from the gospel of John, will go on.
The Boston marathon was iconic in lots of ways. Saint Paul uses the metaphor of a race to describe our life of faith in his First letter to the Corinthians saying:
Do you not know that in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may win it. Athletes exercise self-control in all things; they do it to receive a perishable garland, but we an imperishable one.
And in the letter to the Hebrews we read:
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.
Faith is like running a race –a race against fear and hopelessness and despair. And for the sake of what? For the sake of the joy of the kingdom of God, in the words of the letter to the Hebrews; the “springs of the water of life,” in the words we hear this morning from the book of Revelation. What we are running towards is the kingdom of God, a kingdom in which “God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”
Today we proclaim our faith in a world paralyzed by fear. With each new encounter with evil, our response is to ramp up security measures and pass more legislation. And whereas, those actions hopefully will save lives, no act of Congress nor any enhancement of video surveillance will ever eradicate evil. Only God can do that which is why we pray every Sunday in the Lord’s Prayer to be “delivered from evil.”
In the meantime, you are I are running a race, a race of faith, tasked over and over again to take the risk that we are running toward a kingdom of joy and peace and justice not just for some but for all. Faith keeps us running; fear puts us on the sidelines.
Some of the runners in the Boston marathon were in wheelchairs. Not all the participants had two strong legs. Next year, I suspect, some who ran in this year’s race on two legs, will run again but from a wheel chair. And between this year and next, amputees will need to learn to live in a new way, parents will have to comfort traumatized children who watched this horror, jobs will be lost and savings depleted to pay medical bills. You and I saw only the tip of the iceberg on Monday. The losses will be huge and the griefs unimaginable and most of us will never know the depth of what happened on Monday.
Some folk may just give up. If I found my joy in running and lost my legs I might fear that God is my shepherd and that I shall not be in want. I am not sure I would trust that God was leading me beside still waters. I would be afraid, afraid of the future, afraid I could not cope in a world that was suddenly very different from the one I had always known. I am not sure if I was a runner and I lost my legs on Monday if I would participate in the 2014 marathon.
But many, I suspect, will endure, doing the hard work of struggling to find new life after all that they have lost. That there is new life on the far side of suffering and grief is the message of Easter. That God is the good shepherd and “will lead us beside still waters” is God’s promise to us and one we can choose to trust in or despair of ever knowing. Fear tempts us to believe that the goodness and mercy of God will not follow us all the days of our lives; faith knows otherwise.
“We Got Him” was the front page headline on yesterday’s Richmond Times Dispatch. The city of Boston was jubilant as were others all over the country. Boston, whose mass transit system had been shut down and whose one million inhabitants had been warned to stay in their homes, was no longer hostage to the fear of another attack. After a week of wondering when the nightmare might end, Boston was celebrating Friday night.
But on Monday as chaos descended upon Boston, no one knew what was happening nor what might happen in the hours and days to come. In the midst of that uncertainty, though, strangers helped one another, tying tourniquets, bandaging wounds and connecting folk with loved ones. In the midst of the fear of Monday, folk responded with compassion and love.
Life in this world is uncertain and will be until God’s kingdom comes. We can choose to live in fear or we can choose to live in faith, anticipating with our psalmist that “surely God’s goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our life.” We can risk loving our neighbors as ourselves even if those neighbors turn out to be our enemies because the Lord is a good shepherd we shall never be in want. Indeed, “in the presence of those who trouble me” the Lord will spread a table before us, feeding us with bread and wine to give us “strength and courage” to follow the Lord wherever he leads us.
The Fifth Sunday of Easter Acts 11: 1 – 18
Sunday, April 28, 2013 Revelation 21: 1 -6
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 13: 31- 35
I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.
John13: 34
In 1922, Margery Williams wrote what soon became a popular children’s book called The Velveteen Rabbit. In the story of The Velveteen Rabbit we meet two stuffed animals, a velveteen Rabbit and a Skin Horse. The Rabbit and the Skin Horse live in the nursery of a little boy. The Skin Horse has been in the nursery for a long time and is very wise. The Rabbit is brand new. And the Rabbit wants to know how he can become REAL. The Rabbit wants to be more than just a toy made of velveteen and filled with stuffing. The Rabbit wants to be real, to be a living thing.
And the Skin Horse says to the Rabbit: “When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.” “Real isn’t how you are made,” the Skin Horse continues, “It’s a thing that happens to you.” Love, the Skin Horse knows from his many years in the nursery, is what gives us life. Life is not what we have because our heart is beating; life is what we receive when we are loved and that can happen even to a velveteen rabbit.
This morning in our reading from the gospel of John, on the eve of the crucifixion, Jesus is taking leave from his disciples. Jesus will no longer be with them as Jesus has been up until now and Jesus gives the disciples one final instruction – a new commandment – “that you love one another as I have loved you. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” The community that Jesus leaves behind is to be bound together by love, the same kind of love that bound Jesus to God, whom he called “Father.”
The communion of love that the disciples are commanded to be will make God’s love real in the world, will bring to life in this world that life of love which is God’s eternal nature, a reflection of God’s life of love as Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
And as the disciples seek to be a reflection in this world of God’s own life of love, the disciples will discover that their love for one another is what brings them to life and makes them “real.” In loving and being loved, the disciples will be “born from above,” given a second birth, a birthing not by human mothers but by God.
The Skin Horse in The Velveteen Rabbit was wise. The Skin Horse knew that when we are loved we become REAL, particular and irreplaceable persons in this vast cosmos of creation. The Skin Horse knew that when we are loved, we become chosen. That was true of the people of Israel who God loved and true for the disciples to whom Jesus says in the gospel of John: “You did not choose me, but I chose you.” We do not choose one another and we do not choose whom to love. We are given one to another by God and commanded to love. And when we do love and are loved, we discover something about the glory of God in whose image we are created.
After learning from the wise Skin Horse that to become REAL, one must be loved, the Rabbit then asks the Skin Horse: “Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.” When we open ourselves to love, we also open ourselves to being hurt. But, as far as the Skin Horse is concerned, being real and coming to life is far more wonderful than any hurt we may have to endure as we love and are loved.
Love does not come without pain. Jesus gives his disciples this commandment “to love one another” as Judas goes out to betray him, on the eve of his death. The love Jesus commands the disciples to show towards one another will be life-giving to them and to the world, but like a birth, will not be without struggle and pain. In the story of The Velveteen Rabbit, the wise Skin Horse tells the Rabbit that becoming REAL, coming to life “doesn’t happen all at once. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” If you dare to love and be loved, the Skin Horse reminds us, you simply are not going to look the same at the end of the day. You will be a little bit shabbier. A little bit more real, a little bit more human, a little bit more like God who knows what is it like to be human because God once was.
We live in a selfish world, a world that believes we can somehow be something all by ourselves. We are nothing unless someone loves us. And when we are loved we become the REAL persons we all long to be. When we love we come alive, just as the Rabbit could only become REAL by the love of a little boy. We, all of us in this room, have a message to share with this selfish world. You and I need to tell this selfish world that loving and being loved is really what life is all about.
But if we tell the truth about love, we will also have to say that love comes with a cost. The love Jesus commands us to show one another is not the romantic ideal of a Hallmark card. The word Jesus uses for love in our reading this morning is agape – a self-giving love of the kind that led Jesus to “lay down his life for his friends.” Loving one another will mean we will need to “hold gently” our convictions and opinions no matter how “right” they may be. No one of us holds the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth when we speak of God’s will and ways. We all, in the words of Saint Paul, “see through a mirror dimly.” When we seek to love others as Christ loved us, we will discover we all have some “sharp edges” – boundaries that separate us one from another. Boundaries are a good thing, distinguishing us from others. But boundaries can ossify into barriers that refuse, no matter what, to allow others in. Boundaries can be brick walls or rivers we might be able to swim across given enough time and patience.
The kingdom of God is not a cosmic nursery in which people rest placidly together like the stuffed animals in a child’s toy box. The kingdom of God is alive with the love of God for each and every one of us. In the kingdom of God, all of us are very real and dearly beloved creatures of God, called to love one another and bring forth the life God intends for God’s world. The kingdom of God is a kingdom of joy and peace and justice and truth and the way to God’s kingdom is the way of love. When we love, we catch a glimpse of God’s kingdom. When we love, we get a taste of a world where “Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more,” in the words of Revelation which we hear this morning. When we love, God feeds us from the riches of God’s kingdom and, once we have tasted of God’s kingdom, this world will never taste the same. When we love, we take our place at the wondrous banquet God has prepared for all of us. When we love we discover the life God so wants for all of us.
All of us bring to our common life some experience with loving and being loved. Those experiences may have brought us great joy or great grief, been bitter or sweet or a bit of both. What is true, though, for all of us, is that not one of us will ever be able to love perfectly, the way Christ loved us. We all will always be “imperfect” lovers. In the crucible of sharing a common life together in the church, our imperfections and those of others will be a constant reminder that the church exists by the grace of God and not because we keep our budget balanced or because the vestry will always make wise decisions or that your priest-in-charge will always do the “right” thing. Indeed, we will be able to count on only two things - we will all make mistakes and God will always be faithful.
I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.
As we take those words to heart and strive to be the people God wants us to be, let us keep in mind that everything we say and do is grounded in gratitude – gratitude for the air we breathe, the mystery of love and for all of God’s very good creation which includes each and every one of us. We are a people of joy and thanksgiving in the midst of a world whose joy is too often found in the perfect pizza or the perfect beer or the right dress or a snazzy car or our bank statements. The joy God wishes us to enjoy is the joy of being together, a joy we share in every Sunday and make real not just on Sunday’s but through the week as we gather for choir practice and vestry meetings and Bible study and meetings of the ECM and ECW and community suppers. Give thanks this day for our common life and to the God who has called us together and commanded us to love one another as Christ loves us.
Sunday, April 28, 2013 Revelation 21: 1 -6
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 13: 31- 35
I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.
John13: 34
In 1922, Margery Williams wrote what soon became a popular children’s book called The Velveteen Rabbit. In the story of The Velveteen Rabbit we meet two stuffed animals, a velveteen Rabbit and a Skin Horse. The Rabbit and the Skin Horse live in the nursery of a little boy. The Skin Horse has been in the nursery for a long time and is very wise. The Rabbit is brand new. And the Rabbit wants to know how he can become REAL. The Rabbit wants to be more than just a toy made of velveteen and filled with stuffing. The Rabbit wants to be real, to be a living thing.
And the Skin Horse says to the Rabbit: “When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.” “Real isn’t how you are made,” the Skin Horse continues, “It’s a thing that happens to you.” Love, the Skin Horse knows from his many years in the nursery, is what gives us life. Life is not what we have because our heart is beating; life is what we receive when we are loved and that can happen even to a velveteen rabbit.
This morning in our reading from the gospel of John, on the eve of the crucifixion, Jesus is taking leave from his disciples. Jesus will no longer be with them as Jesus has been up until now and Jesus gives the disciples one final instruction – a new commandment – “that you love one another as I have loved you. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” The community that Jesus leaves behind is to be bound together by love, the same kind of love that bound Jesus to God, whom he called “Father.”
The communion of love that the disciples are commanded to be will make God’s love real in the world, will bring to life in this world that life of love which is God’s eternal nature, a reflection of God’s life of love as Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
And as the disciples seek to be a reflection in this world of God’s own life of love, the disciples will discover that their love for one another is what brings them to life and makes them “real.” In loving and being loved, the disciples will be “born from above,” given a second birth, a birthing not by human mothers but by God.
The Skin Horse in The Velveteen Rabbit was wise. The Skin Horse knew that when we are loved we become REAL, particular and irreplaceable persons in this vast cosmos of creation. The Skin Horse knew that when we are loved, we become chosen. That was true of the people of Israel who God loved and true for the disciples to whom Jesus says in the gospel of John: “You did not choose me, but I chose you.” We do not choose one another and we do not choose whom to love. We are given one to another by God and commanded to love. And when we do love and are loved, we discover something about the glory of God in whose image we are created.
After learning from the wise Skin Horse that to become REAL, one must be loved, the Rabbit then asks the Skin Horse: “Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.” When we open ourselves to love, we also open ourselves to being hurt. But, as far as the Skin Horse is concerned, being real and coming to life is far more wonderful than any hurt we may have to endure as we love and are loved.
Love does not come without pain. Jesus gives his disciples this commandment “to love one another” as Judas goes out to betray him, on the eve of his death. The love Jesus commands the disciples to show towards one another will be life-giving to them and to the world, but like a birth, will not be without struggle and pain. In the story of The Velveteen Rabbit, the wise Skin Horse tells the Rabbit that becoming REAL, coming to life “doesn’t happen all at once. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” If you dare to love and be loved, the Skin Horse reminds us, you simply are not going to look the same at the end of the day. You will be a little bit shabbier. A little bit more real, a little bit more human, a little bit more like God who knows what is it like to be human because God once was.
We live in a selfish world, a world that believes we can somehow be something all by ourselves. We are nothing unless someone loves us. And when we are loved we become the REAL persons we all long to be. When we love we come alive, just as the Rabbit could only become REAL by the love of a little boy. We, all of us in this room, have a message to share with this selfish world. You and I need to tell this selfish world that loving and being loved is really what life is all about.
But if we tell the truth about love, we will also have to say that love comes with a cost. The love Jesus commands us to show one another is not the romantic ideal of a Hallmark card. The word Jesus uses for love in our reading this morning is agape – a self-giving love of the kind that led Jesus to “lay down his life for his friends.” Loving one another will mean we will need to “hold gently” our convictions and opinions no matter how “right” they may be. No one of us holds the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth when we speak of God’s will and ways. We all, in the words of Saint Paul, “see through a mirror dimly.” When we seek to love others as Christ loved us, we will discover we all have some “sharp edges” – boundaries that separate us one from another. Boundaries are a good thing, distinguishing us from others. But boundaries can ossify into barriers that refuse, no matter what, to allow others in. Boundaries can be brick walls or rivers we might be able to swim across given enough time and patience.
The kingdom of God is not a cosmic nursery in which people rest placidly together like the stuffed animals in a child’s toy box. The kingdom of God is alive with the love of God for each and every one of us. In the kingdom of God, all of us are very real and dearly beloved creatures of God, called to love one another and bring forth the life God intends for God’s world. The kingdom of God is a kingdom of joy and peace and justice and truth and the way to God’s kingdom is the way of love. When we love, we catch a glimpse of God’s kingdom. When we love, we get a taste of a world where “Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more,” in the words of Revelation which we hear this morning. When we love, God feeds us from the riches of God’s kingdom and, once we have tasted of God’s kingdom, this world will never taste the same. When we love, we take our place at the wondrous banquet God has prepared for all of us. When we love we discover the life God so wants for all of us.
All of us bring to our common life some experience with loving and being loved. Those experiences may have brought us great joy or great grief, been bitter or sweet or a bit of both. What is true, though, for all of us, is that not one of us will ever be able to love perfectly, the way Christ loved us. We all will always be “imperfect” lovers. In the crucible of sharing a common life together in the church, our imperfections and those of others will be a constant reminder that the church exists by the grace of God and not because we keep our budget balanced or because the vestry will always make wise decisions or that your priest-in-charge will always do the “right” thing. Indeed, we will be able to count on only two things - we will all make mistakes and God will always be faithful.
I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.
As we take those words to heart and strive to be the people God wants us to be, let us keep in mind that everything we say and do is grounded in gratitude – gratitude for the air we breathe, the mystery of love and for all of God’s very good creation which includes each and every one of us. We are a people of joy and thanksgiving in the midst of a world whose joy is too often found in the perfect pizza or the perfect beer or the right dress or a snazzy car or our bank statements. The joy God wishes us to enjoy is the joy of being together, a joy we share in every Sunday and make real not just on Sunday’s but through the week as we gather for choir practice and vestry meetings and Bible study and meetings of the ECM and ECW and community suppers. Give thanks this day for our common life and to the God who has called us together and commanded us to love one another as Christ loves us.
The Seventh Sunday of Easter Acts 16: 16 – 34
Sunday, May 12, 2013 Revelation 22: 12 – 14, 16 – 17, 20 – 21
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 17: 20 – 26
“I ask not only on behalf of these, but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word,”
John 17: 20
Just off the west coast of Scotland is a small island of about three and a half square miles known as the Isle of Iona. Iona is remote, surrounded by the sea and swept by the wind. In 563 A.D. an Irish monk named Columba traveled to Iona where he established a monastery, preaching the gospel to the native Picts of Scotland. For fifteen hundred years, the ancient stone crosses of Iona have weathered the vicissitudes of history, politics and theology, continuing to stand to this day. The present abbey on Iona is now an ecumenical community offering hospitality to pilgrims from all over the world. About ten days ago, A.G. and I worshipped in a small chapel on Iona, visitors sharing in the eucharist which has been celebrated on that small island since the sixth century.
This morning we hear from the seventeenth chapter of the gospel of John, a chapter in which Jesus prays for himself, then for his disciples and finally for those who will come after the disciples – for all those “who will believe in me,” Jesus prays, “through their word.” Jesus prays for us this morning, all of us who have come to faith long after those first disciples proclaimed the message of the resurrection for the first time. And for two thousand years, the gospel has been handed down from one generation to another, inspiring many, confounding others, fueling both war and peace, justice and injustice, mercy as well as misery. You and I are the newcomers this morning, the latest members of a Church that has persisted for centuries, and this morning Jesus is praying for us.
I am not sure what I expected to find on the Isle of Iona. I received no visions and nothing miraculous happened while I was there. Indeed, while the island is beautiful, so too are many other remote places in Scotland. What I did receive was a very real sense of our Christian history, a history that stretches back in time and that has shaped us and formed us in ways we will never fully understand. The “word” that we have received has been colored and shaded not just by saints such at Columba but by ordinary folk who have lived and died in the mystery of faith. You and I will also color the faith, passing on a faith shaded by the context of our time and place. We are heirs of a rich history, a history peopled by saints and sinners, monks and nuns and kings and slaves, the learned and the ignorant, the rich and the poor and “all sorts and conditions of men” in the words of one of our collects. Each in their own way has left their mark on the faith which we have received and so will we.
The great mystery I encountered on Iona is the mystery of the Church. For two thousand years, the Church has persisted in spite of wars and rumors of war, revolts and reformation, scandal and persecution, sometimes in poverty and sometimes in abundance, laced with cowards and criminals as well as martyrs. That the Church continues to exist is nothing short of an act of God.
Many decry the “institutional” church, preferring something more “spiritual” and less “religious.” Listening to scripture, singing hymns, and reciting the Creed is, for many, a distinctly non-spiritual experience, a hindrance to our experience of the divine. Why come to church when we can experience the unmediated presence of God watching the sun rise on a beach or standing beneath a starry sky? For many, the Church does more to mask the presence of God than to reveal the presence of God to us. And clearly the Church through its long history has often done just that.
On the other hand, the Church has long confessed that in Christ, God was most perfectly and completely revealed. You and I cannot know God unless God reveals Godself to us and God did so most fully in Christ. As we gather together to hear scripture, to sing and to pray and to share in the Eucharist, we are in the presence of God made known to us in Christ. That we may not always “feel the Spirit of God” as we gather together for worship is undoubtedly due to our limitations and not God’s. The service of the Church is and always will be in human hands and sometimes those hands are not especially inspired.
The amazement is not that God can and does reveal Godself to us outside of the Church but rather that after two thousand years you and I are still doing what Saint Columba did fifteen hundred years ago – hearing scripture, praying and singing and sharing bread and wine. In my book, that is a miracle. The Church has been given through the centuries many reasons to shipwreck and although divided at present has never gone out of business. Like those ancient Celtic crosses on the Isle of Iona, the Church has weathered countless human hands and persists.
The Church is changing and many wonder what the Church will look like a hundred years from now. Facebook and Twitter have changed the way we connect with one another and buildings are becoming a bit less important. Saint Columba built the Church on Iona with stones because stones were what he had been given. You and I are heirs of a building built with brick in which many of us now bring our Ipads to worship. You and I connect no longer over tea and tables but over the internet. What worship may look like in the next hundred years is anybody’s guess but the Church will persist in one way or another because the Church is grounded and rooted in the grace of God. As one of my seminary professors once said, “Don’t worry. The bottom will hold.”
My Protestant grandmother thought the end of civilization had arrived with the inauguration of the Catholic president John Kennedy. Many felt the same when we began to ordain women priests. Some still feel that the Golden Age of the Church ended when we adopted The 1979 Book of Common Prayer. None of those events were foreseen by Saint Columba whose concerns were very different from ours but whose life, like ours, was shaped by the gospel he inherited and which he passed on to the next generation.
Indeed, the Isle of Iona was, for Saint Columba, not the quest of a spiritual pilgrimage but a place of exile. Columba had become frustrated by the clan fighting in Ireland and had taken up arms, killing as many as three thousand men. The Irish Church excommunicated Columba who then set sail to Scotland. That Iona now is place where many find peace and solace can only be attributed to the hand of God through whom “all things are possible,” in the words of the gospels.
You and I abide in a wondrous and glorious mystery that we call Church. Set on fire following the Resurrection – a mystery we will celebrate next Sunday on Pentecost – the Church has persisted from one age to the next, enduring good times and bad, faithful leaders and just plain crooks, good decisions and bad decisions and all manner of decisions in between. God in God’s wisdom, left the Church in human hands but did not walk away. And what you and I participate in is nothing short of a miracle.
We have a vestry meeting this week and I daresay most of us would not call such gatherings spiritual highs. I doubt this Thursday will be fraught with anything as significant as excommunicating someone for killing three thousand souls. But we will on Thursday endeavor to do the work God has given us to do in this time and place. After standing on Iona, I am convinced that what we do is neither mundane nor ordinary but rather something extraordinary as we take our place within God’s grand design.
At times we will agonize and fret and flounder. And at other times we will celebrate. We will not re-write the Creed nor found a new monastic order. We will not take leave of either The Book of Common Prayer or the direction of our Bishops. We will strive to be faithful in this time and place. We will, as the canons direct us, replace prayer books as needed and take up alms for the poor. We will keep on keeping on as we say. We will, as a parish, probably do nothing especially noteworthy in the scheme of things. We will have our dramas and crises as all parishes do but they will not end the witness of the church. We will, in the words of our baptismal covenant, “continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers.” And we will do so by the grace of God.
We will live and we will die, as did Saint Columba, in the mystery of faith, surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, who from generation to generation, have, in the words of Saint Paul, “given glory to God in the Church, and in Christ Jesus forever and ever.”
Sunday, May 12, 2013 Revelation 22: 12 – 14, 16 – 17, 20 – 21
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 17: 20 – 26
“I ask not only on behalf of these, but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word,”
John 17: 20
Just off the west coast of Scotland is a small island of about three and a half square miles known as the Isle of Iona. Iona is remote, surrounded by the sea and swept by the wind. In 563 A.D. an Irish monk named Columba traveled to Iona where he established a monastery, preaching the gospel to the native Picts of Scotland. For fifteen hundred years, the ancient stone crosses of Iona have weathered the vicissitudes of history, politics and theology, continuing to stand to this day. The present abbey on Iona is now an ecumenical community offering hospitality to pilgrims from all over the world. About ten days ago, A.G. and I worshipped in a small chapel on Iona, visitors sharing in the eucharist which has been celebrated on that small island since the sixth century.
This morning we hear from the seventeenth chapter of the gospel of John, a chapter in which Jesus prays for himself, then for his disciples and finally for those who will come after the disciples – for all those “who will believe in me,” Jesus prays, “through their word.” Jesus prays for us this morning, all of us who have come to faith long after those first disciples proclaimed the message of the resurrection for the first time. And for two thousand years, the gospel has been handed down from one generation to another, inspiring many, confounding others, fueling both war and peace, justice and injustice, mercy as well as misery. You and I are the newcomers this morning, the latest members of a Church that has persisted for centuries, and this morning Jesus is praying for us.
I am not sure what I expected to find on the Isle of Iona. I received no visions and nothing miraculous happened while I was there. Indeed, while the island is beautiful, so too are many other remote places in Scotland. What I did receive was a very real sense of our Christian history, a history that stretches back in time and that has shaped us and formed us in ways we will never fully understand. The “word” that we have received has been colored and shaded not just by saints such at Columba but by ordinary folk who have lived and died in the mystery of faith. You and I will also color the faith, passing on a faith shaded by the context of our time and place. We are heirs of a rich history, a history peopled by saints and sinners, monks and nuns and kings and slaves, the learned and the ignorant, the rich and the poor and “all sorts and conditions of men” in the words of one of our collects. Each in their own way has left their mark on the faith which we have received and so will we.
The great mystery I encountered on Iona is the mystery of the Church. For two thousand years, the Church has persisted in spite of wars and rumors of war, revolts and reformation, scandal and persecution, sometimes in poverty and sometimes in abundance, laced with cowards and criminals as well as martyrs. That the Church continues to exist is nothing short of an act of God.
Many decry the “institutional” church, preferring something more “spiritual” and less “religious.” Listening to scripture, singing hymns, and reciting the Creed is, for many, a distinctly non-spiritual experience, a hindrance to our experience of the divine. Why come to church when we can experience the unmediated presence of God watching the sun rise on a beach or standing beneath a starry sky? For many, the Church does more to mask the presence of God than to reveal the presence of God to us. And clearly the Church through its long history has often done just that.
On the other hand, the Church has long confessed that in Christ, God was most perfectly and completely revealed. You and I cannot know God unless God reveals Godself to us and God did so most fully in Christ. As we gather together to hear scripture, to sing and to pray and to share in the Eucharist, we are in the presence of God made known to us in Christ. That we may not always “feel the Spirit of God” as we gather together for worship is undoubtedly due to our limitations and not God’s. The service of the Church is and always will be in human hands and sometimes those hands are not especially inspired.
The amazement is not that God can and does reveal Godself to us outside of the Church but rather that after two thousand years you and I are still doing what Saint Columba did fifteen hundred years ago – hearing scripture, praying and singing and sharing bread and wine. In my book, that is a miracle. The Church has been given through the centuries many reasons to shipwreck and although divided at present has never gone out of business. Like those ancient Celtic crosses on the Isle of Iona, the Church has weathered countless human hands and persists.
The Church is changing and many wonder what the Church will look like a hundred years from now. Facebook and Twitter have changed the way we connect with one another and buildings are becoming a bit less important. Saint Columba built the Church on Iona with stones because stones were what he had been given. You and I are heirs of a building built with brick in which many of us now bring our Ipads to worship. You and I connect no longer over tea and tables but over the internet. What worship may look like in the next hundred years is anybody’s guess but the Church will persist in one way or another because the Church is grounded and rooted in the grace of God. As one of my seminary professors once said, “Don’t worry. The bottom will hold.”
My Protestant grandmother thought the end of civilization had arrived with the inauguration of the Catholic president John Kennedy. Many felt the same when we began to ordain women priests. Some still feel that the Golden Age of the Church ended when we adopted The 1979 Book of Common Prayer. None of those events were foreseen by Saint Columba whose concerns were very different from ours but whose life, like ours, was shaped by the gospel he inherited and which he passed on to the next generation.
Indeed, the Isle of Iona was, for Saint Columba, not the quest of a spiritual pilgrimage but a place of exile. Columba had become frustrated by the clan fighting in Ireland and had taken up arms, killing as many as three thousand men. The Irish Church excommunicated Columba who then set sail to Scotland. That Iona now is place where many find peace and solace can only be attributed to the hand of God through whom “all things are possible,” in the words of the gospels.
You and I abide in a wondrous and glorious mystery that we call Church. Set on fire following the Resurrection – a mystery we will celebrate next Sunday on Pentecost – the Church has persisted from one age to the next, enduring good times and bad, faithful leaders and just plain crooks, good decisions and bad decisions and all manner of decisions in between. God in God’s wisdom, left the Church in human hands but did not walk away. And what you and I participate in is nothing short of a miracle.
We have a vestry meeting this week and I daresay most of us would not call such gatherings spiritual highs. I doubt this Thursday will be fraught with anything as significant as excommunicating someone for killing three thousand souls. But we will on Thursday endeavor to do the work God has given us to do in this time and place. After standing on Iona, I am convinced that what we do is neither mundane nor ordinary but rather something extraordinary as we take our place within God’s grand design.
At times we will agonize and fret and flounder. And at other times we will celebrate. We will not re-write the Creed nor found a new monastic order. We will not take leave of either The Book of Common Prayer or the direction of our Bishops. We will strive to be faithful in this time and place. We will, as the canons direct us, replace prayer books as needed and take up alms for the poor. We will keep on keeping on as we say. We will, as a parish, probably do nothing especially noteworthy in the scheme of things. We will have our dramas and crises as all parishes do but they will not end the witness of the church. We will, in the words of our baptismal covenant, “continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers.” And we will do so by the grace of God.
We will live and we will die, as did Saint Columba, in the mystery of faith, surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, who from generation to generation, have, in the words of Saint Paul, “given glory to God in the Church, and in Christ Jesus forever and ever.”
The Day of Pentecost Acts 2: 1 – 21
Sunday, May 19, 2013 Romans 8: 14 -17
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 14: 8 – 17, 25 – 27
And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting.
Acts 2: 2
Every year, fifty days after Easter, we light the paschal candle for the last time, change our altar hangings from white to red and hear one of the craziest readings in all of the New Testament. In our reading from Acts, tongues of fire descend upon the disciples who begin to speak in languages other than their own and the crowd that gathers around them are “amazed and perplexed,” and some sneer that the disciples are filled with “new wine” and are drunk!
And Peter explains: “Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel:
“In the last days it will be, God declares,
that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,
and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
and your young men shall see visions,
and your old men shall dream dreams.”
Welcome to the Day of Pentecost and our celebration of the day God brought the Church to life by the power of the Holy Spirit!
Intoxicating is rarely the way most of us think about the Holy Spirit, who is, in the words of the Catechism, “God at work in the world and in the Church even now.” But for Alan Jones, former Dean of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, the work of the Spirit is a lot like falling in love and falling in love is intoxicating!
And unpredictable. Like falling in love, you and I cannot orchestrate the work of the Holy Spirit nor control the ways the Spirit chooses to move among us. The Holy Spirit is always taking us by surprise, making our life of faith, in the words of one priest, “risky, challenging, and revelatory,” “uncovering God where we least expect.” And that uncontrollability can be “maddening” because as Jones notes, “the last thing we want is excitement, risk, challenge and revelation.” We, especially we Episcopalians, much prefer to do things, “decently and in good order” hoping God will not take us by surprise.
The uncontrollability of the Holy Spirit is a problem for those of us who dislike surprises but is not the only problem that comes with believing in the Holy Spirit. Perhaps an even greater stumbling block for us is the legacy of the Enlightenment, that time in human history when human beings came to know themselves as creatures with rational minds who could figure things out and were no longer controlled by superstition or the authority of clerics and kings to tell them what to do. We now find the story we hear this morning in Acts bewildering and maybe even beyond belief as we learn how the power of God was made known to the disciples. Tongues of fire descending on the disciples and their sudden ability to speak in languages other than their own is incredible to us who now live in a post-enlightened age. Our evangelist Luke gives us a good story, but we are wont to ask: Is it true? That question would never have been asked two thousand years ago.
Our celebration of Pentecost and God’s gift of the Holy Spirit is not without challenges – challenging our desire for certainty and predictablity as well as our desire for a world that is reasonable, logical and rational. And yet, in just a few minutes I am going to ask you if you believe in God, the Holy Spirit, as we renew our baptismal promises and most of us are going to respond: “I believe.” What we are affirming is that we do believe that God is work in the world and here at St. Asaph’s, taking us by surprise, challenging us, confounding our assumptions, and inviting us to see the world in which we live and one another in new ways.
We are renewing our baptismal promises today because Pentecost is one of five days in our liturgical calendar on which baptism is especially appropriate. And were we to enjoy a baptism this day, we would hear one of the loveliest prayers in our prayer book.
Heavenly Father, we thank you that by water and the Holy Spirit you have bestowed upon these your servants the forgiveness of sin, and have raised them to the new life of
grace. Sustain them, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give them an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works. Amen.
In this prayer, the Bishop or priest prays that the newly baptized will receive the gifts of the Spirit - an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love God, and the gift of joy and wonder in all of God’s works. Those are the gifts we are given this day, as the Holy Spirit is poured out for us.
None of those gifts require us to leave our minds outside when we come into the Church; all of those gifts require us to trust that ours is not the only power afoot in this world and that God will always remain beyond the measure of our minds.
This week the vestry met and as we wrestled with marking off additional handicap parking places, how to make our vestry nomination process more open, and whether we ought to invest in a swing set for our kids, we laughed and we wondered and we struggled with a passage from our gospel reading from John in which Jesus tells the disciples that he will do whatever they ask. I wanted to say: “Run the Church!”
And that is what our celebration is all about this morning – God is running the Church, always has and always will - not always as clearly as we would like, rarely needing my advice or yours about what should or should not happen, never imposing God’s will on us, desiring only that we trust that God will never forsake us no matter what but will always be present, loving us into life.
As most of you know, Frank Benser died this week after learning just weeks ago he was terminally ill. As I left on vacation after hearing this awful news, I told Frank’s wife Sharon I would back on the eighth of May. Sharon immediately turned to Frank and said: “Well, you can’t die until the eighth of May,” to which Frank responded, “I’ll put it on my calendar.” That was a holy moment, a moment of grace in the midst of what I can only describe as a profound tragedy. And the Holy Spirit was not finished because when I visited upon my return, Frank asked for communion and, with his wife, daughters and a granddaughter at his bedside, shared one last meal together. Do not tell me the Holy Spirit is not alive and well and at work in our midst. I will never believe that God is not at work in this world, drawing us together and giving us strength and courage.
Yes, Pentecost is my favorite day of the year as you who frequent our website know. Pentecost is my favorite day because I see my role here as naming the ways God has graced us –over and over again – with good friends, opportunities for fellowship and study, and any number of holy and life-giving moments. The grace of God and the life-giving power of the Holy Spirit have not always been evident to me, for sure. When I lost my mother as a young woman and new mother myself, I wondered whether God was indeed at work in this world and my world in particular. That experience prompted a rather long journey as I sought to understand the claims of faith I had long held dear. That journey, while often lonely and painful, was graced over and over again by a power way beyond my control. All of that happened a long time ago but is never very far from my mind especially on this day as we celebrate the work of the Holy Spirit and the power of God at work in this world loving us into life.
Back then we confessed belief in the Holy Ghost, rather than the Holy Spirit. Back then, we Episcopalians were, by and large, grateful that we were not like those in Pentecostal churches who waved their arms during worship, fell out into the aisles “slain in the Spirit” and prayed in tongues. Back then, we Episcopalians were a bit reserved when we spoke of the Holy Ghost. Maybe we were simply fearful about what might happen were we to acknowledge that the Spirit of God was actually blowing through the church.
As a priest I find myself over and over again bewildered by the way God works, showing up at the most unexpected times, gracing us with joy and wonder. I have encountered the power and presence of God in the church, in hospitals, in psychiatric institutions, in jails, homes and in the parking lot of shopping centers. I am not a hopeless romantic and I consider myself to be reasonably educated. But strange and surprising things do happen, giving us life, sustaining us with strength and courage and enabling us to say, sometimes boldly and sometimes with hesitation: “I do believe.”
Happy Pentecost and may the intoxicating love of God be yours this day and always.
Sunday, May 19, 2013 Romans 8: 14 -17
The Rev. Bambi Willis John 14: 8 – 17, 25 – 27
And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting.
Acts 2: 2
Every year, fifty days after Easter, we light the paschal candle for the last time, change our altar hangings from white to red and hear one of the craziest readings in all of the New Testament. In our reading from Acts, tongues of fire descend upon the disciples who begin to speak in languages other than their own and the crowd that gathers around them are “amazed and perplexed,” and some sneer that the disciples are filled with “new wine” and are drunk!
And Peter explains: “Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel:
“In the last days it will be, God declares,
that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,
and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
and your young men shall see visions,
and your old men shall dream dreams.”
Welcome to the Day of Pentecost and our celebration of the day God brought the Church to life by the power of the Holy Spirit!
Intoxicating is rarely the way most of us think about the Holy Spirit, who is, in the words of the Catechism, “God at work in the world and in the Church even now.” But for Alan Jones, former Dean of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, the work of the Spirit is a lot like falling in love and falling in love is intoxicating!
And unpredictable. Like falling in love, you and I cannot orchestrate the work of the Holy Spirit nor control the ways the Spirit chooses to move among us. The Holy Spirit is always taking us by surprise, making our life of faith, in the words of one priest, “risky, challenging, and revelatory,” “uncovering God where we least expect.” And that uncontrollability can be “maddening” because as Jones notes, “the last thing we want is excitement, risk, challenge and revelation.” We, especially we Episcopalians, much prefer to do things, “decently and in good order” hoping God will not take us by surprise.
The uncontrollability of the Holy Spirit is a problem for those of us who dislike surprises but is not the only problem that comes with believing in the Holy Spirit. Perhaps an even greater stumbling block for us is the legacy of the Enlightenment, that time in human history when human beings came to know themselves as creatures with rational minds who could figure things out and were no longer controlled by superstition or the authority of clerics and kings to tell them what to do. We now find the story we hear this morning in Acts bewildering and maybe even beyond belief as we learn how the power of God was made known to the disciples. Tongues of fire descending on the disciples and their sudden ability to speak in languages other than their own is incredible to us who now live in a post-enlightened age. Our evangelist Luke gives us a good story, but we are wont to ask: Is it true? That question would never have been asked two thousand years ago.
Our celebration of Pentecost and God’s gift of the Holy Spirit is not without challenges – challenging our desire for certainty and predictablity as well as our desire for a world that is reasonable, logical and rational. And yet, in just a few minutes I am going to ask you if you believe in God, the Holy Spirit, as we renew our baptismal promises and most of us are going to respond: “I believe.” What we are affirming is that we do believe that God is work in the world and here at St. Asaph’s, taking us by surprise, challenging us, confounding our assumptions, and inviting us to see the world in which we live and one another in new ways.
We are renewing our baptismal promises today because Pentecost is one of five days in our liturgical calendar on which baptism is especially appropriate. And were we to enjoy a baptism this day, we would hear one of the loveliest prayers in our prayer book.
Heavenly Father, we thank you that by water and the Holy Spirit you have bestowed upon these your servants the forgiveness of sin, and have raised them to the new life of
grace. Sustain them, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give them an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works. Amen.
In this prayer, the Bishop or priest prays that the newly baptized will receive the gifts of the Spirit - an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love God, and the gift of joy and wonder in all of God’s works. Those are the gifts we are given this day, as the Holy Spirit is poured out for us.
None of those gifts require us to leave our minds outside when we come into the Church; all of those gifts require us to trust that ours is not the only power afoot in this world and that God will always remain beyond the measure of our minds.
This week the vestry met and as we wrestled with marking off additional handicap parking places, how to make our vestry nomination process more open, and whether we ought to invest in a swing set for our kids, we laughed and we wondered and we struggled with a passage from our gospel reading from John in which Jesus tells the disciples that he will do whatever they ask. I wanted to say: “Run the Church!”
And that is what our celebration is all about this morning – God is running the Church, always has and always will - not always as clearly as we would like, rarely needing my advice or yours about what should or should not happen, never imposing God’s will on us, desiring only that we trust that God will never forsake us no matter what but will always be present, loving us into life.
As most of you know, Frank Benser died this week after learning just weeks ago he was terminally ill. As I left on vacation after hearing this awful news, I told Frank’s wife Sharon I would back on the eighth of May. Sharon immediately turned to Frank and said: “Well, you can’t die until the eighth of May,” to which Frank responded, “I’ll put it on my calendar.” That was a holy moment, a moment of grace in the midst of what I can only describe as a profound tragedy. And the Holy Spirit was not finished because when I visited upon my return, Frank asked for communion and, with his wife, daughters and a granddaughter at his bedside, shared one last meal together. Do not tell me the Holy Spirit is not alive and well and at work in our midst. I will never believe that God is not at work in this world, drawing us together and giving us strength and courage.
Yes, Pentecost is my favorite day of the year as you who frequent our website know. Pentecost is my favorite day because I see my role here as naming the ways God has graced us –over and over again – with good friends, opportunities for fellowship and study, and any number of holy and life-giving moments. The grace of God and the life-giving power of the Holy Spirit have not always been evident to me, for sure. When I lost my mother as a young woman and new mother myself, I wondered whether God was indeed at work in this world and my world in particular. That experience prompted a rather long journey as I sought to understand the claims of faith I had long held dear. That journey, while often lonely and painful, was graced over and over again by a power way beyond my control. All of that happened a long time ago but is never very far from my mind especially on this day as we celebrate the work of the Holy Spirit and the power of God at work in this world loving us into life.
Back then we confessed belief in the Holy Ghost, rather than the Holy Spirit. Back then, we Episcopalians were, by and large, grateful that we were not like those in Pentecostal churches who waved their arms during worship, fell out into the aisles “slain in the Spirit” and prayed in tongues. Back then, we Episcopalians were a bit reserved when we spoke of the Holy Ghost. Maybe we were simply fearful about what might happen were we to acknowledge that the Spirit of God was actually blowing through the church.
As a priest I find myself over and over again bewildered by the way God works, showing up at the most unexpected times, gracing us with joy and wonder. I have encountered the power and presence of God in the church, in hospitals, in psychiatric institutions, in jails, homes and in the parking lot of shopping centers. I am not a hopeless romantic and I consider myself to be reasonably educated. But strange and surprising things do happen, giving us life, sustaining us with strength and courage and enabling us to say, sometimes boldly and sometimes with hesitation: “I do believe.”
Happy Pentecost and may the intoxicating love of God be yours this day and always.
The Second Sunday After Pentecost I Kings 18: 20- 39
Sunday, June 2, 2013 Galatians 1: 1 – 12
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 7:1 – 10
When he heard about Jesus, he sent some Jewish elders to him, asking him to come and heal his slave.
Luke 7: 3
This morning in our reading from the gospel of Luke, Jesus heals the slave of a Roman centurion – a soldier. The Roman soldier is not a Jew but “loves the Jews” we are told and has built a synagogue for them. This soldier has a slave who is dying and appeals to Jesus to heal him. The soldier has not met Jesus but has only “heard about” him. Apparently whatever this soldier has heard about Jesus is enough to warrant an appeal for help.
The soldier’s request is brought to Jesus by Jewish elders. And later, after Jesus begins to make his way to the home of the Roman soldier, friends of the soldier intercept Jesus with yet another message. The Roman soldier fears he is being presumptuous to ask Jesus to come to his house. Acknowledging Jesus’ authority, the soldier now asks only that Jesus “speak a word.”
Jesus is “amazed,” we are told at the faith of this Roman soldier and later the dying slave is discovered in good health.
Curiosities abound in this story. One such curiosity is the miraculous healing, for sure. But then Jesus performs many miracles in the gospels and this is yet one of them. Another curiosity is the faith of the non-Jewish Roman centurion in Jesus who is Jewish. But then the acceptance of Jesus by gentiles is a recurring theme for our evangelist Luke.
What is especially curious, though, in this story, is that the Roman centurion and Jesus never meet, never come face to face. First the centurion sends Jewish elders to make his request of Jesus and then the centurion sends his friends to tell Jesus not to trouble himself by coming to his house. This dramatic story of healing unfolds in response to the actions of first the Jewish elders and then the friends of the centurion. The centurion never actually meets Jesus nor does Jesus ever meet the centurion.
A young Christian scholar and author named Lauren Winner, comments on our text this morning, noting: “Jesus and the centurion are usually glossed as the key figures of this story, but maybe the communities of translators – those who translate the centurion’s needs and desires, those who speak of his character and his faith – are equally the heroes of this story.” “Even a man of such deep surprising faith as the centurion,” she continues, “relied on his community to enact that faith.” In other words, we need a community in which to live out our faith.
And the community upon which this centurion relies upon was composed of Jewish elders and Roman friends, folk who came from very different cultures.
Curiously, I attended a preaching conference this past week in which Lauren Winner was participating. The conference was primarily for senior seminarians to hone their preaching skills but the clergy and laity of the diocese of Virginia were invited to share the day with them on Thursday. Lauren Winner was helping to shed what light she might on the art of preaching for these seminarians. Lauren teaches at Duke Divinity School and has written widely about her often turbulent journey of faith. She is young, intelligent and skeptical, giving voice to a generation that resists easy platitudes, is bewildered by dogma and doctrine, more concerned about social justice than with memorizing the words of the Nicene Creed. After I read one of her books, I came away disoriented, perplexed, and discomforted by what one reviewer called “an unusually painful story.” Lauren, as are many in her generation, members of our Christian community and sometimes their voices sound strange to us – maybe as strange as the Jews sounded to the Romans in the first century.
The preaching conference was awash with young seminarians from all over the country, hoping to be ordained, fearful of finding jobs in a church where jobs are dwindling and parishes are closing. These young folk were passionate and energetic, alive with new ideas but hesitant to know how or if they would received by the institutional church. I saw a tattoo and a nose ring and a bunch of T-shirts proclaiming one cause or another. Most of the folk I saw bore little resemblance to the clergy I knew growing up who were older white men dressed in dark suits.
And of course, these seminarians were male and female. That did not take me by surprise as I came along at a time when the voices of women were being heard in all disciplines – from medicine and the sciences to the arts, architecture and theology. I expected women to be there. What I did not expect to see was so many young people, with tattoos and body piercings! Where have all the dark suits gone? My God, what is happening to the church?
My God, what is happening to the church? What is happening in the church is that a whole new generation is rising up and proclaiming the gospel and some of those folk do not look or act like us. They are not leaving us behind but are looking to us for guidance. This preaching conference was open to all and I went in the hope of improving my preaching but came away with a deeper appreciation of who the church is now in 2013. And this church does not look like the church my Dad grew up nor in which I grew up. When my Dad was coming along, women were not preaching; they are now. When I was coming along women were preaching but were expected to do so in a black shirt. I got accosted at lunch at the preaching conference by a lay person asking if my green shirt signified anything. I said, “No, I was just tired of wearing black all the time.” I do not have a tattoo but I do wear clergy shirts that are not black. That I ride a motorcycle is another issue altogether. But I was aware in a new and very uncomfortable way, that I am leaving this church that I love in the hands of both women as well as men about which I have no problem, but also in the hands of folk who are young, who grew up on the Internet and whose taste for body art is not mine. And they or may not feel that saying the Creed every Sunday is important.
What I also gleaned as they interacted with Bishops, including our own Bishop Shannon, was their desire to know why we do what we do. Why do we say the Creed? What does it mean to preach the gospel? How do you preach in the midst of a world divided by politics, religious belief and, in our context, raised up within in a culture of individualism? They were alert and attentive and they were taking notes.
Their questions were hard and made me think, and I often had no answers. Telling the next generation that “This is the way we have always done things,” is not good enough. We are going to have to give an account for our faith. If we want the next generation to come among us we are going to have to tell them why we do the things the way we do. And you and I, by and large, are not very good at doing that. Why do we say the Nicene Creed every Sunday morning and what does the creed mean? Does our recitation of the creed mean we dislike Muslims who do not say the Creed? Why do we worship here in this building at 10:30 on Sunday morning and not at Roma’s on Monday night?
We often complain that young people no longer come to church, have too many other interests that keep them occupied on Sunday mornings, and spend too much time on Facebook and Twitter. What we often fail to recognize is that young people, just like all of us, hunger for community, for relationships, and are finding those relationships and that community on soccer fields and dance classes, by texting and over the Internet. God has created us to be in relationship with others and the church is not the only place to find community. Indeed, for many of us, our colleagues at work are a community, sharing our joys and sorrows, standing with us in good times and in bad times, listening to our woes and laughing at our bad jokes. We all need companionship because that is the way God created we human beings to be. But we need companions we can rely upon and who will not only listen to our woes and share our celebrations but who will also answer our questions and not be too dogmatic in our responses.
The young people I met this past week were challenging, asking hard questions, not content to simply do things as they have always been done. And I was reminded that the community we call Church is not always warm and fuzzy but includes voices we sometimes would prefer not to hear. The Jewish elders and the friends of the Roman centurion often get lost as we hear our gospel text this morning and I am grateful to Lauren Winner for putting their voices in the foreground and not the background.
I came away from that preaching conference thrilled that there are those still willing to preach the good news, aware that their proclamation will not sound like mine and wondering how able I might be to listen and to learn, to lift up and not tear down, to refrain from thinking “I know best.” I am grateful this day for the voices of the Jewish elders and the friends of the Roman centurion and for the voice of Lauren Winner who I cannot say I understand but who is bearing witness, as I am, to a confession of faith in a God who came and lived among us and made all things new.
Sunday, June 2, 2013 Galatians 1: 1 – 12
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 7:1 – 10
When he heard about Jesus, he sent some Jewish elders to him, asking him to come and heal his slave.
Luke 7: 3
This morning in our reading from the gospel of Luke, Jesus heals the slave of a Roman centurion – a soldier. The Roman soldier is not a Jew but “loves the Jews” we are told and has built a synagogue for them. This soldier has a slave who is dying and appeals to Jesus to heal him. The soldier has not met Jesus but has only “heard about” him. Apparently whatever this soldier has heard about Jesus is enough to warrant an appeal for help.
The soldier’s request is brought to Jesus by Jewish elders. And later, after Jesus begins to make his way to the home of the Roman soldier, friends of the soldier intercept Jesus with yet another message. The Roman soldier fears he is being presumptuous to ask Jesus to come to his house. Acknowledging Jesus’ authority, the soldier now asks only that Jesus “speak a word.”
Jesus is “amazed,” we are told at the faith of this Roman soldier and later the dying slave is discovered in good health.
Curiosities abound in this story. One such curiosity is the miraculous healing, for sure. But then Jesus performs many miracles in the gospels and this is yet one of them. Another curiosity is the faith of the non-Jewish Roman centurion in Jesus who is Jewish. But then the acceptance of Jesus by gentiles is a recurring theme for our evangelist Luke.
What is especially curious, though, in this story, is that the Roman centurion and Jesus never meet, never come face to face. First the centurion sends Jewish elders to make his request of Jesus and then the centurion sends his friends to tell Jesus not to trouble himself by coming to his house. This dramatic story of healing unfolds in response to the actions of first the Jewish elders and then the friends of the centurion. The centurion never actually meets Jesus nor does Jesus ever meet the centurion.
A young Christian scholar and author named Lauren Winner, comments on our text this morning, noting: “Jesus and the centurion are usually glossed as the key figures of this story, but maybe the communities of translators – those who translate the centurion’s needs and desires, those who speak of his character and his faith – are equally the heroes of this story.” “Even a man of such deep surprising faith as the centurion,” she continues, “relied on his community to enact that faith.” In other words, we need a community in which to live out our faith.
And the community upon which this centurion relies upon was composed of Jewish elders and Roman friends, folk who came from very different cultures.
Curiously, I attended a preaching conference this past week in which Lauren Winner was participating. The conference was primarily for senior seminarians to hone their preaching skills but the clergy and laity of the diocese of Virginia were invited to share the day with them on Thursday. Lauren Winner was helping to shed what light she might on the art of preaching for these seminarians. Lauren teaches at Duke Divinity School and has written widely about her often turbulent journey of faith. She is young, intelligent and skeptical, giving voice to a generation that resists easy platitudes, is bewildered by dogma and doctrine, more concerned about social justice than with memorizing the words of the Nicene Creed. After I read one of her books, I came away disoriented, perplexed, and discomforted by what one reviewer called “an unusually painful story.” Lauren, as are many in her generation, members of our Christian community and sometimes their voices sound strange to us – maybe as strange as the Jews sounded to the Romans in the first century.
The preaching conference was awash with young seminarians from all over the country, hoping to be ordained, fearful of finding jobs in a church where jobs are dwindling and parishes are closing. These young folk were passionate and energetic, alive with new ideas but hesitant to know how or if they would received by the institutional church. I saw a tattoo and a nose ring and a bunch of T-shirts proclaiming one cause or another. Most of the folk I saw bore little resemblance to the clergy I knew growing up who were older white men dressed in dark suits.
And of course, these seminarians were male and female. That did not take me by surprise as I came along at a time when the voices of women were being heard in all disciplines – from medicine and the sciences to the arts, architecture and theology. I expected women to be there. What I did not expect to see was so many young people, with tattoos and body piercings! Where have all the dark suits gone? My God, what is happening to the church?
My God, what is happening to the church? What is happening in the church is that a whole new generation is rising up and proclaiming the gospel and some of those folk do not look or act like us. They are not leaving us behind but are looking to us for guidance. This preaching conference was open to all and I went in the hope of improving my preaching but came away with a deeper appreciation of who the church is now in 2013. And this church does not look like the church my Dad grew up nor in which I grew up. When my Dad was coming along, women were not preaching; they are now. When I was coming along women were preaching but were expected to do so in a black shirt. I got accosted at lunch at the preaching conference by a lay person asking if my green shirt signified anything. I said, “No, I was just tired of wearing black all the time.” I do not have a tattoo but I do wear clergy shirts that are not black. That I ride a motorcycle is another issue altogether. But I was aware in a new and very uncomfortable way, that I am leaving this church that I love in the hands of both women as well as men about which I have no problem, but also in the hands of folk who are young, who grew up on the Internet and whose taste for body art is not mine. And they or may not feel that saying the Creed every Sunday is important.
What I also gleaned as they interacted with Bishops, including our own Bishop Shannon, was their desire to know why we do what we do. Why do we say the Creed? What does it mean to preach the gospel? How do you preach in the midst of a world divided by politics, religious belief and, in our context, raised up within in a culture of individualism? They were alert and attentive and they were taking notes.
Their questions were hard and made me think, and I often had no answers. Telling the next generation that “This is the way we have always done things,” is not good enough. We are going to have to give an account for our faith. If we want the next generation to come among us we are going to have to tell them why we do the things the way we do. And you and I, by and large, are not very good at doing that. Why do we say the Nicene Creed every Sunday morning and what does the creed mean? Does our recitation of the creed mean we dislike Muslims who do not say the Creed? Why do we worship here in this building at 10:30 on Sunday morning and not at Roma’s on Monday night?
We often complain that young people no longer come to church, have too many other interests that keep them occupied on Sunday mornings, and spend too much time on Facebook and Twitter. What we often fail to recognize is that young people, just like all of us, hunger for community, for relationships, and are finding those relationships and that community on soccer fields and dance classes, by texting and over the Internet. God has created us to be in relationship with others and the church is not the only place to find community. Indeed, for many of us, our colleagues at work are a community, sharing our joys and sorrows, standing with us in good times and in bad times, listening to our woes and laughing at our bad jokes. We all need companionship because that is the way God created we human beings to be. But we need companions we can rely upon and who will not only listen to our woes and share our celebrations but who will also answer our questions and not be too dogmatic in our responses.
The young people I met this past week were challenging, asking hard questions, not content to simply do things as they have always been done. And I was reminded that the community we call Church is not always warm and fuzzy but includes voices we sometimes would prefer not to hear. The Jewish elders and the friends of the Roman centurion often get lost as we hear our gospel text this morning and I am grateful to Lauren Winner for putting their voices in the foreground and not the background.
I came away from that preaching conference thrilled that there are those still willing to preach the good news, aware that their proclamation will not sound like mine and wondering how able I might be to listen and to learn, to lift up and not tear down, to refrain from thinking “I know best.” I am grateful this day for the voices of the Jewish elders and the friends of the Roman centurion and for the voice of Lauren Winner who I cannot say I understand but who is bearing witness, as I am, to a confession of faith in a God who came and lived among us and made all things new.
The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost I Kings: 21: 1 – 21a
Sunday, June 16, 2013 Galatians 2: 15 – 21
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 7: 36 – 8:3
And a woman in the city, who was a sinner, having learned that Jesus was eating in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster jar of ointment.
Luke 7: 37
My several bookshelves at home groan under the weight of many books, most of which are serious theological works and a few of which are a bit more playful. This week I picked up one I had been given as a gift many years ago called Bad Girls of the Bible. Frustrated that she was not innocent like Mary nor as faithful as Abraham’s wife Sarah, the author turned to The Bad Girls for wisdom and guidance. And she found many such “bad girls” including two about whom we hear this morning – Jezebel in our Old Testament reading from I Kings and the unnamed “sinner” who kisses Jesus’ feet and anoints them with oil in our gospel reading from Luke.
Jezebel we hear, is married to King Ahab and when Ahab is unable to persuade Naboth to give up his vineyard so that Ahab can turn it into a vegetable garden, Jezebel finds a way to get the vineyard by getting Naboth killed. Jezebel is clearly no saint, but is rather devious, asserting control when her husband’s desires are frustrated and he responds by sulking and refusing to eat. King Ahab may not be able to get what he wants, but Queen Jezebel will not be so easily frustrated.
We are familiar with Jezebel. We may not know the story we hear from I Kings but we know that a “jezebel” is a woman who is “shameless” or “scheming” according to my on-line dictionary, “wicked” or “bold” in my Webster’s Dictionary. We may not be familiar with the story of Jezebel but we have a pretty good handle on Jezebel’s character. A jezebel is someone who will do what it takes to get what she wants.
And then we hear from Luke a story about a woman, “a woman in the city, a woman who was a sinner.” We are not told why this woman is a sinner. A sinner back then was anyone who was ritually unclean and thus not welcome in the Temple. She could have had leprosy, been a prostitute or simply not undergone the rites of purification after childbirth. But whatever she had done, everyone knew she was a “sinner.”
This woman acts boldly and shamelessly, approaching Jesus as Jesus is sharing dinner with a Pharisee named Simon. That this woman comes into Simon’s house was not unusual - houses back then were open and outsiders often wandered in. Such uninvited guests would be offered whatever food was leftover at the end of the meal. This woman’s presence was not the problem; her proximity to Jesus was a problem.
Sin, in the first century, was viewed like a contagious disease that could be transmitted to others. So when this woman begins to bathe Jesus’ feet with her tears, kissing them and anointing Jesus’ feet with oil, Simon presumes that Jesus, unlike everyone else, is not aware that this woman is a sinner, one of those bad girls. Had Jesus known “what kind of woman this was,” Jesus would never have allowed her to touch him.
Apparently Jesus knew exactly what kind of woman this was and allowed her to bathe and kiss his feet. And then Jesus proceeds to give Simon a lesson in hospitality. “You gave me no water for my feet,” “you gave me no kiss,” “you did not anoint my head with oil,” Jesus tells Simon. Simon, Jesus points out, failed to render to Jesus the expected courtesies as a host. Offering a guest water to wash one’s feet, a kiss of peace as we might shake someone’s hand and oil to soothe the skin, were common courtesies extended to guests. Simon did not do what he was expected to do and what this woman does exposes Simon’s lack of hospitality. Simon was shocked by what Jesus allows this woman to do; I suspect Simon was equally shocked to learn he was not the perfect host.
Re-reading the story of Ahaz and Jezebel this week reminded me once again how many scoundrels are woven into our sacred story. Jezebel was an arrogant and proud woman, enamored by her power as the wife of the king. Jezebel schemes to get Naboth killed so that her husband can have a vegetable garden! How awful is that? What kind of a woman orchestrates the death of an innocent man so that her husband can plant tomatoes? The very fact that we have remembered Jezebel’s name down through the centuries suggests that we continue to be shocked by women who act like Jezebel.
And yet, is there anyone among us who has not sought at one time or the other to turn events to our advantage? To make ourselves look good at the expense of others, to use our power to dominate and control rather than serve? Jezebel wanted the world to turn according to her will and we often do too. Poor Naboth was not the enemy; the enemy lay deep within Jezebel’s heart, a heart that would broker no challenge, admit no defeat and take no prisoners.
And never did. Jezebel died a gruesome death, thrown out of a window to her death, her body eaten by dogs.
I suspect our sacred story is laced with scoundrels to remind us all that is only by God’s goodness and mercy that we have a story to tell at all. And unless I have misread the Bible, nobody in this story was perfect - sinless - save one. Everybody else and all of us have as psychologists say, “issues.” We may have a need to please others or to be right or to be accepted or to know this world in which we live turns according to some rational logic or to feel safe and comfortable. And when something happens that threatens whatever needs we have, we often react and sometimes vigorously, pushing people away, distancing ourselves from others, blaming others for being “the problem” when the problem is usually as much within us as without us. Simon, in our story from Luke, was a good man who sought to do God’s will and that meant keeping a distance between himself and “women of that kind.” Simon had a need to please God.
Let us give the last word this morning to Paul. We hear this morning a part of Paul’s letter to the Galatians. Paul is writing to a new church, a church Paul founded but which has now encountered trouble. The trouble is that some are insisting that Christians need to observe the Jewish law. That may seem hard for us to understand but we continue to want newcomers to understand and follow our customs and traditions and would resist someone suggesting we begin to use saltine crackers and grape juice rather than our bread and wine. (Using bread was bad enough because bread is crumbly and unlike the wafers can fall into the chalice!) The early Christians were Jews by birth as Paul says of himself. And as Jews, many believed that that to be Christian one had to be Jewish first.
Paul says no. And not once. What we hear this morning is just the tip of Paul’s theological iceberg. What Paul says and we often forget is that none of us are saved by observing the Law – in our language, being good does not save us. We are saved because of what Christ did and not by anything we do. We are saved by the grace of God.
Does that we mean we can do anything we please? Absolutely not. Christ’s death was not a “get-out-of-jail-free-card.” But Christ’s death was for us, and not just those who like Jezebel or the woman with the alabaster jar were known “sinners.” Christ did for us what none of us can do for ourselves – stand before God blameless and worthy. We can pay our bills, observe the speed limit, stay out of jail, hold down a job, take care of our kids, dress and act appropriately and give to the charities of our choice - but none of that makes us worthy before God. None of us are worthy - not you or me or “those” people whatever the label we choose to give them.
The church in Galatia wanted a litmus test to determine who was in and who was out. Paul wants to say we are all in and we are all out. Paul wants to say that being circumsized is not going to save you anymore than being a Republican or a Democrat, a conservative or a liberal or a fundamentalist or a progressive. None of that matters. What matters is that Christ died for us, all of us, because none of us are worthy and we need to honor that in our common life.
The only one who leaves with the peace of God this day is a woman with an alabaster jar, “a woman of that kind”: Jezebel dies without ever finding peace and we know not what Simon the Pharisee did but can presume Jesus ruffled his feathers. I suspect the woman with the alabaster jar was taken by surprise as was Simon as will we all when God’s kingdom comes. What would our common life look like if we risked being taken by surprise and welcomed “people of that kind” among us, folk who pushed our buttons, challenged our views, made us uncomfortable and disturbed us?
For the record I have no intention of using saltines and grape juice for the eucharist but have celebrated the eucharist on occasion with those elements in psychiatric facilities that frowned upon the use of alcohol. When what you are seeking is the kingdom of God, saltines and grape juice often do just fine.
Sunday, June 16, 2013 Galatians 2: 15 – 21
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 7: 36 – 8:3
And a woman in the city, who was a sinner, having learned that Jesus was eating in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster jar of ointment.
Luke 7: 37
My several bookshelves at home groan under the weight of many books, most of which are serious theological works and a few of which are a bit more playful. This week I picked up one I had been given as a gift many years ago called Bad Girls of the Bible. Frustrated that she was not innocent like Mary nor as faithful as Abraham’s wife Sarah, the author turned to The Bad Girls for wisdom and guidance. And she found many such “bad girls” including two about whom we hear this morning – Jezebel in our Old Testament reading from I Kings and the unnamed “sinner” who kisses Jesus’ feet and anoints them with oil in our gospel reading from Luke.
Jezebel we hear, is married to King Ahab and when Ahab is unable to persuade Naboth to give up his vineyard so that Ahab can turn it into a vegetable garden, Jezebel finds a way to get the vineyard by getting Naboth killed. Jezebel is clearly no saint, but is rather devious, asserting control when her husband’s desires are frustrated and he responds by sulking and refusing to eat. King Ahab may not be able to get what he wants, but Queen Jezebel will not be so easily frustrated.
We are familiar with Jezebel. We may not know the story we hear from I Kings but we know that a “jezebel” is a woman who is “shameless” or “scheming” according to my on-line dictionary, “wicked” or “bold” in my Webster’s Dictionary. We may not be familiar with the story of Jezebel but we have a pretty good handle on Jezebel’s character. A jezebel is someone who will do what it takes to get what she wants.
And then we hear from Luke a story about a woman, “a woman in the city, a woman who was a sinner.” We are not told why this woman is a sinner. A sinner back then was anyone who was ritually unclean and thus not welcome in the Temple. She could have had leprosy, been a prostitute or simply not undergone the rites of purification after childbirth. But whatever she had done, everyone knew she was a “sinner.”
This woman acts boldly and shamelessly, approaching Jesus as Jesus is sharing dinner with a Pharisee named Simon. That this woman comes into Simon’s house was not unusual - houses back then were open and outsiders often wandered in. Such uninvited guests would be offered whatever food was leftover at the end of the meal. This woman’s presence was not the problem; her proximity to Jesus was a problem.
Sin, in the first century, was viewed like a contagious disease that could be transmitted to others. So when this woman begins to bathe Jesus’ feet with her tears, kissing them and anointing Jesus’ feet with oil, Simon presumes that Jesus, unlike everyone else, is not aware that this woman is a sinner, one of those bad girls. Had Jesus known “what kind of woman this was,” Jesus would never have allowed her to touch him.
Apparently Jesus knew exactly what kind of woman this was and allowed her to bathe and kiss his feet. And then Jesus proceeds to give Simon a lesson in hospitality. “You gave me no water for my feet,” “you gave me no kiss,” “you did not anoint my head with oil,” Jesus tells Simon. Simon, Jesus points out, failed to render to Jesus the expected courtesies as a host. Offering a guest water to wash one’s feet, a kiss of peace as we might shake someone’s hand and oil to soothe the skin, were common courtesies extended to guests. Simon did not do what he was expected to do and what this woman does exposes Simon’s lack of hospitality. Simon was shocked by what Jesus allows this woman to do; I suspect Simon was equally shocked to learn he was not the perfect host.
Re-reading the story of Ahaz and Jezebel this week reminded me once again how many scoundrels are woven into our sacred story. Jezebel was an arrogant and proud woman, enamored by her power as the wife of the king. Jezebel schemes to get Naboth killed so that her husband can have a vegetable garden! How awful is that? What kind of a woman orchestrates the death of an innocent man so that her husband can plant tomatoes? The very fact that we have remembered Jezebel’s name down through the centuries suggests that we continue to be shocked by women who act like Jezebel.
And yet, is there anyone among us who has not sought at one time or the other to turn events to our advantage? To make ourselves look good at the expense of others, to use our power to dominate and control rather than serve? Jezebel wanted the world to turn according to her will and we often do too. Poor Naboth was not the enemy; the enemy lay deep within Jezebel’s heart, a heart that would broker no challenge, admit no defeat and take no prisoners.
And never did. Jezebel died a gruesome death, thrown out of a window to her death, her body eaten by dogs.
I suspect our sacred story is laced with scoundrels to remind us all that is only by God’s goodness and mercy that we have a story to tell at all. And unless I have misread the Bible, nobody in this story was perfect - sinless - save one. Everybody else and all of us have as psychologists say, “issues.” We may have a need to please others or to be right or to be accepted or to know this world in which we live turns according to some rational logic or to feel safe and comfortable. And when something happens that threatens whatever needs we have, we often react and sometimes vigorously, pushing people away, distancing ourselves from others, blaming others for being “the problem” when the problem is usually as much within us as without us. Simon, in our story from Luke, was a good man who sought to do God’s will and that meant keeping a distance between himself and “women of that kind.” Simon had a need to please God.
Let us give the last word this morning to Paul. We hear this morning a part of Paul’s letter to the Galatians. Paul is writing to a new church, a church Paul founded but which has now encountered trouble. The trouble is that some are insisting that Christians need to observe the Jewish law. That may seem hard for us to understand but we continue to want newcomers to understand and follow our customs and traditions and would resist someone suggesting we begin to use saltine crackers and grape juice rather than our bread and wine. (Using bread was bad enough because bread is crumbly and unlike the wafers can fall into the chalice!) The early Christians were Jews by birth as Paul says of himself. And as Jews, many believed that that to be Christian one had to be Jewish first.
Paul says no. And not once. What we hear this morning is just the tip of Paul’s theological iceberg. What Paul says and we often forget is that none of us are saved by observing the Law – in our language, being good does not save us. We are saved because of what Christ did and not by anything we do. We are saved by the grace of God.
Does that we mean we can do anything we please? Absolutely not. Christ’s death was not a “get-out-of-jail-free-card.” But Christ’s death was for us, and not just those who like Jezebel or the woman with the alabaster jar were known “sinners.” Christ did for us what none of us can do for ourselves – stand before God blameless and worthy. We can pay our bills, observe the speed limit, stay out of jail, hold down a job, take care of our kids, dress and act appropriately and give to the charities of our choice - but none of that makes us worthy before God. None of us are worthy - not you or me or “those” people whatever the label we choose to give them.
The church in Galatia wanted a litmus test to determine who was in and who was out. Paul wants to say we are all in and we are all out. Paul wants to say that being circumsized is not going to save you anymore than being a Republican or a Democrat, a conservative or a liberal or a fundamentalist or a progressive. None of that matters. What matters is that Christ died for us, all of us, because none of us are worthy and we need to honor that in our common life.
The only one who leaves with the peace of God this day is a woman with an alabaster jar, “a woman of that kind”: Jezebel dies without ever finding peace and we know not what Simon the Pharisee did but can presume Jesus ruffled his feathers. I suspect the woman with the alabaster jar was taken by surprise as was Simon as will we all when God’s kingdom comes. What would our common life look like if we risked being taken by surprise and welcomed “people of that kind” among us, folk who pushed our buttons, challenged our views, made us uncomfortable and disturbed us?
For the record I have no intention of using saltines and grape juice for the eucharist but have celebrated the eucharist on occasion with those elements in psychiatric facilities that frowned upon the use of alcohol. When what you are seeking is the kingdom of God, saltines and grape juice often do just fine.
The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost I Kings19: 1 -15a
Sunday, June 23, 2013 Galatians 3: 23 -29
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 8: 26-39
When he saw Jesus, he fell down before him and shouted at the top of his voice, ‘What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, do not torment me’
Luke 8: 28
Jesus calms a wild and crazy man today in our gospel reading from Luke. Tormented by demons, this man refuses to wear clothes and prefers to spend his days and nights among the dead. He breaks shackles and chains, violently resisting all efforts to subdue him, driven by forces beyond his control to live the life of an animal in the wild. This man is quite literally “out of his mind” and out of control. After Jesus commands the demons to leave, Luke tells us, the man sits at the feet of Jesus, “clothed and in his right mind.”
But not before a herd of pigs rushes down a hillside, drowning themselves in the sea, and leaving those who saw this strange event, wanting Jesus to leave and go back where he came from. The demons are not the only ones in our story that wish Jesus would leave them alone; all the people in that country of the Gerasenes “asked Jesus to leave them.”
“What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, do not torment me” the man possessed by demons says to Jesus. The demons do not want Jesus to disturb them, another way of translating the Greek word for “torment.” While you and I would probably resist ascribing this man’s torment to “demons,” we each have had the experience of being disturbed. The disturbance may be no more than simply feeling a bit of sorts but may be much more than that to the point of being “deeply disturbed” and in need of clinical care.
We can be disturbed and when we are, our friends are apt to say something like: “You don’t seem like yourself today. Everything O.K.?” To which, we are often apt to say: “Sure, everything’s fine.” We do not like being disturbed and often would like to pretend we are not. Much of the time whatever is disturbing us is short lived and given a bit of time, we can regain our balance. Having to wait on the telephone as a computer tells me: “We’re sorry, but all our representatives are assisting other customers at this time. Please stay on the line and a representative will be with you shortly,” disturbs me but does not keep me awake at night.
Suffering abuse as a child is a disturbance of a vastly different sort and one from which we may never fully recover. That we can be disturbed is disturbing.
So this morning, the demons do not want to be disturbed, the man does not want to be disturbed by the demons and the Gerasenes do not want to be disturbed by Jesus. What Jesus does is disturb the demons and the Gerasenes as Jesus brings peace to a man who had not worn clothes in a long time. We are glad the demons are disturbed even if we don’t believe in demons but the disturbance of the people who lived in that country is a little odd. No one is rejoicing that a man who appears very frightening as he is described - running around naked, living in the local cemetery and breaking whatever shackles by which they try to restrain him from time to time - is now “clothed and in his right mind”? No one, except the man who has been healed, is saying: “Thank you, Jesus!” Shouldn’t they all be glad and grateful?
Apparently they are not, for they all ask Jesus to leave except the no longer disturbed man who wants to go with Jesus. How odd. Of course a large herd of swine has just met their demise and if your money is tied up in pork you might have reason to be disturbed. In spite of the healing of this one “out-of-his-mind” man, some folk lost a lot of money that day and were probably disturbed.
Before Jesus came on the scene –uninvited I might add – the Gerasenes had things pretty much under control. Some of them raised pigs clearly; others did what they could to keep that crazy man from disturbing the peace as best they could. I suspect the Gerasenes were like most of us – wanting to raise their families and earn a living, all the while knowing there are crazy folk in our midst who need to be controlled.
The Gerasenes were keeping the peace as best as they could until Jesus stepped in and disturbed their peace. We will never know why the Gerasenes were disturbed – was it the loss of the pigs or the awareness of a power that could heal and transform what they could only control? We do not know. What we know is that the Gerasenes wanted Jesus to leave. Better to be able to keep things under control than to acknowledge a power that could send pigs off a cliff and heal a man who was out of his mind.
Commenting on our text this morning, theologian Fred Craddock writes:
But now the power of God for good comes to their community and it disturbs a way of life they had come to accept. Even when it is for good, power that can neither be calculated nor managed is frightening. What will God do next in our community? People who understand this fear are best prepared to understand the running fear created by Easter.
The power of God unleashed on Easter is and will forever remain, beyond our control.
Which is disturbing for those of us who like predictability, certainty and an orderly existence, for all of us who like to feel in control. I, for one, do not like being “disturbed.” I prefer to live with the illusion that I am in control and can keep myself from being disturbed. Unfortunately, we are all disturbed from time to time. Those disturbances are often the means by which God gets our attention. By those disturbances we are often confronted with the truth about ourselves, a truth which is not always very pretty. When I wear a new dress, I want A.G. to notice and say something like: “Wow! I’ve never seen that dress. You look great!” When A.G. does not notice I am mildly disturbed, wondering if he would even notice if I dyed my hair orange?! I could, of course, alert him to the fact that I am wearing a new dress, but that would be fishing for a compliment and I’m too proud to do that!
Being disturbed is unavoidable; being afraid of being disturbed can lead us to so control our lives that we become insulated from the power of God to do something new within us and through us. Being reminded that my pride often gets between me and others is embarrassing but may be a private nudge from God to do things differently.
The ultimate disturbance this day is Jesus. Jesus heals a deeply disturbed man and destroys a large herd of pigs, prompting an entire country to want him to leave. Nobody likes Jesus this morning - not the pigs, not the demons, and not the people of the country of the Gerasenes. Only one man wants to be with Jesus and that is the man Jesus has healed.
The power of God to bring forth life always comes with the risk that we will be disturbed. The risks will be different for all of us as will be just how much we are willing to risk. For some of us, just coming to church can feel a bit risky – you never know exactly what is going to happen. For others, new ideas and ways of doing things are always good no matter what. The greatest good is our common life as the body of body of Christ and the company of others with whom we can take counsel as we seek to discern which risks are worth taking and which risks we should avoid. We are gambling, gambling on the promise of God to be with us always, even if we make a mistake.
Which brings us back to the story of the Gerasene demoniac. We never learn what happens after this wild man is brought back to his senses. Jesus sends him back to his community saying: “Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.” And then Jesus takes his leave, having worn out his welcome in the country of the Gerasenes. What home did this man have who had been living naked in the local cemetery and the wilderness for so long? And those swineherds who had lost their pigs – what happened to them? What did this community do after Jesus left? Was this man welcomed with open arms or received warily with the suspicion he might come unglued again? Were the swineherds compensated for their loss or given a free meal by their friends and neighbors as they struggled to overcome their loss? Did this community come together because of this disturbance or split unable to cope with the changes?
We are given no answers to any of those questions in our story. We can only wonder. What we can say, in the words of our collect this morning, is that our Lord “never fails to help and govern those whom you have set upon the sure foundation of your loving-kindness.” Jesus left behind in that community a man who had personally experienced the loving-kindness of God. I suspect that man made a difference within that community in one way or another. That man had been disturbed and was no longer. He alone knew what the peace of God was like and “went away, proclaiming throughout the city how much Jesus had done for him.”
Sunday, June 23, 2013 Galatians 3: 23 -29
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 8: 26-39
When he saw Jesus, he fell down before him and shouted at the top of his voice, ‘What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, do not torment me’
Luke 8: 28
Jesus calms a wild and crazy man today in our gospel reading from Luke. Tormented by demons, this man refuses to wear clothes and prefers to spend his days and nights among the dead. He breaks shackles and chains, violently resisting all efforts to subdue him, driven by forces beyond his control to live the life of an animal in the wild. This man is quite literally “out of his mind” and out of control. After Jesus commands the demons to leave, Luke tells us, the man sits at the feet of Jesus, “clothed and in his right mind.”
But not before a herd of pigs rushes down a hillside, drowning themselves in the sea, and leaving those who saw this strange event, wanting Jesus to leave and go back where he came from. The demons are not the only ones in our story that wish Jesus would leave them alone; all the people in that country of the Gerasenes “asked Jesus to leave them.”
“What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, do not torment me” the man possessed by demons says to Jesus. The demons do not want Jesus to disturb them, another way of translating the Greek word for “torment.” While you and I would probably resist ascribing this man’s torment to “demons,” we each have had the experience of being disturbed. The disturbance may be no more than simply feeling a bit of sorts but may be much more than that to the point of being “deeply disturbed” and in need of clinical care.
We can be disturbed and when we are, our friends are apt to say something like: “You don’t seem like yourself today. Everything O.K.?” To which, we are often apt to say: “Sure, everything’s fine.” We do not like being disturbed and often would like to pretend we are not. Much of the time whatever is disturbing us is short lived and given a bit of time, we can regain our balance. Having to wait on the telephone as a computer tells me: “We’re sorry, but all our representatives are assisting other customers at this time. Please stay on the line and a representative will be with you shortly,” disturbs me but does not keep me awake at night.
Suffering abuse as a child is a disturbance of a vastly different sort and one from which we may never fully recover. That we can be disturbed is disturbing.
So this morning, the demons do not want to be disturbed, the man does not want to be disturbed by the demons and the Gerasenes do not want to be disturbed by Jesus. What Jesus does is disturb the demons and the Gerasenes as Jesus brings peace to a man who had not worn clothes in a long time. We are glad the demons are disturbed even if we don’t believe in demons but the disturbance of the people who lived in that country is a little odd. No one is rejoicing that a man who appears very frightening as he is described - running around naked, living in the local cemetery and breaking whatever shackles by which they try to restrain him from time to time - is now “clothed and in his right mind”? No one, except the man who has been healed, is saying: “Thank you, Jesus!” Shouldn’t they all be glad and grateful?
Apparently they are not, for they all ask Jesus to leave except the no longer disturbed man who wants to go with Jesus. How odd. Of course a large herd of swine has just met their demise and if your money is tied up in pork you might have reason to be disturbed. In spite of the healing of this one “out-of-his-mind” man, some folk lost a lot of money that day and were probably disturbed.
Before Jesus came on the scene –uninvited I might add – the Gerasenes had things pretty much under control. Some of them raised pigs clearly; others did what they could to keep that crazy man from disturbing the peace as best they could. I suspect the Gerasenes were like most of us – wanting to raise their families and earn a living, all the while knowing there are crazy folk in our midst who need to be controlled.
The Gerasenes were keeping the peace as best as they could until Jesus stepped in and disturbed their peace. We will never know why the Gerasenes were disturbed – was it the loss of the pigs or the awareness of a power that could heal and transform what they could only control? We do not know. What we know is that the Gerasenes wanted Jesus to leave. Better to be able to keep things under control than to acknowledge a power that could send pigs off a cliff and heal a man who was out of his mind.
Commenting on our text this morning, theologian Fred Craddock writes:
But now the power of God for good comes to their community and it disturbs a way of life they had come to accept. Even when it is for good, power that can neither be calculated nor managed is frightening. What will God do next in our community? People who understand this fear are best prepared to understand the running fear created by Easter.
The power of God unleashed on Easter is and will forever remain, beyond our control.
Which is disturbing for those of us who like predictability, certainty and an orderly existence, for all of us who like to feel in control. I, for one, do not like being “disturbed.” I prefer to live with the illusion that I am in control and can keep myself from being disturbed. Unfortunately, we are all disturbed from time to time. Those disturbances are often the means by which God gets our attention. By those disturbances we are often confronted with the truth about ourselves, a truth which is not always very pretty. When I wear a new dress, I want A.G. to notice and say something like: “Wow! I’ve never seen that dress. You look great!” When A.G. does not notice I am mildly disturbed, wondering if he would even notice if I dyed my hair orange?! I could, of course, alert him to the fact that I am wearing a new dress, but that would be fishing for a compliment and I’m too proud to do that!
Being disturbed is unavoidable; being afraid of being disturbed can lead us to so control our lives that we become insulated from the power of God to do something new within us and through us. Being reminded that my pride often gets between me and others is embarrassing but may be a private nudge from God to do things differently.
The ultimate disturbance this day is Jesus. Jesus heals a deeply disturbed man and destroys a large herd of pigs, prompting an entire country to want him to leave. Nobody likes Jesus this morning - not the pigs, not the demons, and not the people of the country of the Gerasenes. Only one man wants to be with Jesus and that is the man Jesus has healed.
The power of God to bring forth life always comes with the risk that we will be disturbed. The risks will be different for all of us as will be just how much we are willing to risk. For some of us, just coming to church can feel a bit risky – you never know exactly what is going to happen. For others, new ideas and ways of doing things are always good no matter what. The greatest good is our common life as the body of body of Christ and the company of others with whom we can take counsel as we seek to discern which risks are worth taking and which risks we should avoid. We are gambling, gambling on the promise of God to be with us always, even if we make a mistake.
Which brings us back to the story of the Gerasene demoniac. We never learn what happens after this wild man is brought back to his senses. Jesus sends him back to his community saying: “Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.” And then Jesus takes his leave, having worn out his welcome in the country of the Gerasenes. What home did this man have who had been living naked in the local cemetery and the wilderness for so long? And those swineherds who had lost their pigs – what happened to them? What did this community do after Jesus left? Was this man welcomed with open arms or received warily with the suspicion he might come unglued again? Were the swineherds compensated for their loss or given a free meal by their friends and neighbors as they struggled to overcome their loss? Did this community come together because of this disturbance or split unable to cope with the changes?
We are given no answers to any of those questions in our story. We can only wonder. What we can say, in the words of our collect this morning, is that our Lord “never fails to help and govern those whom you have set upon the sure foundation of your loving-kindness.” Jesus left behind in that community a man who had personally experienced the loving-kindness of God. I suspect that man made a difference within that community in one way or another. That man had been disturbed and was no longer. He alone knew what the peace of God was like and “went away, proclaiming throughout the city how much Jesus had done for him.”
The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost Amos7: 7 -17
Sunday, July 14, 2013 Colossians1: 1- 14
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 10: 25-37
Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers? The lawyer said, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”
Luke 10: 36 -37
Several weeks ago I attended a workshop on preaching the parables. As I looked over my notes recently, across the top of the first page I had written in big letters: “Do not assume you know what the parable means!” In other words, when we come to one of Jesus’ parables, we need to be prepared to be surprised.
This morning we hear the familiar parable of the good Samaritan from the gospel of Luke. A lawyer asks Jesus a question: “Who is my neighbor that I am to love?” and in response Jesus tells the lawyer a story about a man who 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. And then Jesus asks the lawyer: “Which of these three was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”
The moral of the story seems fairly straightforward – we are to be merciful to those we meet.
But a parable is not like one of Aesop’s fables – a fanciful story with a moral. When Aesop wrote about a wolf that disguised himself in the skin of a sheep, Aesop meant for us to learn a piece of proverbial wisdom: appearances can be deceptive. When Jesus spoke in parables, Jesus meant for us to be disturbed, to be surprised, to be jolted into a new way of seeing the world in which we live.
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, reasonable and decent folk who care about others and do not need to be reminded of the meaning of neighborliness.
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 that would be true – I could take my entire salary and give it to the Red Cross and the Red Cross would be grateful and I would have nothing to eat. To us, such an action would be foolish, unreasonable and illogical.
And yet, you and I are here today worshipping 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 went to his death voluntarily in obedience to God’s will. What Jesus did was as crazy as a Samaritan who stopped to help a stranger and then carried him to an inn, declaring he would pay whatever costs were incurred. Neighborliness, at least so far as Jesus defines neighborliness, is irrational, illogical and will lead us to the brink of ruin.
If we give everything we have away, we will be like the man on the side of the road –in need of mercy –and mercy is the last thing we want. What we want is to deal from our strength and not our weaknesses. We want to give but not everything because if we give away everything we will be in want. And who will take care of us?
We all want to identify with the good Samaritan in the parable this morning. And so far as I can tell, most of us want to be merciful to others. But we each have our limits, just like the priest and the Levite. None of us are the good Samaritan.
The good Samaritan was heedless of his own needs, withholding nothing, caring for the wounded man not just in the present but in the future, promising to come back and pay the innkeeper whatever the innkeeper had spent to care for the wounded man. He was the one who proved to be a neighbor to this man left for dead on the side of the road. He was the neighbor the lawyer, and we, are commanded to love. He was the neighbor, the one who showed mercy, the One we call the Christ, the One who died for us, the One who like the Samaritan, was and will remain a strange figure, not one of us but always with us.
I trust the parable of the good Samaritan will provoke us to show mercy. But I also trust the parable of the good Samaritan will invite us to consider the many ways we resist giving ourselves away, afraid of becoming as helpless and needy as was that man left for dead on the side of the road. That man had no way to save himself, and was utterly dependent upon the mercy of strangers.
We are as well, except that most of the time we live with the delusion that we can take care of ourselves and need no other power other than our own to make our way in the world. That delusion leads us to believe we have done something meritorious when we help someone, a feeling of satisfaction after we have helped a lost and crying child find her parents in a crowded mall for example. For Jesus, showing mercy was a way of life, not a series of “good deeds.”
Jesus knew he lived by the mercy of God and Jesus trusted in his Father’s love. You and I live by the mercy of God but do not always trust in God’s love. We hold back, hedge our bets and calculate the costs of doing this or that. If God had calculated the cost of loving us, I doubt God would have sent his Son.
“Go and do likewise,” Jesus tells the lawyer and all of us this day. By the mercy of God, may we all “Go and do likewise.”
Sunday, July 14, 2013 Colossians1: 1- 14
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 10: 25-37
Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers? The lawyer said, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”
Luke 10: 36 -37
Several weeks ago I attended a workshop on preaching the parables. As I looked over my notes recently, across the top of the first page I had written in big letters: “Do not assume you know what the parable means!” In other words, when we come to one of Jesus’ parables, we need to be prepared to be surprised.
This morning we hear the familiar parable of the good Samaritan from the gospel of Luke. A lawyer asks Jesus a question: “Who is my neighbor that I am to love?” and in response Jesus tells the lawyer a story about a man who 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. And then Jesus asks the lawyer: “Which of these three was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”
The moral of the story seems fairly straightforward – we are to be merciful to those we meet.
But a parable is not like one of Aesop’s fables – a fanciful story with a moral. When Aesop wrote about a wolf that disguised himself in the skin of a sheep, Aesop meant for us to learn a piece of proverbial wisdom: appearances can be deceptive. When Jesus spoke in parables, Jesus meant for us to be disturbed, to be surprised, to be jolted into a new way of seeing the world in which we live.
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, reasonable and decent folk who care about others and do not need to be reminded of the meaning of neighborliness.
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 that would be true – I could take my entire salary and give it to the Red Cross and the Red Cross would be grateful and I would have nothing to eat. To us, such an action would be foolish, unreasonable and illogical.
And yet, you and I are here today worshipping 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 went to his death voluntarily in obedience to God’s will. What Jesus did was as crazy as a Samaritan who stopped to help a stranger and then carried him to an inn, declaring he would pay whatever costs were incurred. Neighborliness, at least so far as Jesus defines neighborliness, is irrational, illogical and will lead us to the brink of ruin.
If we give everything we have away, we will be like the man on the side of the road –in need of mercy –and mercy is the last thing we want. What we want is to deal from our strength and not our weaknesses. We want to give but not everything because if we give away everything we will be in want. And who will take care of us?
We all want to identify with the good Samaritan in the parable this morning. And so far as I can tell, most of us want to be merciful to others. But we each have our limits, just like the priest and the Levite. None of us are the good Samaritan.
The good Samaritan was heedless of his own needs, withholding nothing, caring for the wounded man not just in the present but in the future, promising to come back and pay the innkeeper whatever the innkeeper had spent to care for the wounded man. He was the one who proved to be a neighbor to this man left for dead on the side of the road. He was the neighbor the lawyer, and we, are commanded to love. He was the neighbor, the one who showed mercy, the One we call the Christ, the One who died for us, the One who like the Samaritan, was and will remain a strange figure, not one of us but always with us.
I trust the parable of the good Samaritan will provoke us to show mercy. But I also trust the parable of the good Samaritan will invite us to consider the many ways we resist giving ourselves away, afraid of becoming as helpless and needy as was that man left for dead on the side of the road. That man had no way to save himself, and was utterly dependent upon the mercy of strangers.
We are as well, except that most of the time we live with the delusion that we can take care of ourselves and need no other power other than our own to make our way in the world. That delusion leads us to believe we have done something meritorious when we help someone, a feeling of satisfaction after we have helped a lost and crying child find her parents in a crowded mall for example. For Jesus, showing mercy was a way of life, not a series of “good deeds.”
Jesus knew he lived by the mercy of God and Jesus trusted in his Father’s love. You and I live by the mercy of God but do not always trust in God’s love. We hold back, hedge our bets and calculate the costs of doing this or that. If God had calculated the cost of loving us, I doubt God would have sent his Son.
“Go and do likewise,” Jesus tells the lawyer and all of us this day. By the mercy of God, may we all “Go and do likewise.”
The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost Amos 8: 2-12
Sunday, July 21, 2013 Colossians 1:15-28
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 10: 38-42
This is what the Lord God showed me - a basket of summer fruit. He said, ‘Amos, what do you see?’ And I said, ‘A basket of summer fruit’ Then the Lord said to me, “The end has come upon my people Israel; I will never again pass them by.”
Amos 8:1-2
The mark of an authentic prophet, writes social activist Colman McCarthy, is “they don’t mellow, they don’t adjust to the so-called changing times, they go to sleep angry and wake up mad.” Such is the way McCarthy describes the prophet Amos, whose words we hear this morning in our reading from the Old Testament, “history’s first outside agitator,” McCarthy adds. Amos had one message for the people of God: the end had come and their land was about to tremble.
The words we hear this morning were written just around 750 B.C., by a man named Amos who lived about ten miles south of Jerusalem in a town called Tekoa and who was a farmer and sheepherder. At the time, the nation of Israel was divided into two kingdoms – a kingdom in the north and a kingdom in the south. In the mid eighth century, both kingdoms were flourishing, enjoying a peace and prosperity unknown since the glory days of King Solomon. But within thirty years, the peace and prosperity of the northern kingdom would come to an end when the northern kingdom would fall to the empire of Assyria and the people taken into exile.
In the midst of the prosperity of the two kingdoms of Israel, a sheepherder from Tekoa is given a series of visions, visions that declare that all is not right in the land and that God is about to bring Israel to judgment, visions Amos is to share with the northern kingdom, awash in a prosperity that is soon to come to an end.
In our reading this morning, Amos sees a basket of summer fruit, an image that usually reminds us of the bounty of summer, good times and glad tidings. But as soon as Amos sees this bowl of fruit, God says to Amos,
‘The end has come upon my people Israel;
I will never again pass them by.
The songs of the temple shall become wailings on that day,’ says the Lord God;
‘the dead bodies shall be many,
cast out in every place. Be silent!’
The basket of summer fruit is not a herald of the joys of summer but rather a harbinger of the end of the season, a time when there will be no more fruit. The fruits that are being enjoyed now will not last forever. The day of reckoning has come.
“Hear this,” we are told, “you that trample on the needy, and bring to ruin the poor of the land, saying, ‘When will the new moon be over so that we may sell grain; and the sabbath, so that we may offer wheat for sale? We will make the ephah small and the shekel great, and practice deceit with false balances, buying the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals, and selling the sweepings of the wheat.’
God is taking to task those whose prosperity has come about at the expense of the poor, using false measures to defraud the unsuspecting and selling wheat mixed with trash to raise profits. “Shall not the land tremble on this account, and everyone mourn who lives in it,” God says through Amos.
Amos was not well received in the northern kingdom as we might expect. When all is going well, who wants to hear words of condemnation? Unfortunately, all was not going well for everyone. Some folk were living luxuriously while other folk were barely getting by.
Not since King Solomon’s death a century and a half earlier had Israel known such prosperity. King Solomon had built the great Temple in Jerusalem and now, once more, cities such as Samaria in the north were enjoying a newfound wealth brought about by a time of peace and flourishing trade. “All this,” writes historian John Bright, “resulted in a prosperity such as no living Israelite could remember. The splendid buildings and costly ivory inlays of Phoenician or Damascene origin unearthed at Samaria show that Amos did not exaggerate the luxury that Israel’s upper classes enjoyed.”
And now, Amos crashes the party, telling Israel the end has come; God has had enough of “the scorn of the indolent rich,” in words from the psalms. God will not forget and God will bring an end to injustice. And God did, not long after, as the Assyrians led the Israelites out of the northern kingdom and into exile.
Amos is a relatively short book in the Old Testament - only nine chapters. But in those nine chapters Amos comes across as a fire breathing prophet with nothing good to say. He is harsh, angry and condemning. Amos will broke no excuse, accept no repentance and tells Israel God is quite through with them. No wonder Amos was asked to leave Samaria. And yet, the words of Amos proved true; Israel had a “mortal illness” in the words of John Bright and was about to die.
When Israel first moved into the land of Canaan, Israel was a loose confederation of twelve tribes, an agrarian culture, a people dependent upon the land and their neighbors for their well-being. Later, wanting to be like the other nations, Israel was determined to have a king and with a king to become a kingdom, a nation. As a nation, Israel could now defend herself against her enemies, build cities and engage in trade with other nations.
But Israel’s life under the authority of a king was very different from that lived out as twelve tribes with no central authority. As power became centralized, so too did privilege and the development of an “upper class,” a distinction between the “have’s” and the “have not’s.”
For Amos, “having” was not the problem; having at the expense of others was a problem. Amos was not opposed to wealth; Amos was opposed to wealth without responsibility. Amos, we might say, came from the old school, a time in Israel’s formation when God told the twelve tribes of Israel: “When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap to the very edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and for the alien: I am the Lord your God.” Back then, the land owners were not entitled to everything they grew; the gleanings belonged to the poor. Back then, the “have’s” had a responsibility to care for the “have not’s.”
By the mid eighth century, the “have’s” had figured out how to have more – don’t leave the gleanings. Indeed, by harvesting the gleanings you could build a bigger house or lay a bit more ivory. By the mid eighth century, Israel was reaping to the edges and Amos was outraged.
Reading Amos is not for the faint of heart and is especially disturbing to those of us who live in what some would describe as the richest nation on earth. We may not consider ourselves “upper class” but then for many in the world, eating three times a day is a luxury. Add to that, a cultural perception that none of us are entitled to a free lunch and the words of Amos are easily dismissed as the rant of a crazy prophet.
The novelist Aldous Huxley once wrote: “The most distressing thing that can happen to a prophet is to be proved wrong. The next most distressing thing is to be proved right.” Amos was proved right as the northern Israelites were led off into exile and their nation ceased to exist. Israel had forgotten who they were and God was determined to get their attention. God’s judgment was harsh and swift and those ivory palaces are now covered in dust and dirt.
I am not sure what to make of Amos except to say I live in a culture of six figure incomes, big cars, restaurants, guest bedrooms, cruise lines, and shopping malls. I have a microwave, health insurance, two cars and a truck, a cellphone and a computer. I also have a credit card which enables me to buy whatever suits my fancy. My life is good and my basket is full of lovely summer fruit.
Maybe Amos was just one of those people who are always stirring things up, disrupting our peace, agitating and advocating against the status quo. Then again, maybe Amos had a vision of a basket of fruit big enough to be enjoyed by everyone and not just those who had the money to buy Florida oranges in winter. Amos sounds a lot like another man who many called a prophet, a man who overthrew the tables of the money changers in the Temple and who told a rich young lawyer to sell all that he had and give the money to the poor. That man got crucified; Amos was told to go back to Tekoa, and I, this day, wonder what my world would look like were God to say to me: “The end has come.”
Sunday, July 21, 2013 Colossians 1:15-28
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 10: 38-42
This is what the Lord God showed me - a basket of summer fruit. He said, ‘Amos, what do you see?’ And I said, ‘A basket of summer fruit’ Then the Lord said to me, “The end has come upon my people Israel; I will never again pass them by.”
Amos 8:1-2
The mark of an authentic prophet, writes social activist Colman McCarthy, is “they don’t mellow, they don’t adjust to the so-called changing times, they go to sleep angry and wake up mad.” Such is the way McCarthy describes the prophet Amos, whose words we hear this morning in our reading from the Old Testament, “history’s first outside agitator,” McCarthy adds. Amos had one message for the people of God: the end had come and their land was about to tremble.
The words we hear this morning were written just around 750 B.C., by a man named Amos who lived about ten miles south of Jerusalem in a town called Tekoa and who was a farmer and sheepherder. At the time, the nation of Israel was divided into two kingdoms – a kingdom in the north and a kingdom in the south. In the mid eighth century, both kingdoms were flourishing, enjoying a peace and prosperity unknown since the glory days of King Solomon. But within thirty years, the peace and prosperity of the northern kingdom would come to an end when the northern kingdom would fall to the empire of Assyria and the people taken into exile.
In the midst of the prosperity of the two kingdoms of Israel, a sheepherder from Tekoa is given a series of visions, visions that declare that all is not right in the land and that God is about to bring Israel to judgment, visions Amos is to share with the northern kingdom, awash in a prosperity that is soon to come to an end.
In our reading this morning, Amos sees a basket of summer fruit, an image that usually reminds us of the bounty of summer, good times and glad tidings. But as soon as Amos sees this bowl of fruit, God says to Amos,
‘The end has come upon my people Israel;
I will never again pass them by.
The songs of the temple shall become wailings on that day,’ says the Lord God;
‘the dead bodies shall be many,
cast out in every place. Be silent!’
The basket of summer fruit is not a herald of the joys of summer but rather a harbinger of the end of the season, a time when there will be no more fruit. The fruits that are being enjoyed now will not last forever. The day of reckoning has come.
“Hear this,” we are told, “you that trample on the needy, and bring to ruin the poor of the land, saying, ‘When will the new moon be over so that we may sell grain; and the sabbath, so that we may offer wheat for sale? We will make the ephah small and the shekel great, and practice deceit with false balances, buying the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals, and selling the sweepings of the wheat.’
God is taking to task those whose prosperity has come about at the expense of the poor, using false measures to defraud the unsuspecting and selling wheat mixed with trash to raise profits. “Shall not the land tremble on this account, and everyone mourn who lives in it,” God says through Amos.
Amos was not well received in the northern kingdom as we might expect. When all is going well, who wants to hear words of condemnation? Unfortunately, all was not going well for everyone. Some folk were living luxuriously while other folk were barely getting by.
Not since King Solomon’s death a century and a half earlier had Israel known such prosperity. King Solomon had built the great Temple in Jerusalem and now, once more, cities such as Samaria in the north were enjoying a newfound wealth brought about by a time of peace and flourishing trade. “All this,” writes historian John Bright, “resulted in a prosperity such as no living Israelite could remember. The splendid buildings and costly ivory inlays of Phoenician or Damascene origin unearthed at Samaria show that Amos did not exaggerate the luxury that Israel’s upper classes enjoyed.”
And now, Amos crashes the party, telling Israel the end has come; God has had enough of “the scorn of the indolent rich,” in words from the psalms. God will not forget and God will bring an end to injustice. And God did, not long after, as the Assyrians led the Israelites out of the northern kingdom and into exile.
Amos is a relatively short book in the Old Testament - only nine chapters. But in those nine chapters Amos comes across as a fire breathing prophet with nothing good to say. He is harsh, angry and condemning. Amos will broke no excuse, accept no repentance and tells Israel God is quite through with them. No wonder Amos was asked to leave Samaria. And yet, the words of Amos proved true; Israel had a “mortal illness” in the words of John Bright and was about to die.
When Israel first moved into the land of Canaan, Israel was a loose confederation of twelve tribes, an agrarian culture, a people dependent upon the land and their neighbors for their well-being. Later, wanting to be like the other nations, Israel was determined to have a king and with a king to become a kingdom, a nation. As a nation, Israel could now defend herself against her enemies, build cities and engage in trade with other nations.
But Israel’s life under the authority of a king was very different from that lived out as twelve tribes with no central authority. As power became centralized, so too did privilege and the development of an “upper class,” a distinction between the “have’s” and the “have not’s.”
For Amos, “having” was not the problem; having at the expense of others was a problem. Amos was not opposed to wealth; Amos was opposed to wealth without responsibility. Amos, we might say, came from the old school, a time in Israel’s formation when God told the twelve tribes of Israel: “When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap to the very edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and for the alien: I am the Lord your God.” Back then, the land owners were not entitled to everything they grew; the gleanings belonged to the poor. Back then, the “have’s” had a responsibility to care for the “have not’s.”
By the mid eighth century, the “have’s” had figured out how to have more – don’t leave the gleanings. Indeed, by harvesting the gleanings you could build a bigger house or lay a bit more ivory. By the mid eighth century, Israel was reaping to the edges and Amos was outraged.
Reading Amos is not for the faint of heart and is especially disturbing to those of us who live in what some would describe as the richest nation on earth. We may not consider ourselves “upper class” but then for many in the world, eating three times a day is a luxury. Add to that, a cultural perception that none of us are entitled to a free lunch and the words of Amos are easily dismissed as the rant of a crazy prophet.
The novelist Aldous Huxley once wrote: “The most distressing thing that can happen to a prophet is to be proved wrong. The next most distressing thing is to be proved right.” Amos was proved right as the northern Israelites were led off into exile and their nation ceased to exist. Israel had forgotten who they were and God was determined to get their attention. God’s judgment was harsh and swift and those ivory palaces are now covered in dust and dirt.
I am not sure what to make of Amos except to say I live in a culture of six figure incomes, big cars, restaurants, guest bedrooms, cruise lines, and shopping malls. I have a microwave, health insurance, two cars and a truck, a cellphone and a computer. I also have a credit card which enables me to buy whatever suits my fancy. My life is good and my basket is full of lovely summer fruit.
Maybe Amos was just one of those people who are always stirring things up, disrupting our peace, agitating and advocating against the status quo. Then again, maybe Amos had a vision of a basket of fruit big enough to be enjoyed by everyone and not just those who had the money to buy Florida oranges in winter. Amos sounds a lot like another man who many called a prophet, a man who overthrew the tables of the money changers in the Temple and who told a rich young lawyer to sell all that he had and give the money to the poor. That man got crucified; Amos was told to go back to Tekoa, and I, this day, wonder what my world would look like were God to say to me: “The end has come.”
The Tenth Sunday after Pentecost Hosea 1: 2 -10
Sunday, July 28, 2013 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
Once upon a time at a hospital not far from here, a very green hospital chaplain was visiting a man who had suffered a major stroke. He had suffered significant paralysis and the doctors had told his wife that he was unlikely to ever walk again. That day his wife was at his bedside and was pleased when the chaplain came by to visit, grateful for the opportunity to share her fears in light of her husband’s very sudden and tragic stroke. She asked this green chaplain to pray that her husband, who was unable even to speak, would get out of the bed and walk.
The chaplain was utterly speechless, knowing this woman was asking for the impossible to happen. This chaplain was not one of those charlatans on T.V. who promised to raise the dead for a small “contribution.” No, this chaplain was a good Episcopalian who honored the insights of science and knew prayer was not magic. This chaplain muttered a few words and bolted from the room, vowing never to visit another patient ever again.
“Teach us to pray,” Jesus’ disciples ask this morning in our gospel reading from Luke. Indeed, teach us to pray in a world that is filled with your glory but not always with miracles.
This morning we hear the familiar words of the Lord’s Prayer, although not exactly as we say the Lord’s Prayer on Sunday. Luke’s version is a bit shorter than the form we use but the essentials are all there – God is our Father, we want God’s kingdom to come and in the mean time we need food and forgiveness and no trials. We pray that God will give us our daily bread, forgive us, and keep the devil off our backs.
Those verbs are all imperatives – demands in Greek. When we pray the Lord’s Prayer we are, in the words of the Eucharist, being bold, demanding we might say. The Lord’s Prayer is not a negotiation; the Lord’s Prayer is a little like an infant who cries when they need to be fed.
Which is why Luke follows this prayer with a parable about a man who simply will not stop knocking on his friend’s door until he gets what he needs. In this parable a man has need of three loaves of bread for unexpected guests. And so he goes, at midnight, to the home of a friend and begins knocking on his door. “Go away!,” his friend calls out from his bed. “I’m asleep. Come back in the morning!” And the knocking continues, relentlessly, until finally the householder is obliged to get out of bed and open the door.
Jesus praises this man’s “persistence” and likens such persistence to the way we need to pray. The Greek word we translate as “persistence” is actually “shameless persistence,” a persistence without qualms. I would never think to knock even tentatively on my neighbor’s door at midnight to ask to borrow a cup of sugar or a loaf of bread. And yet, my babies wailed shamelessly, without a trace of tentativeness, when they were hungry and they never seemed to care what time it was. My babies expected to be fed when they got hungry and they let me know, often in no uncertain terms.
So, when we pray, we are demanding something of God and we will not go away until we get it. That sounds a little pushy for us Episcopalians who are often hesitant to ask for too much and also want to be nice – demanding is not our style; we prefer to “invite,” choosing our words carefully and graciously. Moreover, we are good Protestants who know “we have sinned against God in thought, word, and deed,” in the words of the confession in morning prayer, and have no right to ask God to do anything for us. But Jesus is clear: “Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.”
Former Archbishop of Canterbury Michael Ramsey once wrote a book on prayer called Be Still and Know. In that short essay Ramsey wants us to consider the relationship between prayer and life, and see prayer as that which is evoked by our lives here on earth – lives that are not always gracious and loving and kind. Ramsey writes: “To be near to the love of God is to be near, as Jesus showed, to the darkness of the world.” “That is the place of prayer,” Ramsey notes, near the darkness. Near such darkness, confronting the oncoming tree or an assailant with a gun or the news we are terminally ill, folk often without thought, will say, “Oh, my God!” The unimaginable has happened and we appeal to the only One who can save us. Oftentimes, those are the first words of prayer some folk have ever uttered. But they are sincere and demanding and not always eloquent.
Ramsey wrestles in his essay with the nature of prayer. Prayer is not magic which our green chaplain knew. So why pray at all? For Ramsey, we pray because we must in a world awash in injustice and grief and tragedy and which is a long way away from the kingdom of God. We pray because God’s kingdom has not come and lo, we wish it would. For Ramsey, the worth of our prayers is not nearly as important as the worth of the person who prays, who longs for a different world and who is grieved by the world in which we live.
Out of the death camps of World War II came many stories of prayer, prayer that was not answered in the main. One Jewish mother, forced to give up her infant son to the gas chambers, asked her German guard for a knife, as those who looked on presumed that she would use to end her life. She did not, but rather prayed, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us concerning circumcision.” This mother then circumcised her infant son and handed him over to the guard, saying, “God of the Universe, you have given me a healthy child. I am returning to you a wholesome, kosher Jew.” Amidst the horror of the death camps, this woman continued to pray, knowing full well she would never see her son again and knowing full well, God heard her prayers.*
If, indeed, the place of prayer is in the midst of the darkness of the world, then we will discover ourselves “praying without ceasing,” in the words of Saint Paul, - unless we have shielded ourselves against the pain of this life, either our own or that of others. Rather than acknowledge the tragedy, injustice and profoundly disturbing nature of life in this world, many would prefer to simply shut their eyes rather than bend their knees.
“Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe,” many Jewish prayers begin. “Blessed be God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit,” our service begins every Sunday. And later we pray, “Give us this day our daily bread; forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; deliver us from evil; and lead us not into temptation.” God is to be blessed for creating us, redeeming us through Christ and sanctifying us by the power of the Holy Spirit. This God who we bless can be trusted to give us good gifts. When, what and how are questions we will need to leave to God.
That green hospital chaplain I spoke of a few minutes ago had a wonderful supervisor, a very wise and faithful woman. That naïve chaplain was learning to pray that afternoon, learning what it means to stand in a place of darkness, especially her own. That supervisor stood in that dark place with that fearful green chaplain a very long time, long after that disastrous visit. What was set in motion that day, I will never fully understand but is a day for which I will always be grateful. That day seemed like an end, when in reality that day was a glorious beginning.
The irony of it all is that I had no idea how to pray for a miracle because in truth I did not want one. I wanted a world that was predictable and comfortable and not subject to divine intrusions over which I had no control. In time I came to learn that most folk are not looking for miracles but rather for a sense of God’s presence, that God is with them and not against them, that they are loved by the creator of the whole universe and are not alone. And paradoxically, when we become aware of God’s love for us, we begin to see miracles all around us - all kinds of things happening that we could never have orchestrated.
Last Wednesday evening is a good example. Some months back, Susan White, a recent transfer from St. John’s Church in Richmond, alerted us to the fact that Salem Baptist Church was hosting a group from Italy to do mission work in Caroline County this past week. Could we host the group for dinner one night? Turns out that Chris Hancock has just purchased a new roaster, on wheels, a mega-roaster. And Chris’ Dad, Joey, tells Susan roasting a pig for a hundred folk is no problem. And back in February when we confirmed Annelizabeth Ferrigan and Alexis Kelleher, I was praying these two talented young women would have an opportunity to do some mission work and live into the faith they were proclaiming.
Well, on Wednesday evening our pavilion was filled with young people, young folk from all over the county and Italy besides. They had spent the day painting and weeding at the middle and high schools, entertaining folk at the Bowling Green Rehabilitation Center and initiating a backyard Bible Club. Kids who spoke English and kids who spoke Italian worked side by side. On Wednesday evening we played and we ate and we worshipped and during worship a young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, prayed that this project would continue. He was looking forward and saw a vision for the future.
That all of this happened is beyond me. This event was a lot of work but was sparked by a confluence of people and things that flummox me. As we worshipped Wednesday evening, I was lost, glad for the liturgy and the simple Taize chants, but otherwise lost in wonder at how this all came to pass. I am grateful and glad and will continue to pray. I do wonder though if our prayers are being answered in ways we will never fully appreciate.
*I learned of this story from Provoking the Gospel of Luke by Richard W. Swanson. His foot- note tells me the story comes from Hasidic Tales of the Holocaust, Yaffa Eliach (New York: Oxford University Press,1982) pp.151-1553.
Sunday, July 28, 2013 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
Once upon a time at a hospital not far from here, a very green hospital chaplain was visiting a man who had suffered a major stroke. He had suffered significant paralysis and the doctors had told his wife that he was unlikely to ever walk again. That day his wife was at his bedside and was pleased when the chaplain came by to visit, grateful for the opportunity to share her fears in light of her husband’s very sudden and tragic stroke. She asked this green chaplain to pray that her husband, who was unable even to speak, would get out of the bed and walk.
The chaplain was utterly speechless, knowing this woman was asking for the impossible to happen. This chaplain was not one of those charlatans on T.V. who promised to raise the dead for a small “contribution.” No, this chaplain was a good Episcopalian who honored the insights of science and knew prayer was not magic. This chaplain muttered a few words and bolted from the room, vowing never to visit another patient ever again.
“Teach us to pray,” Jesus’ disciples ask this morning in our gospel reading from Luke. Indeed, teach us to pray in a world that is filled with your glory but not always with miracles.
This morning we hear the familiar words of the Lord’s Prayer, although not exactly as we say the Lord’s Prayer on Sunday. Luke’s version is a bit shorter than the form we use but the essentials are all there – God is our Father, we want God’s kingdom to come and in the mean time we need food and forgiveness and no trials. We pray that God will give us our daily bread, forgive us, and keep the devil off our backs.
Those verbs are all imperatives – demands in Greek. When we pray the Lord’s Prayer we are, in the words of the Eucharist, being bold, demanding we might say. The Lord’s Prayer is not a negotiation; the Lord’s Prayer is a little like an infant who cries when they need to be fed.
Which is why Luke follows this prayer with a parable about a man who simply will not stop knocking on his friend’s door until he gets what he needs. In this parable a man has need of three loaves of bread for unexpected guests. And so he goes, at midnight, to the home of a friend and begins knocking on his door. “Go away!,” his friend calls out from his bed. “I’m asleep. Come back in the morning!” And the knocking continues, relentlessly, until finally the householder is obliged to get out of bed and open the door.
Jesus praises this man’s “persistence” and likens such persistence to the way we need to pray. The Greek word we translate as “persistence” is actually “shameless persistence,” a persistence without qualms. I would never think to knock even tentatively on my neighbor’s door at midnight to ask to borrow a cup of sugar or a loaf of bread. And yet, my babies wailed shamelessly, without a trace of tentativeness, when they were hungry and they never seemed to care what time it was. My babies expected to be fed when they got hungry and they let me know, often in no uncertain terms.
So, when we pray, we are demanding something of God and we will not go away until we get it. That sounds a little pushy for us Episcopalians who are often hesitant to ask for too much and also want to be nice – demanding is not our style; we prefer to “invite,” choosing our words carefully and graciously. Moreover, we are good Protestants who know “we have sinned against God in thought, word, and deed,” in the words of the confession in morning prayer, and have no right to ask God to do anything for us. But Jesus is clear: “Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.”
Former Archbishop of Canterbury Michael Ramsey once wrote a book on prayer called Be Still and Know. In that short essay Ramsey wants us to consider the relationship between prayer and life, and see prayer as that which is evoked by our lives here on earth – lives that are not always gracious and loving and kind. Ramsey writes: “To be near to the love of God is to be near, as Jesus showed, to the darkness of the world.” “That is the place of prayer,” Ramsey notes, near the darkness. Near such darkness, confronting the oncoming tree or an assailant with a gun or the news we are terminally ill, folk often without thought, will say, “Oh, my God!” The unimaginable has happened and we appeal to the only One who can save us. Oftentimes, those are the first words of prayer some folk have ever uttered. But they are sincere and demanding and not always eloquent.
Ramsey wrestles in his essay with the nature of prayer. Prayer is not magic which our green chaplain knew. So why pray at all? For Ramsey, we pray because we must in a world awash in injustice and grief and tragedy and which is a long way away from the kingdom of God. We pray because God’s kingdom has not come and lo, we wish it would. For Ramsey, the worth of our prayers is not nearly as important as the worth of the person who prays, who longs for a different world and who is grieved by the world in which we live.
Out of the death camps of World War II came many stories of prayer, prayer that was not answered in the main. One Jewish mother, forced to give up her infant son to the gas chambers, asked her German guard for a knife, as those who looked on presumed that she would use to end her life. She did not, but rather prayed, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us concerning circumcision.” This mother then circumcised her infant son and handed him over to the guard, saying, “God of the Universe, you have given me a healthy child. I am returning to you a wholesome, kosher Jew.” Amidst the horror of the death camps, this woman continued to pray, knowing full well she would never see her son again and knowing full well, God heard her prayers.*
If, indeed, the place of prayer is in the midst of the darkness of the world, then we will discover ourselves “praying without ceasing,” in the words of Saint Paul, - unless we have shielded ourselves against the pain of this life, either our own or that of others. Rather than acknowledge the tragedy, injustice and profoundly disturbing nature of life in this world, many would prefer to simply shut their eyes rather than bend their knees.
“Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe,” many Jewish prayers begin. “Blessed be God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit,” our service begins every Sunday. And later we pray, “Give us this day our daily bread; forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; deliver us from evil; and lead us not into temptation.” God is to be blessed for creating us, redeeming us through Christ and sanctifying us by the power of the Holy Spirit. This God who we bless can be trusted to give us good gifts. When, what and how are questions we will need to leave to God.
That green hospital chaplain I spoke of a few minutes ago had a wonderful supervisor, a very wise and faithful woman. That naïve chaplain was learning to pray that afternoon, learning what it means to stand in a place of darkness, especially her own. That supervisor stood in that dark place with that fearful green chaplain a very long time, long after that disastrous visit. What was set in motion that day, I will never fully understand but is a day for which I will always be grateful. That day seemed like an end, when in reality that day was a glorious beginning.
The irony of it all is that I had no idea how to pray for a miracle because in truth I did not want one. I wanted a world that was predictable and comfortable and not subject to divine intrusions over which I had no control. In time I came to learn that most folk are not looking for miracles but rather for a sense of God’s presence, that God is with them and not against them, that they are loved by the creator of the whole universe and are not alone. And paradoxically, when we become aware of God’s love for us, we begin to see miracles all around us - all kinds of things happening that we could never have orchestrated.
Last Wednesday evening is a good example. Some months back, Susan White, a recent transfer from St. John’s Church in Richmond, alerted us to the fact that Salem Baptist Church was hosting a group from Italy to do mission work in Caroline County this past week. Could we host the group for dinner one night? Turns out that Chris Hancock has just purchased a new roaster, on wheels, a mega-roaster. And Chris’ Dad, Joey, tells Susan roasting a pig for a hundred folk is no problem. And back in February when we confirmed Annelizabeth Ferrigan and Alexis Kelleher, I was praying these two talented young women would have an opportunity to do some mission work and live into the faith they were proclaiming.
Well, on Wednesday evening our pavilion was filled with young people, young folk from all over the county and Italy besides. They had spent the day painting and weeding at the middle and high schools, entertaining folk at the Bowling Green Rehabilitation Center and initiating a backyard Bible Club. Kids who spoke English and kids who spoke Italian worked side by side. On Wednesday evening we played and we ate and we worshipped and during worship a young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, prayed that this project would continue. He was looking forward and saw a vision for the future.
That all of this happened is beyond me. This event was a lot of work but was sparked by a confluence of people and things that flummox me. As we worshipped Wednesday evening, I was lost, glad for the liturgy and the simple Taize chants, but otherwise lost in wonder at how this all came to pass. I am grateful and glad and will continue to pray. I do wonder though if our prayers are being answered in ways we will never fully appreciate.
*I learned of this story from Provoking the Gospel of Luke by Richard W. Swanson. His foot- note tells me the story comes from Hasidic Tales of the Holocaust, Yaffa Eliach (New York: Oxford University Press,1982) pp.151-1553.
The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost Hosea11:1-11
Sunday, August 4, 2013 Colossians 3:1-11
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 12:13-21
But God said to him, “You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?”
Luke 12: 20
Some months after my Dad died, my brother, sister and I gathered at his house to divide Dad’s personal belongings and begin emptying the house to sell. We began by drawing straws; the one who drew the long straw picked first and the one who picked the short straw picked last. As my brother, sister and I took turns choosing what we would like to keep of my Dad’s things, we laughed, we cried, and we argued as we looked forward to making some of Dad’s things our own. The good news was that Dad had “downsized” years before after my Mom died so our task was not as difficult as it is for many families.
Nonetheless, what do you do with the dress your mother made for her wedding in 1945, which Dad had carefully saved? Or the engraved silver cigarette box Mom had given to Dad the day of their wedding? What I wanted was a hutch my grandfather had fashioned out of old outhouse boards and which my grandmother had “distressed” by beating on my grandfather’s new hutch with a hammer. I liked that my grandfather had re-cycled an outhouse and I liked that my grandmother thought that furniture ought to look used and abused.
I treasure what I have inherited and I can imagine the brother in our reading this morning from the gospel of Luke would treasure his inheritance as well – if he ever got it. Apparently his older brother was holding up the works. Believing Jesus to be a reasonable sort of fellow, this brother appeals to Jesus to adjudicate his dispute with his brother over their inheritance.
And Jesus refuses to do so. Instead, Jesus cautions against greed and shares the parable of the rich fool, a parable about a man whose fields have produced abundantly and who decides to build bigger barns in which to store his many crops. And then the man dies, before this man has had a chance to “relax, eat, drink and be merry.” “You fool!” God says. “This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?” This man is about to die and building bigger barns is the least of his worries.
The abundance of this man’s possessions will not secure his life which belongs to God. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away and bigger barns will not guarantee either future happiness nor the length of our days.
But the abundance of this man’s crops is not the problem in this parable. This man is not a fool because his land has returned a good yield. A good yield either in crops or investments is an event to be celebrated, not deplored. People starve to death when drought or insects destroy crops. And people lose jobs when companies are unprofitable and are forced to close. That this man had an abundance of crops is a good thing. Abundance is not the problem in this parable; the problem in this parable is what this man does with his abundance.
“I will pull down my barns and build larger ones,” this man says to himself. “I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul , ‘Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’” The problem in this parable is that this man gives no thought to anyone except himself and his well-being.
In the long history of the Church, abundance has been both a blessing and a curse. The Church has been able to do some wonderful things due to the generosity of wealthy benefactors, creating schools and hospitals, food pantries and clothes closets. The Church has also, regrettably, spent fortunes on buildings and furnishings, many of which are now nearly empty on Sunday morning. Worse, the Church has shied away from talking too much about money and abundance and what we should do with what we have.
New Testament scholar Luke Timothy Johnson suggests there may be a good reason why we are hesitant to talk about money in the Church. The New Testament, he argues, does not give us a clear guideline. We have the story in the book of Acts in which the disciples hold all possessions in common and give to each as there is need. But then we also are admonished to give alms and almsgiving presumes we have something of our own to give. Johnson writes:
The scriptures do not present for our consideration or implementation any grand scheme for the proper distribution of possessions. There is no Christian economic structure to be found in the Bible, any more than there is a Christian political structure or educational system. The Bible does not tell us how to organize our lives together, and still less which things we should call private and which public.
Johnson then notes: “This lack of a utopian vision or specific social ethic may be regarded by some as a loss, but it is not. It is a blessing” – a blessing insofar as we are invited to contemplate what it means to bear witness to the kingdom of God, a kingdom in which all persons are blessed so that they may be a blessing to others.
For Johnson, “sharing” is the mandate and symbol of our faith and the title of his book from which the previous quote comes. Sharing does not seem to be what the rich fool had in mind as he set out to build bigger barns. His abundance was a blessing only to him, enabling him to eat, drink and be merry, presumably all by himself. Should he have given away everything or a ten percent tithe or begun a new venture hiring the locals to turn his wheat into loaves of bread to sell? Who knows. He, like all of us, had the difficult task of discerning what to do with what we have. Building a bigger barn in which to store and enjoy his good fortune, was a bad idea, though.
Sharing presumes that what we have, whatever that might be, is a gift to us from God and not solely the result of our “good fortune.” Some of us have been graced with the ability to make wise financial decisions, just as some of us have been graced with musical talent or the ability to make a logical and cogent argument. My grandfather had the gift of being able to turn an old outhouse into a simple hutch to hold my grandmother’s collection of glassware. We do not all have the same gifts but we all have something to share.
And something to receive. I am, as many of you know, technically challenged, and still have trouble texting, let alone tweeting. But I am grateful for those among us who are able to provide us all with new ways to keep up with one another. And although I have no idea what makes emailing possible, I am able, because of email, to work more efficiently and fruitfully. I can send one email to the whole vestry and no longer need to spend hours on the phone, arranging and re-arranging meetings.
Sharing suggests that God has created a world of interdependence – a world in which we all have something to give and something to receive. Many years ago during a summer internship at Trinity Church in Fredericksburg, I was visiting with the director of outreach, Patty Marion, and several homeless folk who had come to the church for a sandwich and a shower. Patty offered one of the men a package of Twinkies to take with him. The man declined, saying he disliked Twinkies and already had more than he wanted. Patty shot back: “Well, if you have more than you need, you need to bring them back here and share them with others.” Patty knew we all have something we can share, regardless of what we might need to receive.
Sharing sounds fairly simple but Luke Timothy Johnson reminds us that sharing in the New Testament took different forms. For some, sharing meant holding all in common; for others, sharing meant almsgiving and giving from what is our own. But, regardless of the form sharing might take in particular circumstances, Johnson reminds us that sharing and not hoarding is God’s way with us and ought to be our way with others. Building bigger barns in order to secure our futures alone is not what God has in mind.
My grandfather built the hutch I now have in his barn. As a child I remember that the barn was huge and in the opening to the barn was a tire swing. My grandfather had fixed the rope to a rafter, way above my head and when we swung on that tire swing I was sure my feet would touch the clouds. Heaven only knows how that swing interrupted his work in the barn! I suspect when his grandchildren came to visit, my grandfather took a break from his carpentry projects. What I know is that my grandfather shared his barn with us and that was fun, really fun. My grandfather was not a saint but he did have a barn and he loved his grandchildren. My grandfather found a way to share his barn, to make his barn not just a workshop but also a bit of a playground.
At the time I simply gloried in the swing and how high I could go. My grandfather’s swing was very different from the swings on my school’s playground which were fashioned of metal links and not very long. My grandfather’s swing was made of rope, tied high above my head to a rafter in a barn and was attached to an old tire, not a metal or plastic seat. I loved my grandfather’s swing which swung me higher than any swing on my school playground. At the time, I never suspected I might be interrupting the work of a craftsman.
But once my feet almost touched the clouds and I am grateful that my grandfather shared his barn and his rope swing with me.
Sunday, August 4, 2013 Colossians 3:1-11
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 12:13-21
But God said to him, “You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?”
Luke 12: 20
Some months after my Dad died, my brother, sister and I gathered at his house to divide Dad’s personal belongings and begin emptying the house to sell. We began by drawing straws; the one who drew the long straw picked first and the one who picked the short straw picked last. As my brother, sister and I took turns choosing what we would like to keep of my Dad’s things, we laughed, we cried, and we argued as we looked forward to making some of Dad’s things our own. The good news was that Dad had “downsized” years before after my Mom died so our task was not as difficult as it is for many families.
Nonetheless, what do you do with the dress your mother made for her wedding in 1945, which Dad had carefully saved? Or the engraved silver cigarette box Mom had given to Dad the day of their wedding? What I wanted was a hutch my grandfather had fashioned out of old outhouse boards and which my grandmother had “distressed” by beating on my grandfather’s new hutch with a hammer. I liked that my grandfather had re-cycled an outhouse and I liked that my grandmother thought that furniture ought to look used and abused.
I treasure what I have inherited and I can imagine the brother in our reading this morning from the gospel of Luke would treasure his inheritance as well – if he ever got it. Apparently his older brother was holding up the works. Believing Jesus to be a reasonable sort of fellow, this brother appeals to Jesus to adjudicate his dispute with his brother over their inheritance.
And Jesus refuses to do so. Instead, Jesus cautions against greed and shares the parable of the rich fool, a parable about a man whose fields have produced abundantly and who decides to build bigger barns in which to store his many crops. And then the man dies, before this man has had a chance to “relax, eat, drink and be merry.” “You fool!” God says. “This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?” This man is about to die and building bigger barns is the least of his worries.
The abundance of this man’s possessions will not secure his life which belongs to God. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away and bigger barns will not guarantee either future happiness nor the length of our days.
But the abundance of this man’s crops is not the problem in this parable. This man is not a fool because his land has returned a good yield. A good yield either in crops or investments is an event to be celebrated, not deplored. People starve to death when drought or insects destroy crops. And people lose jobs when companies are unprofitable and are forced to close. That this man had an abundance of crops is a good thing. Abundance is not the problem in this parable; the problem in this parable is what this man does with his abundance.
“I will pull down my barns and build larger ones,” this man says to himself. “I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul , ‘Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’” The problem in this parable is that this man gives no thought to anyone except himself and his well-being.
In the long history of the Church, abundance has been both a blessing and a curse. The Church has been able to do some wonderful things due to the generosity of wealthy benefactors, creating schools and hospitals, food pantries and clothes closets. The Church has also, regrettably, spent fortunes on buildings and furnishings, many of which are now nearly empty on Sunday morning. Worse, the Church has shied away from talking too much about money and abundance and what we should do with what we have.
New Testament scholar Luke Timothy Johnson suggests there may be a good reason why we are hesitant to talk about money in the Church. The New Testament, he argues, does not give us a clear guideline. We have the story in the book of Acts in which the disciples hold all possessions in common and give to each as there is need. But then we also are admonished to give alms and almsgiving presumes we have something of our own to give. Johnson writes:
The scriptures do not present for our consideration or implementation any grand scheme for the proper distribution of possessions. There is no Christian economic structure to be found in the Bible, any more than there is a Christian political structure or educational system. The Bible does not tell us how to organize our lives together, and still less which things we should call private and which public.
Johnson then notes: “This lack of a utopian vision or specific social ethic may be regarded by some as a loss, but it is not. It is a blessing” – a blessing insofar as we are invited to contemplate what it means to bear witness to the kingdom of God, a kingdom in which all persons are blessed so that they may be a blessing to others.
For Johnson, “sharing” is the mandate and symbol of our faith and the title of his book from which the previous quote comes. Sharing does not seem to be what the rich fool had in mind as he set out to build bigger barns. His abundance was a blessing only to him, enabling him to eat, drink and be merry, presumably all by himself. Should he have given away everything or a ten percent tithe or begun a new venture hiring the locals to turn his wheat into loaves of bread to sell? Who knows. He, like all of us, had the difficult task of discerning what to do with what we have. Building a bigger barn in which to store and enjoy his good fortune, was a bad idea, though.
Sharing presumes that what we have, whatever that might be, is a gift to us from God and not solely the result of our “good fortune.” Some of us have been graced with the ability to make wise financial decisions, just as some of us have been graced with musical talent or the ability to make a logical and cogent argument. My grandfather had the gift of being able to turn an old outhouse into a simple hutch to hold my grandmother’s collection of glassware. We do not all have the same gifts but we all have something to share.
And something to receive. I am, as many of you know, technically challenged, and still have trouble texting, let alone tweeting. But I am grateful for those among us who are able to provide us all with new ways to keep up with one another. And although I have no idea what makes emailing possible, I am able, because of email, to work more efficiently and fruitfully. I can send one email to the whole vestry and no longer need to spend hours on the phone, arranging and re-arranging meetings.
Sharing suggests that God has created a world of interdependence – a world in which we all have something to give and something to receive. Many years ago during a summer internship at Trinity Church in Fredericksburg, I was visiting with the director of outreach, Patty Marion, and several homeless folk who had come to the church for a sandwich and a shower. Patty offered one of the men a package of Twinkies to take with him. The man declined, saying he disliked Twinkies and already had more than he wanted. Patty shot back: “Well, if you have more than you need, you need to bring them back here and share them with others.” Patty knew we all have something we can share, regardless of what we might need to receive.
Sharing sounds fairly simple but Luke Timothy Johnson reminds us that sharing in the New Testament took different forms. For some, sharing meant holding all in common; for others, sharing meant almsgiving and giving from what is our own. But, regardless of the form sharing might take in particular circumstances, Johnson reminds us that sharing and not hoarding is God’s way with us and ought to be our way with others. Building bigger barns in order to secure our futures alone is not what God has in mind.
My grandfather built the hutch I now have in his barn. As a child I remember that the barn was huge and in the opening to the barn was a tire swing. My grandfather had fixed the rope to a rafter, way above my head and when we swung on that tire swing I was sure my feet would touch the clouds. Heaven only knows how that swing interrupted his work in the barn! I suspect when his grandchildren came to visit, my grandfather took a break from his carpentry projects. What I know is that my grandfather shared his barn with us and that was fun, really fun. My grandfather was not a saint but he did have a barn and he loved his grandchildren. My grandfather found a way to share his barn, to make his barn not just a workshop but also a bit of a playground.
At the time I simply gloried in the swing and how high I could go. My grandfather’s swing was very different from the swings on my school’s playground which were fashioned of metal links and not very long. My grandfather’s swing was made of rope, tied high above my head to a rafter in a barn and was attached to an old tire, not a metal or plastic seat. I loved my grandfather’s swing which swung me higher than any swing on my school playground. At the time, I never suspected I might be interrupting the work of a craftsman.
But once my feet almost touched the clouds and I am grateful that my grandfather shared his barn and his rope swing with me.
The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost Isaiah 5: 1-7
Sunday, August 18, 2013 Hebrews 11:29 - 12:2
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 12: 49-56
“Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!”
Luke 12:51
Jesus disturbs our peace this morning in our reading from the gospel of Luke. “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth?” Jesus asks, “No, I tell you, but rather division!” If you came to church this morning looking for comfort and consolation you came on the wrong Sunday. The words we hear this morning from the gospel of Luke are challenging and deeply disturbing as Jesus says: “From now on five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three;” Jesus is bringing fire upon the earth and families will be divided one from another. Jesus, this day, is not the Prince of Peace but the author of division.
Our evangelist Luke is writing towards the end of the first century within the culture and context of the Roman Empire, a vast empire that stretched around the Mediterranean Sea from Europe to Asia. Trade routes and grand building projects flourished in large measure because Rome was very good at keeping the peace, quelling revolts which would disrupt the building of a great empire.
And at the heart of Rome’s desire to build an empire of peace and prosperity was the family, a social unit bound together to insure the well-being of its members. Stable families created stable Roman citizens; stable citizens created a stable empire. A stable empire enabled the flourishing of trade, prosperity and learning. And the Roman Emperor was very much like the head of the household of a Roman family – the paterfamilias – a man who held the power of life and death over his family.
Now Jesus crashes into a culture whose peace is predicated upon maintaining stable family units saying fathers will be divided from their sons and mothers from their daughters. Jesus is tearing at the very fabric that holds the Roman Empire together. Destroy the family and you destroy the Empire. Jesus is disturbing the peace.
As I read our gospel for this morning I was reminded of a young woman who in 202 A.D., was condemned by the Roman Empire for her conviction that Jesus and not the Roman Emperor was to be worshipped. Her name was Perpetua and she was the mother of a young child. Perpetua chose to die rather than renounce her faith and handed over her infant child to the care of her parents before being torn apart by lions. Perpetua’s story is gruesome and her father pleads with Perpetua to renounce her faith which Perpetua refuses to do. Perpetua’s faith called her to die and to give up mothering her newborn. Perpetua’s story is not “nice,” as we say. Most of us I daresay, recoil in horror at this story of martyrdom and wonder how following our faith could ever lead us to abandon the most basic of all relationships - that between a mother and her child.
The story of Perpetua has always disturbed my peace. As does the story of Lutheran pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer whose resistance to Hitler cost him his life in 1945. As does the story of Martin Luther King who was assassinated in 1968, for trying to remove barriers of racial inequality. As does the story of the Philadelphia eleven who sought to open the ordained ministry in the church to women in 1974. As does the story of Oscar Romero, a Roman Catholic priest who was shot in 1980, in El Salvador as he was celebrating communion after condemning the violence of government soldiers.
I am not a divider and the stories of these folk and thousands of others in the history of the church who have disrupted our peace inspire and disturb me. I am and you are, the beneficiary of their prophetic witness. Three years ago I pulled up an article on our text this morning written by a theology professor at Duke Divinity School named Teresa Berger. She writes:
If our world were nothing but a place of created goodness and profound beauty, a space of flourishing for all, just and life-giving for all in God’s creation, then Jesus’ challenge would be deeply troubling. If, on the other hand, our world is deeply marred and scarred, death-dealing for many life forms, with systems of meaning that are exploitative and nonsustainable, then redemption can come only when those systems are shattered and consumed by fire. Life cannot (re-) emerge without confrontation. This is the basis of the conflict Jesus envisions. He comes not to disturb a nice world but to shatter the disturbing and death-dealing systems of meaning that stifle life.
Berger knows we live in a world that is not alright and sees Jesus this morning confronting that world and asking us to do the same.
Jesus is not upsetting a good world, but a world gone wrong.
This week Egypt erupted again in violence and the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, Mohammed ElBaradei, interim vice-president of Egypt’s fledgling government, resigned. His resignation alerted the world that all is not well within the echelons of power. I am grieved that a Nobel Peace Prize winner has opted out of a troubled government. On the other hand, his resignation is a prophetic witness against the escalating violence. Peace will not come to Egypt so long as force is used to silence voices we would prefer not to hear.
Force was precisely the way the Roman Empire achieved the celebrated pax Romana. Conquered peoples, such as Israel, could continue to maintain their cultural traditions until or unless those practices brought chaos to the Empire. When Israel sought to keep Rome from interfering in their practice of worship, Rome responded by burning down the Temple in 70 A.D., and lining the roads with crosses. The peace and glory of the Roman Empire was accomplished at a price.
Jesus was crucified by the Roman governor Pontius Pilate because Jesus was a troublemaker, a disrupter of the peace. Jesus was not crucified for being “nice.” Jesus challenged the Jewish religious authorities, broke bread with prostitutes and refused to take up arms against Rome. Jesus disturbed those who made easy compromises with Rome to keep the peace as well as those who sought to secure peace by overthrowing Rome with violence.
You and I are called to be peacemakers. But like Rosa Parks who refused to sit in the back of the bus, sometimes the way to peace is through conflict and disruption. Such disruption rarely comes without resistance, usually by those who are satisfied with the status quo and the way things are. But until that day when God brings to a close “this present age,” the world in which we live will need prophets and protestors, disturbing us and keeping us from becoming complacent or indifferent.
The peace of God, which passes all understanding, is that peace which we will know when God’s kingdom comes. In that kingdom, in the hauntingly beautiful words of Revelation, “death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.” In that kingdom, the poor will be blessed, the hungry filled, those who weep will laugh and God’s justice will be done.
That kingdom has yet to come and as the death toll rises in Egypt, we are once again reminded that we live in a world that is not at peace. The world was not at peace two thousand years ago. Indeed, two thousand years ago, the world killed the Prince of Peace in the name of peace.
Faced by the cross, Jesus, this morning, is not at peace, but “under stress.” In the words of one commentator, “The road to God’s peace is not a detour around the cross but goes through it.” Many who have followed this crucified Messiah over the last two thousand years have suffered for their faith. We “are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses,” our reading from Hebrews tells us. Those witnesses include young Perpetua, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Oscar Romero, Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, to name just a few. All of these folk challenged the status quo in the name of the Prince of Peace and they all suffered for it.
“Gospel” in Greek means good news and was used long before our gospels were written to announce the birth of a king or a victory in battle. Saint Paul, followed by the evangelist Mark, were the first to use the word “gospel” to speak about the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. Paul, Mark, and later Luke, from whom we hear this morning, were indeed sharing “good news,” but good news that was dangerously good news which would echo through the centuries in the words of the Magnificat, “scattering the proud in the thoughts of their hearts,” “bringing down the powerful from their thrones, and lifting up the lowly.”
Sunday, August 18, 2013 Hebrews 11:29 - 12:2
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 12: 49-56
“Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!”
Luke 12:51
Jesus disturbs our peace this morning in our reading from the gospel of Luke. “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth?” Jesus asks, “No, I tell you, but rather division!” If you came to church this morning looking for comfort and consolation you came on the wrong Sunday. The words we hear this morning from the gospel of Luke are challenging and deeply disturbing as Jesus says: “From now on five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three;” Jesus is bringing fire upon the earth and families will be divided one from another. Jesus, this day, is not the Prince of Peace but the author of division.
Our evangelist Luke is writing towards the end of the first century within the culture and context of the Roman Empire, a vast empire that stretched around the Mediterranean Sea from Europe to Asia. Trade routes and grand building projects flourished in large measure because Rome was very good at keeping the peace, quelling revolts which would disrupt the building of a great empire.
And at the heart of Rome’s desire to build an empire of peace and prosperity was the family, a social unit bound together to insure the well-being of its members. Stable families created stable Roman citizens; stable citizens created a stable empire. A stable empire enabled the flourishing of trade, prosperity and learning. And the Roman Emperor was very much like the head of the household of a Roman family – the paterfamilias – a man who held the power of life and death over his family.
Now Jesus crashes into a culture whose peace is predicated upon maintaining stable family units saying fathers will be divided from their sons and mothers from their daughters. Jesus is tearing at the very fabric that holds the Roman Empire together. Destroy the family and you destroy the Empire. Jesus is disturbing the peace.
As I read our gospel for this morning I was reminded of a young woman who in 202 A.D., was condemned by the Roman Empire for her conviction that Jesus and not the Roman Emperor was to be worshipped. Her name was Perpetua and she was the mother of a young child. Perpetua chose to die rather than renounce her faith and handed over her infant child to the care of her parents before being torn apart by lions. Perpetua’s story is gruesome and her father pleads with Perpetua to renounce her faith which Perpetua refuses to do. Perpetua’s faith called her to die and to give up mothering her newborn. Perpetua’s story is not “nice,” as we say. Most of us I daresay, recoil in horror at this story of martyrdom and wonder how following our faith could ever lead us to abandon the most basic of all relationships - that between a mother and her child.
The story of Perpetua has always disturbed my peace. As does the story of Lutheran pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer whose resistance to Hitler cost him his life in 1945. As does the story of Martin Luther King who was assassinated in 1968, for trying to remove barriers of racial inequality. As does the story of the Philadelphia eleven who sought to open the ordained ministry in the church to women in 1974. As does the story of Oscar Romero, a Roman Catholic priest who was shot in 1980, in El Salvador as he was celebrating communion after condemning the violence of government soldiers.
I am not a divider and the stories of these folk and thousands of others in the history of the church who have disrupted our peace inspire and disturb me. I am and you are, the beneficiary of their prophetic witness. Three years ago I pulled up an article on our text this morning written by a theology professor at Duke Divinity School named Teresa Berger. She writes:
If our world were nothing but a place of created goodness and profound beauty, a space of flourishing for all, just and life-giving for all in God’s creation, then Jesus’ challenge would be deeply troubling. If, on the other hand, our world is deeply marred and scarred, death-dealing for many life forms, with systems of meaning that are exploitative and nonsustainable, then redemption can come only when those systems are shattered and consumed by fire. Life cannot (re-) emerge without confrontation. This is the basis of the conflict Jesus envisions. He comes not to disturb a nice world but to shatter the disturbing and death-dealing systems of meaning that stifle life.
Berger knows we live in a world that is not alright and sees Jesus this morning confronting that world and asking us to do the same.
Jesus is not upsetting a good world, but a world gone wrong.
This week Egypt erupted again in violence and the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, Mohammed ElBaradei, interim vice-president of Egypt’s fledgling government, resigned. His resignation alerted the world that all is not well within the echelons of power. I am grieved that a Nobel Peace Prize winner has opted out of a troubled government. On the other hand, his resignation is a prophetic witness against the escalating violence. Peace will not come to Egypt so long as force is used to silence voices we would prefer not to hear.
Force was precisely the way the Roman Empire achieved the celebrated pax Romana. Conquered peoples, such as Israel, could continue to maintain their cultural traditions until or unless those practices brought chaos to the Empire. When Israel sought to keep Rome from interfering in their practice of worship, Rome responded by burning down the Temple in 70 A.D., and lining the roads with crosses. The peace and glory of the Roman Empire was accomplished at a price.
Jesus was crucified by the Roman governor Pontius Pilate because Jesus was a troublemaker, a disrupter of the peace. Jesus was not crucified for being “nice.” Jesus challenged the Jewish religious authorities, broke bread with prostitutes and refused to take up arms against Rome. Jesus disturbed those who made easy compromises with Rome to keep the peace as well as those who sought to secure peace by overthrowing Rome with violence.
You and I are called to be peacemakers. But like Rosa Parks who refused to sit in the back of the bus, sometimes the way to peace is through conflict and disruption. Such disruption rarely comes without resistance, usually by those who are satisfied with the status quo and the way things are. But until that day when God brings to a close “this present age,” the world in which we live will need prophets and protestors, disturbing us and keeping us from becoming complacent or indifferent.
The peace of God, which passes all understanding, is that peace which we will know when God’s kingdom comes. In that kingdom, in the hauntingly beautiful words of Revelation, “death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.” In that kingdom, the poor will be blessed, the hungry filled, those who weep will laugh and God’s justice will be done.
That kingdom has yet to come and as the death toll rises in Egypt, we are once again reminded that we live in a world that is not at peace. The world was not at peace two thousand years ago. Indeed, two thousand years ago, the world killed the Prince of Peace in the name of peace.
Faced by the cross, Jesus, this morning, is not at peace, but “under stress.” In the words of one commentator, “The road to God’s peace is not a detour around the cross but goes through it.” Many who have followed this crucified Messiah over the last two thousand years have suffered for their faith. We “are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses,” our reading from Hebrews tells us. Those witnesses include young Perpetua, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Oscar Romero, Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, to name just a few. All of these folk challenged the status quo in the name of the Prince of Peace and they all suffered for it.
“Gospel” in Greek means good news and was used long before our gospels were written to announce the birth of a king or a victory in battle. Saint Paul, followed by the evangelist Mark, were the first to use the word “gospel” to speak about the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. Paul, Mark, and later Luke, from whom we hear this morning, were indeed sharing “good news,” but good news that was dangerously good news which would echo through the centuries in the words of the Magnificat, “scattering the proud in the thoughts of their hearts,” “bringing down the powerful from their thrones, and lifting up the lowly.”
The Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost Jeremiah 1:4 -10
Sunday, August 25, 2013 Hebrews 12: 18 -29
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke13: 10-17
And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight.
Luke13:11
“The pious Jew on the Sabbath does not travel, or cook, or use motors or electric appliances, or spend money, or smoke, or write,” writes Pulitzer Prize winning author Herman Wouk, a Jew.
The industrial world stops dead for him. Nearly all the mechanical advantages of civilization drop away. The voice of the radio is still; the television screen is blank. The movies, the baseball and football games, the golf courses, the theatres, the night clubs, the highways, the card tables, the barbecue pits – indeed most of the things that make up the busy pleasures of conventional leisure - are not for him….A Jew who undertakes to observe the Sabbath is, from sundown on Friday to the end of twilight on Saturday, in a world cutoff.
For pious Jews, observing the Sabbath is a commandment, one of ten God gave to the Jews. “Remember the Sabbath Day, to keep it holy,” we read in Exodus. “Six days you shall labor, and do all your work; and the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord your God. You shall not do any work.” Rabbis through the centuries argued over what constituted work, acknowledging the need to work when life was in peril, but otherwise forbidding even the slightest of efforts, as a way of honoring God on the Sabbath. Our five day work week grows out of that tradition although weekend rituals now bear little resemblance to the kind of Sabbath observance Wouk describes – either for Jews whose Sabbath is Saturday or for Christians whose Sabbath is Sunday.
Come sundown on Friday night, a pious Jew gathers with their family who are dressed in their best clothes to sit down at a table graced with candles, fine linens and cups of wine. The meal begins with a blessing as the mother lights the candles and the father blesses the cup of wine. “Light and wine are the keys to the day,” Wouk notes. While the prohibitions against work are harsh to our ears, the purpose of the Sabbath is to celebrate – to celebrate God’s act of creation when God created the world and God’s act of re-creation when God called Israel out of slavery into freedom in the Exodus. Moreover, keeping the Sabbath – leaving aside all work one day every week – gives Jews “a taste of the world to come,” in the words of the rabbis, a world in which human beings are who God created them to be - a royal priesthood - not slaves to whoever or whatever may want to oppress them.
In our reading this morning from the gospel of Luke, Jesus heals a crippled woman on the Sabbath and receives the condemnation of the leader of the synagogue. This woman has been crippled for eighteen years; waiting until sundown to cure her would seem to be reasonable. Had this woman’s life been threatened, the leader of the synagogue would not have been indignant that Jesus had saved her. But this woman’s life was not in danger and Jesus is failing to observe the prohibitions against work on the Sabbath.
Jesus likens what he has done to giving water to an animal on the Sabbath. Animals need water to live and must have water even on the Sabbath. Untying a donkey so that the donkey can drink is work that must be done to preserve life. Jesus’ healing of this woman is likewise a life-saving act to free this woman from “bondage”- eighteen years of being unable to stand up straight. For Jesus, healing this woman - giving her new life - is precisely the purpose of the Sabbath.
You and I live in a world graced with creature comforts Jesus could never have imagined. You and I no longer depend upon the rising of the sun to get us up in the morning but rather the buzzing of our electric alarm clocks. When the sun goes down, we may be hours away from going to bed as we turn on the T.V. to learn what has happened millions of miles away from our temperature controlled living rooms. I, for one, enjoy these comforts and would be wholly disoriented in a world without electricity and automobiles, not to mention computers and email.
But for all the wonders we enjoy in this world in which we live, we are in danger of losing the ritual of keeping Sabbath, of stepping away from busy-ness to be still before God. The many creature comforts we enjoy enable us to keep busy all the time – we are able to be doing something all the time; indeed, doing nothing seems foolish in our increasingly “efficient” culture in which time is money, a commodity we can spend, rather than a gift to us from God ordained to be balanced between work and rest, activity and repose, divided, like the day, between time spent doing something and time spent doing nothing.
Sabbath is a time when we do nothing so that God can do something. Free from the distractions of work, an automobile and the need to cook, Herman Wouk experienced an opportunity to re-connect with his wife and children, to talk about God and, yes, the meaning of life. The Sabbath, for Wouk, was not free time to talk about the family budget or who was doing what, when and where in the coming week. Sabbath was a time set aside to ponder the mystery of being human in an often inhuman world.
Wouk remembers the question he most puzzled over with his father on Sabbath growing up: “Who made God?” Can we even begin to imagine carving out a space so free from all other distractions that wondering about where God came from might take root in our minds? That is a good question but not one most of ask absorbed as we are with the cost of healthcare, the cost of living, troubled relationships and the Dow Jones Average.
Keeping Sabbath, Jesus reminds us this morning is about being freed from bondage, the bondage that comes from being bent over by the “cares and occupations of our life,” in the words of a collect in The Book of Common Prayer. Keeping Sabbath means remembering, in the words of the same collect, “that we live and move and have our being” in God and not in our jobs or the stock market or our children or even our spouses or partners. Keeping Sabbath means trusting God loves and cherishes us “for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health,” in the words of the marriage liturgy. On the Sabbath, Jews read from the Song of Songs, an exquisitely beautiful poem of love, remembering how much and how well God has loved God’s holy people.
Keeping Sabbath is not like taking a vacation which in our culture can be just as busy as the rest of our lives, fraught with new distractions in a different place. We can keep Sabbath on vacation and we can also avoid keeping Sabbath, filling our vacations with as much busy-ness as the busy-ness we sought to escape. Keeping Sabbath means resting in God and resting in God is not much different in Bowling Green than in the Greek Isles. Being still is hard work no matter where you are.
The purpose of the Sabbath Jesus tells us this morning is to free us from bondage, to give us “a foretaste of the coming peace between man and God, man and nature, man and man,” in the words of Wouk. Keeping Sabbath invites us to know the peace of God which passes all understanding. Sometimes, we come to know that peace in the liturgy of the church and for that I am glad and grateful. But we are only “in church” for an hour; what do we do with the other twenty-three hours of our Sabbath?
Six days ago, after the service last Sunday, A.G. and I took off, travelling to Charlottesville to enjoy a night in a bed and breakfast - a gift A.G. had received a year and a half ago when he retired. Neither one of us is very good at keeping Sabbath, especially now that Sunday is a work day for me. I remember laughing about doing nothing Monday morning and feeling a bit disoriented without a task or a job to do. What we did was walk hand in hand through the streets of Charlottesville.
Holding hands is not a spiritual discipline so far as I know. Holding hands, however, is a good metaphor for keeping Sabbath. Keeping Sabbath invites us to hold hands with God for a time, to hold the hand of the One who created us and redeemed us and sustains us. A woman “bent over and quite unable to stand up straight,” would, I suspect, have difficulty holding someone’s hand.
After Jesus heals her, that woman stood up straight for the first time in eighteen years. We are told she first praised God. After that, I like to think she linked hands with someone, someone who loved her or someone she loved or maybe even with someone who was bent over and crippled as she had once been.
Sunday, August 25, 2013 Hebrews 12: 18 -29
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke13: 10-17
And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight.
Luke13:11
“The pious Jew on the Sabbath does not travel, or cook, or use motors or electric appliances, or spend money, or smoke, or write,” writes Pulitzer Prize winning author Herman Wouk, a Jew.
The industrial world stops dead for him. Nearly all the mechanical advantages of civilization drop away. The voice of the radio is still; the television screen is blank. The movies, the baseball and football games, the golf courses, the theatres, the night clubs, the highways, the card tables, the barbecue pits – indeed most of the things that make up the busy pleasures of conventional leisure - are not for him….A Jew who undertakes to observe the Sabbath is, from sundown on Friday to the end of twilight on Saturday, in a world cutoff.
For pious Jews, observing the Sabbath is a commandment, one of ten God gave to the Jews. “Remember the Sabbath Day, to keep it holy,” we read in Exodus. “Six days you shall labor, and do all your work; and the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord your God. You shall not do any work.” Rabbis through the centuries argued over what constituted work, acknowledging the need to work when life was in peril, but otherwise forbidding even the slightest of efforts, as a way of honoring God on the Sabbath. Our five day work week grows out of that tradition although weekend rituals now bear little resemblance to the kind of Sabbath observance Wouk describes – either for Jews whose Sabbath is Saturday or for Christians whose Sabbath is Sunday.
Come sundown on Friday night, a pious Jew gathers with their family who are dressed in their best clothes to sit down at a table graced with candles, fine linens and cups of wine. The meal begins with a blessing as the mother lights the candles and the father blesses the cup of wine. “Light and wine are the keys to the day,” Wouk notes. While the prohibitions against work are harsh to our ears, the purpose of the Sabbath is to celebrate – to celebrate God’s act of creation when God created the world and God’s act of re-creation when God called Israel out of slavery into freedom in the Exodus. Moreover, keeping the Sabbath – leaving aside all work one day every week – gives Jews “a taste of the world to come,” in the words of the rabbis, a world in which human beings are who God created them to be - a royal priesthood - not slaves to whoever or whatever may want to oppress them.
In our reading this morning from the gospel of Luke, Jesus heals a crippled woman on the Sabbath and receives the condemnation of the leader of the synagogue. This woman has been crippled for eighteen years; waiting until sundown to cure her would seem to be reasonable. Had this woman’s life been threatened, the leader of the synagogue would not have been indignant that Jesus had saved her. But this woman’s life was not in danger and Jesus is failing to observe the prohibitions against work on the Sabbath.
Jesus likens what he has done to giving water to an animal on the Sabbath. Animals need water to live and must have water even on the Sabbath. Untying a donkey so that the donkey can drink is work that must be done to preserve life. Jesus’ healing of this woman is likewise a life-saving act to free this woman from “bondage”- eighteen years of being unable to stand up straight. For Jesus, healing this woman - giving her new life - is precisely the purpose of the Sabbath.
You and I live in a world graced with creature comforts Jesus could never have imagined. You and I no longer depend upon the rising of the sun to get us up in the morning but rather the buzzing of our electric alarm clocks. When the sun goes down, we may be hours away from going to bed as we turn on the T.V. to learn what has happened millions of miles away from our temperature controlled living rooms. I, for one, enjoy these comforts and would be wholly disoriented in a world without electricity and automobiles, not to mention computers and email.
But for all the wonders we enjoy in this world in which we live, we are in danger of losing the ritual of keeping Sabbath, of stepping away from busy-ness to be still before God. The many creature comforts we enjoy enable us to keep busy all the time – we are able to be doing something all the time; indeed, doing nothing seems foolish in our increasingly “efficient” culture in which time is money, a commodity we can spend, rather than a gift to us from God ordained to be balanced between work and rest, activity and repose, divided, like the day, between time spent doing something and time spent doing nothing.
Sabbath is a time when we do nothing so that God can do something. Free from the distractions of work, an automobile and the need to cook, Herman Wouk experienced an opportunity to re-connect with his wife and children, to talk about God and, yes, the meaning of life. The Sabbath, for Wouk, was not free time to talk about the family budget or who was doing what, when and where in the coming week. Sabbath was a time set aside to ponder the mystery of being human in an often inhuman world.
Wouk remembers the question he most puzzled over with his father on Sabbath growing up: “Who made God?” Can we even begin to imagine carving out a space so free from all other distractions that wondering about where God came from might take root in our minds? That is a good question but not one most of ask absorbed as we are with the cost of healthcare, the cost of living, troubled relationships and the Dow Jones Average.
Keeping Sabbath, Jesus reminds us this morning is about being freed from bondage, the bondage that comes from being bent over by the “cares and occupations of our life,” in the words of a collect in The Book of Common Prayer. Keeping Sabbath means remembering, in the words of the same collect, “that we live and move and have our being” in God and not in our jobs or the stock market or our children or even our spouses or partners. Keeping Sabbath means trusting God loves and cherishes us “for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health,” in the words of the marriage liturgy. On the Sabbath, Jews read from the Song of Songs, an exquisitely beautiful poem of love, remembering how much and how well God has loved God’s holy people.
Keeping Sabbath is not like taking a vacation which in our culture can be just as busy as the rest of our lives, fraught with new distractions in a different place. We can keep Sabbath on vacation and we can also avoid keeping Sabbath, filling our vacations with as much busy-ness as the busy-ness we sought to escape. Keeping Sabbath means resting in God and resting in God is not much different in Bowling Green than in the Greek Isles. Being still is hard work no matter where you are.
The purpose of the Sabbath Jesus tells us this morning is to free us from bondage, to give us “a foretaste of the coming peace between man and God, man and nature, man and man,” in the words of Wouk. Keeping Sabbath invites us to know the peace of God which passes all understanding. Sometimes, we come to know that peace in the liturgy of the church and for that I am glad and grateful. But we are only “in church” for an hour; what do we do with the other twenty-three hours of our Sabbath?
Six days ago, after the service last Sunday, A.G. and I took off, travelling to Charlottesville to enjoy a night in a bed and breakfast - a gift A.G. had received a year and a half ago when he retired. Neither one of us is very good at keeping Sabbath, especially now that Sunday is a work day for me. I remember laughing about doing nothing Monday morning and feeling a bit disoriented without a task or a job to do. What we did was walk hand in hand through the streets of Charlottesville.
Holding hands is not a spiritual discipline so far as I know. Holding hands, however, is a good metaphor for keeping Sabbath. Keeping Sabbath invites us to hold hands with God for a time, to hold the hand of the One who created us and redeemed us and sustains us. A woman “bent over and quite unable to stand up straight,” would, I suspect, have difficulty holding someone’s hand.
After Jesus heals her, that woman stood up straight for the first time in eighteen years. We are told she first praised God. After that, I like to think she linked hands with someone, someone who loved her or someone she loved or maybe even with someone who was bent over and crippled as she had once been.
The Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost Jeremiah 2: 4 -13
Sunday, September 1, 2013 Hebrews 13: 1-8, 15-16
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 14: 1, 7 -14
“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
Luke 14: 11
Some years ago, our Presiding Bishop, The Most Reverend Katherine Jefferts Schori, attended a large reception filled with folk from the Episcopal Church. Reverend Schori was dressed, as she often is, in a simple black pants suit. As Katherine, a woman with a quiet and gentle presence, moved among the tables, mingling with the guests, she was suddenly handed an empty plate and asked if she might get the guest another ham biscuit from the food table. Katherine took the plate, returning shortly with another ham biscuit for this guest. Only later, after Katherine had been introduced to the assembly, did this guest realize with embarrassment that she had presumed the Presiding Bishop, dressed as she was in simple black pants and a jacket, was a member of the wait staff. Oops!
This morning in our gospel reading from Luke we meet Jesus at the home of a Pharisee on the Sabbath for dinner and Jesus is noticing who sits where. Certain places at the table were reserved for the honored guests, much like we expect our host at a dinner party to sit at the “head” of the table or the bride and groom to sit at the “head” table at a bridal reception or the President of the United States to sit with the head of state of a foreign country at a state dinner. In the first century, much like the twenty-first century, we observe certain social protocols when we share meals with “honored guests.”
As the guests choose their places at the table, Jesus shares a parable about folk who sit down at the wrong place only to be asked to move by their host when someone more honored than they arrives. Making presumptions about your status at a dinner party can lead to embarrassment, much like assuming a place at the head table of a bridal reception when you are not a member of the wedding party. Making presumptions about the status of others can be even more embarrassing, as the attendee at the large Episcopal gathering I just described learned. In the first century, much like the twenty-first century, presuming upon your place at the table (and that of others) is bad form.
Upon hearing this parable, the guests, no doubt, considered more carefully where they might sit in order to avoid the embarrassment of being asked to move. Cognizant of conventional social protocols, Jesus appeals to the guests’ desire not to be disgraced to move them to consider their “place” in the eyes of others. Avoiding disgrace and the disapproval of others was a powerful incentive in a world where one’s honor was protected at all costs.
But conventional social etiquette is probably not what Jesus intends to conveys when Jesus says: “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” Those words echo the words Mary sang in the opening chapter of Luke’s gospel as Mary rejoices over her pregnancy:
‘My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,
for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.
His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.
God will scatter the proud, bring down the powerful and lift up the lowly. Conventional social etiquette may cause you to take care where you sit at a wedding banquet, but in the kingdom of God, the lowly and the hungry will have pride of place.
How we are viewed by others continues to be important to us. We may not go to the lengths of hiring an “image consultant” or a “spin doctor” but we value the good opinions of our families, friends and neighbors. We want to be seen as a member of good standing in our communities, folk who others appreciate living and working with.
But theologians Fred Craddock and Eugene Boring offer us a bit of caution this morning in their comments on our text. “Those who would be Jesus’ disciples,” they write, “are called to live their lives before God without undue concern for one’s image in the eyes of others.” In the eyes of others, what we do or do not do may be praised or condemned, lauded or reviled, honored or shamed; what is ultimately important, though, is not the way others see us but rather the way God sees us. Our “social standing” is not irrelevant, just not ultimate.
In 1205 A.D., a young Italian man had a dream calling him away from a life of prosperity and privilege and into a life of poverty. This man’s father was a wealthy cloth merchant according to the Catholic Encyclopedia, and was outraged when his son stole a bundle of cloth, selling the cloth and giving the money to rebuild a church. Following that episode, the father locked his son in a closet from which he was subsequently freed by his mother.
But his father’s wrath continued, unabated, as he sought to stop the mad conduct of his son. The father sought the help of the civil authorities in order to prevent his son from receiving his inheritance. The son was only too glad to oblige, renouncing all his worldly goods, stripping off his fine clothes which he flung at his father, and taking a vow of poverty before the bishop. From that day until his death in 1226 A.D., Francis of Assisi spent his life among the poor, the vulnerable and the oft forgotten.
But not before Francis broke all conventional codes of conduct for the son of a prosperous cloth merchant in twelfth century Italy. Had Francis of Assisi been deterred from his vocation by the condemnation of his father, you and I would be bereft of a beloved saint, the tradition of our Christmas crèche and a witness to the needs of the poor and vulnerable, whether they be men and women or birds. Francis broke with conventional social wisdom and we now laud him a saint!
Does this mean we ought to abandon all concern with what others think? Absolutely not! But having “undue concern” with our image, in the words of Craddock and Boring, may lead us to follow the expectations of others rather than God’s expectations for us. We can become consumed with our image before others and blind to what God would have us do.
Several years ago the vestry wrestled mightily with a request from the McShin Foundation to use our pavilion. The McShin Foundation offers services to those seeking recovery from alcoholism. The Foundation was looking for a place to hold a picnic and had met with resistance from several places in Bowling Green. Your vestry knew little about the McShin Foundation, worried about how St. Asaph’s would be perceived by others if we opened our building and grounds to a group others had spurned. At the end of the day, the vestry voted to allow the McShin Foundation to use the pavilion and that decision bore fruit we could never have imagined at the time.
“What will people think?” is not a foolish question to ask. What is foolish is to think that all people will see things in the same way. Which is why in the Church we “take counsel together” when we make decisions. Every three years, the national church meets together in General Convention; once a year, the laity and clergy of the Diocese gather at Annual Council; and once a month the vestry of this parish gathers to consider what we do with five minds and hearts around the table and only after we have prayed with and for one another.
God has graced us with companions with whom we can take counsel and through whom we might become clearer about what God would have us do. Such conversations can be humbling as we come to realize that our way of seeing things is not the only way.
What we are seeking in the church is not our honor and glory but the honor and glory of God, the God who in Christ, in the words of Paul:
though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.
Sunday, September 1, 2013 Hebrews 13: 1-8, 15-16
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 14: 1, 7 -14
“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
Luke 14: 11
Some years ago, our Presiding Bishop, The Most Reverend Katherine Jefferts Schori, attended a large reception filled with folk from the Episcopal Church. Reverend Schori was dressed, as she often is, in a simple black pants suit. As Katherine, a woman with a quiet and gentle presence, moved among the tables, mingling with the guests, she was suddenly handed an empty plate and asked if she might get the guest another ham biscuit from the food table. Katherine took the plate, returning shortly with another ham biscuit for this guest. Only later, after Katherine had been introduced to the assembly, did this guest realize with embarrassment that she had presumed the Presiding Bishop, dressed as she was in simple black pants and a jacket, was a member of the wait staff. Oops!
This morning in our gospel reading from Luke we meet Jesus at the home of a Pharisee on the Sabbath for dinner and Jesus is noticing who sits where. Certain places at the table were reserved for the honored guests, much like we expect our host at a dinner party to sit at the “head” of the table or the bride and groom to sit at the “head” table at a bridal reception or the President of the United States to sit with the head of state of a foreign country at a state dinner. In the first century, much like the twenty-first century, we observe certain social protocols when we share meals with “honored guests.”
As the guests choose their places at the table, Jesus shares a parable about folk who sit down at the wrong place only to be asked to move by their host when someone more honored than they arrives. Making presumptions about your status at a dinner party can lead to embarrassment, much like assuming a place at the head table of a bridal reception when you are not a member of the wedding party. Making presumptions about the status of others can be even more embarrassing, as the attendee at the large Episcopal gathering I just described learned. In the first century, much like the twenty-first century, presuming upon your place at the table (and that of others) is bad form.
Upon hearing this parable, the guests, no doubt, considered more carefully where they might sit in order to avoid the embarrassment of being asked to move. Cognizant of conventional social protocols, Jesus appeals to the guests’ desire not to be disgraced to move them to consider their “place” in the eyes of others. Avoiding disgrace and the disapproval of others was a powerful incentive in a world where one’s honor was protected at all costs.
But conventional social etiquette is probably not what Jesus intends to conveys when Jesus says: “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” Those words echo the words Mary sang in the opening chapter of Luke’s gospel as Mary rejoices over her pregnancy:
‘My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,
for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.
His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.
God will scatter the proud, bring down the powerful and lift up the lowly. Conventional social etiquette may cause you to take care where you sit at a wedding banquet, but in the kingdom of God, the lowly and the hungry will have pride of place.
How we are viewed by others continues to be important to us. We may not go to the lengths of hiring an “image consultant” or a “spin doctor” but we value the good opinions of our families, friends and neighbors. We want to be seen as a member of good standing in our communities, folk who others appreciate living and working with.
But theologians Fred Craddock and Eugene Boring offer us a bit of caution this morning in their comments on our text. “Those who would be Jesus’ disciples,” they write, “are called to live their lives before God without undue concern for one’s image in the eyes of others.” In the eyes of others, what we do or do not do may be praised or condemned, lauded or reviled, honored or shamed; what is ultimately important, though, is not the way others see us but rather the way God sees us. Our “social standing” is not irrelevant, just not ultimate.
In 1205 A.D., a young Italian man had a dream calling him away from a life of prosperity and privilege and into a life of poverty. This man’s father was a wealthy cloth merchant according to the Catholic Encyclopedia, and was outraged when his son stole a bundle of cloth, selling the cloth and giving the money to rebuild a church. Following that episode, the father locked his son in a closet from which he was subsequently freed by his mother.
But his father’s wrath continued, unabated, as he sought to stop the mad conduct of his son. The father sought the help of the civil authorities in order to prevent his son from receiving his inheritance. The son was only too glad to oblige, renouncing all his worldly goods, stripping off his fine clothes which he flung at his father, and taking a vow of poverty before the bishop. From that day until his death in 1226 A.D., Francis of Assisi spent his life among the poor, the vulnerable and the oft forgotten.
But not before Francis broke all conventional codes of conduct for the son of a prosperous cloth merchant in twelfth century Italy. Had Francis of Assisi been deterred from his vocation by the condemnation of his father, you and I would be bereft of a beloved saint, the tradition of our Christmas crèche and a witness to the needs of the poor and vulnerable, whether they be men and women or birds. Francis broke with conventional social wisdom and we now laud him a saint!
Does this mean we ought to abandon all concern with what others think? Absolutely not! But having “undue concern” with our image, in the words of Craddock and Boring, may lead us to follow the expectations of others rather than God’s expectations for us. We can become consumed with our image before others and blind to what God would have us do.
Several years ago the vestry wrestled mightily with a request from the McShin Foundation to use our pavilion. The McShin Foundation offers services to those seeking recovery from alcoholism. The Foundation was looking for a place to hold a picnic and had met with resistance from several places in Bowling Green. Your vestry knew little about the McShin Foundation, worried about how St. Asaph’s would be perceived by others if we opened our building and grounds to a group others had spurned. At the end of the day, the vestry voted to allow the McShin Foundation to use the pavilion and that decision bore fruit we could never have imagined at the time.
“What will people think?” is not a foolish question to ask. What is foolish is to think that all people will see things in the same way. Which is why in the Church we “take counsel together” when we make decisions. Every three years, the national church meets together in General Convention; once a year, the laity and clergy of the Diocese gather at Annual Council; and once a month the vestry of this parish gathers to consider what we do with five minds and hearts around the table and only after we have prayed with and for one another.
God has graced us with companions with whom we can take counsel and through whom we might become clearer about what God would have us do. Such conversations can be humbling as we come to realize that our way of seeing things is not the only way.
What we are seeking in the church is not our honor and glory but the honor and glory of God, the God who in Christ, in the words of Paul:
though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.
The Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost Jeremiah 18:1-11
Sunday, September 8, 2013 Philemon 1-21
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 14:25 -33
“Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.”
Luke 14: 26
On Tuesday, Caroline County schools opened for a new year. For most, the day marked the end of summer vacation and a return to homework, tests, writing papers and grading papers. For some, Tuesday was a whole new adventure as five year olds became kindergarteners. On Tuesday, many of the parents of those young children shed a few tears as their son or daughter boarded a school bus for the first time or waved goodbye to them at their classroom door.
And whether a child boards a bus or is schooled at home, watching your son or daughter do something new, think a new thought, gain a better understanding of themselves and the world in which they live, can often bring tears to the eyes of those who love them – tears of joy that they are growing up, tears of sadness that we cannot protect them against difficult times.
And now on this day, Jesus says in our gospel reading from Luke: “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.” What happened to all the love that moves us to educate our children, either personally or within systems of public or private education? We educate our children because we love them, not because we hate them. What in the world is Jesus saying to us? Is Jesus asking us to stop loving our children?
The short answer is no; the long answer is a bit more complicated. The Greek word that is translated as “hate” in our text can variously be translated as “despise,” “disregard,” or “be indifferent to.” The word has a range of meaning and is not identical with the emotion we call “hate.” Rather, the Greek word suggests detachment, a letting go of those people and things to which we are attached. This morning, Jesus tells the large crowds that are following him, that if they wish to be his disciples, they must let go of whatever attachments might keep them from following this man who is headed to the cross to literally give up his life.
On the bulletin board downstairs you will find a picture of troops deployed in Afghanistan. They are young men and women gathered in worship by a chaplain I met some years ago. Although I do not know their stories, I suspect many of those men and women left behind young families when they went to Afghanistan, maybe even some five year olds. Those young men and women believed they needed to leave their families and go to Afghanistan. Others have left their families to serve as missionaries in that war torn country. None of those folk, I suspect “hate” their families or their children; all of those folk, though, have felt called to go, leaving their families behind.
In matters of life and death, our priorities change, sometimes dramatically. When our home is on fire, we seek to save our lives and the lives of those we love, not our possessions, no matter how cherished. And for Jesus, this morning, discipleship is a matter of life and death which will necessitate a change of priorities. Those who wish to follow Jesus will be required to let some things go – things that otherwise give us a sense of security and identity.
And whereas Jesus’ call to “hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself,” sounds exceedingly harsh to our ears, the call to “be indifferent” to these relationships is so that we can be free to follow this Lord through death into life. Whatever “attachments” we might have pale in comparison to the one attachment that promises to give us life and life without end. Only God can give us life and that is what we are seeking by following the Lord of life.
Too often in the church, discipleship has been understood as an onerous task, a joyless and dreary exercise in becoming “holy,” either by following certain prescribed rules or despairing of achieving altogether. Discipleship has rarely been understood as a call into spiritual freedom, the kind of freedom we come to know in Christ’s service, in the words of one of our collects. Following Christ is an invitation – a call – to become the persons God created us to be, irresistibly beautiful.
Disciples are those who have been called, given a vocation if not necessarily a collar. Many of the teachers who started back to school this past Tuesday are living into a vocation and not just doing a job. And I believe others such as parents can tell the difference. Some teachers have the heart of a teacher and do not stop teaching even after retirement. Teaching brings these folk to life and that life is shared with their students. We can say the same thing about some lawyers and doctors and musicians and engineers and farmers and firefighters and poets and painters and artists and realtors and woodworkers and all manner of folk. Some folk are living into a call and loving it and some folk are simply doing a job.
The teachers I know who love what they do also had to be trained and certified, giving up a good bit of their lives to prepare. They also must apply for jobs and go where the work is. And then there are the committee meetings and the hours of grading papers when they perhaps would prefer to be doing something else. Living into our vocations comes at a cost and rarely catapults us into glory. Living into our vocations, though, always leads us into joy.
Jesus is careful this morning to admonish the crowds that following him will not be easy. These same crowds will hail Jesus as he rides into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey on Palm Sunday. Four days later those same enthusiastic crowds called for his death. What looked to be a glorious Savior who would free the Jews from their Roman oppressors turned out to be, in worldly terms, no savior at all. And everybody abandoned what appeared to be a sinking ship.
Some of those young men and women whose picture is posted on our bulletin board I suspect have had some second thoughts about their call. I suspect some of the conscientious objectors who moved to Canada during the Viet Nam War had some second thoughts. I suspect most folk who take what they do seriously will question at times what they are doing. Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane before he died: “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.” Our vocations are wonderful until they lead us into that place of crucifixion, that place where we are led to give up something we really want to hang on to. Jesus was asked to give up his life.
Spiritual freedom comes at a cost. This morning we read psalm 139, a psalm extolling the wonder of our creation. “For you yourself created my inmost parts;” the psalmist exclaims, “you knit me together in my mother’s womb.” In the nineteenth century, a very bright young Englishman named Francis Thompson wrote a poem paraphrasing this psalm and titled his poem “The Hound of Heaven.” Thompson was a writer and a poet and was addicted to opium. For years, Thompson fled from the “marvelously made” creation that he was in the words of the psalm. “I fled Him, down the nights and down the days,” begins Thompson’s poem. “I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes I sped;”
But the Hound of Heaven never gave up His pursuit and has the last words in the poem: “Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He Whom thou seekest!” From the beginning, Thompson was marvelously made, unconditionally loved and given a vocation. Thompson took awhile to discover those “deep thoughts” of God in the words of our psalmist, the wonder of his own creation. Once he did, he was able to pen the marvelous poem we now have chronicling the soul’s journey from bondage into freedom, from attachment to detachment, from hanging on to letting go.
Letting go is not easy and this week some in our community came to know “letting go” in a new way. Letting go of our children is hard. Letting go of our fears is hard as is letting go of our need to be right or to be loved. Letting go of our loved ones as they are dying is especially hard. And all of that is simply practice for the time when we will need to let go of our lives and take our last breath.
Jesus trod that way and bids us make it our own. There are easier ways. We can cling to things and people. We can believe that life is not worth living without this or that. We can turn our spouse or children into our saviors and fold when they fail to be so. We can rely on the family silver and believe our lives are lost when the silver is stolen.
Life is a little like a ride in a hot air balloon. Unless the tethers are released, you won’t go anywhere. Once the tethers are released that keep the balloon on the ground, you begin to soar. And you begin to see life in a new way, in God’s way, in a way in which nothing is lost but rather gathered up, collected if you will, into a whole. You can’t see that from the ground but only from on high, only after the tethers that keep the balloon on the ground are untied.
Sunday, September 8, 2013 Philemon 1-21
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 14:25 -33
“Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.”
Luke 14: 26
On Tuesday, Caroline County schools opened for a new year. For most, the day marked the end of summer vacation and a return to homework, tests, writing papers and grading papers. For some, Tuesday was a whole new adventure as five year olds became kindergarteners. On Tuesday, many of the parents of those young children shed a few tears as their son or daughter boarded a school bus for the first time or waved goodbye to them at their classroom door.
And whether a child boards a bus or is schooled at home, watching your son or daughter do something new, think a new thought, gain a better understanding of themselves and the world in which they live, can often bring tears to the eyes of those who love them – tears of joy that they are growing up, tears of sadness that we cannot protect them against difficult times.
And now on this day, Jesus says in our gospel reading from Luke: “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple.” What happened to all the love that moves us to educate our children, either personally or within systems of public or private education? We educate our children because we love them, not because we hate them. What in the world is Jesus saying to us? Is Jesus asking us to stop loving our children?
The short answer is no; the long answer is a bit more complicated. The Greek word that is translated as “hate” in our text can variously be translated as “despise,” “disregard,” or “be indifferent to.” The word has a range of meaning and is not identical with the emotion we call “hate.” Rather, the Greek word suggests detachment, a letting go of those people and things to which we are attached. This morning, Jesus tells the large crowds that are following him, that if they wish to be his disciples, they must let go of whatever attachments might keep them from following this man who is headed to the cross to literally give up his life.
On the bulletin board downstairs you will find a picture of troops deployed in Afghanistan. They are young men and women gathered in worship by a chaplain I met some years ago. Although I do not know their stories, I suspect many of those men and women left behind young families when they went to Afghanistan, maybe even some five year olds. Those young men and women believed they needed to leave their families and go to Afghanistan. Others have left their families to serve as missionaries in that war torn country. None of those folk, I suspect “hate” their families or their children; all of those folk, though, have felt called to go, leaving their families behind.
In matters of life and death, our priorities change, sometimes dramatically. When our home is on fire, we seek to save our lives and the lives of those we love, not our possessions, no matter how cherished. And for Jesus, this morning, discipleship is a matter of life and death which will necessitate a change of priorities. Those who wish to follow Jesus will be required to let some things go – things that otherwise give us a sense of security and identity.
And whereas Jesus’ call to “hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself,” sounds exceedingly harsh to our ears, the call to “be indifferent” to these relationships is so that we can be free to follow this Lord through death into life. Whatever “attachments” we might have pale in comparison to the one attachment that promises to give us life and life without end. Only God can give us life and that is what we are seeking by following the Lord of life.
Too often in the church, discipleship has been understood as an onerous task, a joyless and dreary exercise in becoming “holy,” either by following certain prescribed rules or despairing of achieving altogether. Discipleship has rarely been understood as a call into spiritual freedom, the kind of freedom we come to know in Christ’s service, in the words of one of our collects. Following Christ is an invitation – a call – to become the persons God created us to be, irresistibly beautiful.
Disciples are those who have been called, given a vocation if not necessarily a collar. Many of the teachers who started back to school this past Tuesday are living into a vocation and not just doing a job. And I believe others such as parents can tell the difference. Some teachers have the heart of a teacher and do not stop teaching even after retirement. Teaching brings these folk to life and that life is shared with their students. We can say the same thing about some lawyers and doctors and musicians and engineers and farmers and firefighters and poets and painters and artists and realtors and woodworkers and all manner of folk. Some folk are living into a call and loving it and some folk are simply doing a job.
The teachers I know who love what they do also had to be trained and certified, giving up a good bit of their lives to prepare. They also must apply for jobs and go where the work is. And then there are the committee meetings and the hours of grading papers when they perhaps would prefer to be doing something else. Living into our vocations comes at a cost and rarely catapults us into glory. Living into our vocations, though, always leads us into joy.
Jesus is careful this morning to admonish the crowds that following him will not be easy. These same crowds will hail Jesus as he rides into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey on Palm Sunday. Four days later those same enthusiastic crowds called for his death. What looked to be a glorious Savior who would free the Jews from their Roman oppressors turned out to be, in worldly terms, no savior at all. And everybody abandoned what appeared to be a sinking ship.
Some of those young men and women whose picture is posted on our bulletin board I suspect have had some second thoughts about their call. I suspect some of the conscientious objectors who moved to Canada during the Viet Nam War had some second thoughts. I suspect most folk who take what they do seriously will question at times what they are doing. Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane before he died: “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.” Our vocations are wonderful until they lead us into that place of crucifixion, that place where we are led to give up something we really want to hang on to. Jesus was asked to give up his life.
Spiritual freedom comes at a cost. This morning we read psalm 139, a psalm extolling the wonder of our creation. “For you yourself created my inmost parts;” the psalmist exclaims, “you knit me together in my mother’s womb.” In the nineteenth century, a very bright young Englishman named Francis Thompson wrote a poem paraphrasing this psalm and titled his poem “The Hound of Heaven.” Thompson was a writer and a poet and was addicted to opium. For years, Thompson fled from the “marvelously made” creation that he was in the words of the psalm. “I fled Him, down the nights and down the days,” begins Thompson’s poem. “I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter. Up vistaed hopes I sped;”
But the Hound of Heaven never gave up His pursuit and has the last words in the poem: “Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He Whom thou seekest!” From the beginning, Thompson was marvelously made, unconditionally loved and given a vocation. Thompson took awhile to discover those “deep thoughts” of God in the words of our psalmist, the wonder of his own creation. Once he did, he was able to pen the marvelous poem we now have chronicling the soul’s journey from bondage into freedom, from attachment to detachment, from hanging on to letting go.
Letting go is not easy and this week some in our community came to know “letting go” in a new way. Letting go of our children is hard. Letting go of our fears is hard as is letting go of our need to be right or to be loved. Letting go of our loved ones as they are dying is especially hard. And all of that is simply practice for the time when we will need to let go of our lives and take our last breath.
Jesus trod that way and bids us make it our own. There are easier ways. We can cling to things and people. We can believe that life is not worth living without this or that. We can turn our spouse or children into our saviors and fold when they fail to be so. We can rely on the family silver and believe our lives are lost when the silver is stolen.
Life is a little like a ride in a hot air balloon. Unless the tethers are released, you won’t go anywhere. Once the tethers are released that keep the balloon on the ground, you begin to soar. And you begin to see life in a new way, in God’s way, in a way in which nothing is lost but rather gathered up, collected if you will, into a whole. You can’t see that from the ground but only from on high, only after the tethers that keep the balloon on the ground are untied.
The Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost Jeremiah 4:11 -12, 22 – 28
Sunday, September 15, 2013 I Timothy 1: 12 -17
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 15:1 -10
“Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?”
Luke 15: 4
“Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?” This morning in our reading from the gospel of Luke, the Pharisees and scribes are grumbling about Jesus’ practice of sharing table fellowship with sinners. And in response, Jesus tells them a parable about a lost sheep and a lost coin.
In the first parable, a sheep wanders away from the fold and is found by the shepherd who then rejoices with his neighbors that he found his lost sheep. In the second parable a woman loses a silver coin somewhere in her house and searches diligently until she finds the coin, rejoicing, as did the shepherd when she finds her lost coin.
I suppose most of us have not lost many sheep, but many of us have lost eyeglasses, cellphones, credit cards or car keys. Such losses usually provoke a rather intentional search as we wonder when we last used our cellphone or our credit card, as we dig through pockets and purses, hoping the washing machine did not claim our treasure or that we did not leave our credit card at the restaurant when we paid our bill the night before. I have lost eyeglasses I have never seen since, car keys that were shortly discovered in the car rather than on the hall table where I usually keep them and prefer to cancel my credit card rather than spend days looking for it.
Losing a cellphone or a credit card is a matter of inconvenience, disrupting our normal routines for a time as we go to search for what we have lost. Losing your three-year-old daughter in a large shopping mall is another matter altogether. Suddenly a very young and vulnerable little girl who had been standing right next to you just minutes before has vanished and as you call out her name, you are consumed with a fear you have never known. That search is frantic, relentless and shameless as you question strangers, look beneath clothes racks and check dressing rooms. That search you will always remember and from that moment until, God willing, you find her, your life has one focus and one only –finding your daughter.
In our parable this morning Jesus invites us into the world of a shepherd. The life of a shepherd depended upon on how well he took care of the sheep. The sheep were an economic investment for a shepherd and losing sheep to wolves meant the shepherd would lose money. Protecting the sheep against predators was a purely selfish exercise in economics – sheep were money and more sheep meant more money; less sheep meant less money. Shepherds in the first century were not tending sheep because they thought sheep were cute - which sheep are not. Sheep were a commodity and an investment that needed to be protected.
So when Jesus says this morning: “Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?” No shepherd worth his staff would agree without some qualifications. Leaving ninety-nine sheep in the wilderness unprotected is dangerous. The shepherd may lose ninety-nine in order to save one. That’s bad business practice.
Maybe Jesus assumed that the shepherd would build a stout sheep pen before the shepherd went off to search for the lost sheep or maybe our shepherd subcontracted with another shepherd to look after his sheep in his absence or presumed the lost sheep was not very far away and would not take long to find. Our evangelist Luke says nothing about any of those assumptions or presumptions but simply says the shepherd searches “until he finds” the lost sheep. No good shepherd would leave ninety-nine sheep to fend for themselves as the shepherd went in search for one that was lost. Unless that one lost sheep is your three-old-daughter.
And the parable of the lost coin is not much better. “Until she finds” her lost coin, a woman is in search, dismissing the baking of bread, the washing of clothes, the trip to the community’s well for water and perhaps, the keeping of the Sabbath. All of her efforts are spent on finding her lost coin. This woman leaves aside all of her normal responsibilities as she searches for her lost coin “until she finds it.”
Jesus told parables to help us catch a glimpse of the kingdom of God, to transform our way of seeing into the way God sees. And in the parable of the lost sheep, we meet a shepherd, who, in the words of commentator Fred Craddock is either “foolish or the shepherd loves the lost sheep and will risk everything, including his own life, until he finds it.”
The verb “to risk” comes from an Italian verb which means “to run into danger.” Both the shepherd and the woman this morning court danger as they search for a lost sheep and a lost coin. Ninety-nine sheep are left unprotected and the care of a household is forgotten. We would never court danger to find a lost cellphone or credit card but can imagine the risks we would take to find a lost child or spouse or partner. Only our primary and most intimate relationships would call us to do what this shepherd or this woman do.
Courting danger is exactly what the Pharisees and scribes do not wish to do this morning. Sharing table fellowship with tax collectors and sinners was prohibited by Jewish law. The law was meant to keep the Jews “clean” - free from sin which could be contracted by eating with those who were “unclean.” And while we no longer liken sin to a disease that can be caught like the flu, we continue to believe that the company we keep or that our children keep, makes a difference. “One bad apple can spoil the whole barrel” is what my mother would say. Jesus is courting danger as he “welcomes sinners and eats with them” and the Pharisees are grumbling.
And Jesus responds to their grumbling with two parables of joy, the joy that is known in God’s kingdom when the lost is found.
“Saving the lost” is the mission of the Church. Unfortunately, many embark on that mission presuming that the world is neatly divided between the “saved” and the “lost,” much like the distinction the Pharisees and scribes make between those who are “clean” and those who are “unclean.” What is often forgotten by those who seek to save the lost is that we are, by virtue of our baptism, saved, but are also being saved as we respond to the work of the Holy Spirit from that moment forward. When we promise at our baptism: “to turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as our Savior,” we are beginning a life-long journey, a journey that at times will find us in the sheep fold and at other times wandering among the brambles.
Jesus is my personal Lord and Savior and as such knows me better than I know myself. On any given day, Jesus quietly reminds me that while I may be baptized, salvation is a life-long task to which the Holy Spirit is only too glad to be about. I am both and at the same time, one of the ninety-nine sheep who remain in the fold and the one sheep the shepherd loves and goes in search to find.
The Church, for me, is the one place we can come to find ourselves and to lose ourselves. In the Church we meet folk who will not love us as Christ loved us and in which we will be asked to love them as Christ loves us. In the Church we will regularly be given the example of Jesus and called to follow. In the Church, we will be given ample opportunity to acknowledge our sins and realize that we are among the lost who need to be saved. Baptism is not a graduation from hell into heaven but rather the beginning of a great adventure during which we are constantly stumbling and losing our way. But unlike our culture that relishes in voting folk off islands or whose compassion is limited to “three strikes,” the Church bids us to forgive others seventy times seventy times.
The Church is the only place I know where the only entrance requirement is getting wet. The Church is the only place I know where we can be lost and won’t be fired. The Church is the only place I know where we can find our true selves and leave aside the packaging that makes us look good. The Church is the only place I know where anyone gives a damn about a lost and ugly and smelly sheep who happened to wander away from the fold.
The Church is the only place I know where the reward for a job well done is not money nor fame nor comfort in your retirement but simply joy – the joy that comes from sitting down to a table laden with fine food and good wine with Uncle Peter who is glad we are not eating gefilte fish, Aunt Martha who is always complaining, Cousin Paul who only wants to talk about his hardships, unruly children wanting to leave the table, Brother Lazarus who is just glad to be there and dear Aunt Mary, always asking: “Another cup of wine?”
Sunday, September 15, 2013 I Timothy 1: 12 -17
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 15:1 -10
“Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?”
Luke 15: 4
“Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?” This morning in our reading from the gospel of Luke, the Pharisees and scribes are grumbling about Jesus’ practice of sharing table fellowship with sinners. And in response, Jesus tells them a parable about a lost sheep and a lost coin.
In the first parable, a sheep wanders away from the fold and is found by the shepherd who then rejoices with his neighbors that he found his lost sheep. In the second parable a woman loses a silver coin somewhere in her house and searches diligently until she finds the coin, rejoicing, as did the shepherd when she finds her lost coin.
I suppose most of us have not lost many sheep, but many of us have lost eyeglasses, cellphones, credit cards or car keys. Such losses usually provoke a rather intentional search as we wonder when we last used our cellphone or our credit card, as we dig through pockets and purses, hoping the washing machine did not claim our treasure or that we did not leave our credit card at the restaurant when we paid our bill the night before. I have lost eyeglasses I have never seen since, car keys that were shortly discovered in the car rather than on the hall table where I usually keep them and prefer to cancel my credit card rather than spend days looking for it.
Losing a cellphone or a credit card is a matter of inconvenience, disrupting our normal routines for a time as we go to search for what we have lost. Losing your three-year-old daughter in a large shopping mall is another matter altogether. Suddenly a very young and vulnerable little girl who had been standing right next to you just minutes before has vanished and as you call out her name, you are consumed with a fear you have never known. That search is frantic, relentless and shameless as you question strangers, look beneath clothes racks and check dressing rooms. That search you will always remember and from that moment until, God willing, you find her, your life has one focus and one only –finding your daughter.
In our parable this morning Jesus invites us into the world of a shepherd. The life of a shepherd depended upon on how well he took care of the sheep. The sheep were an economic investment for a shepherd and losing sheep to wolves meant the shepherd would lose money. Protecting the sheep against predators was a purely selfish exercise in economics – sheep were money and more sheep meant more money; less sheep meant less money. Shepherds in the first century were not tending sheep because they thought sheep were cute - which sheep are not. Sheep were a commodity and an investment that needed to be protected.
So when Jesus says this morning: “Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?” No shepherd worth his staff would agree without some qualifications. Leaving ninety-nine sheep in the wilderness unprotected is dangerous. The shepherd may lose ninety-nine in order to save one. That’s bad business practice.
Maybe Jesus assumed that the shepherd would build a stout sheep pen before the shepherd went off to search for the lost sheep or maybe our shepherd subcontracted with another shepherd to look after his sheep in his absence or presumed the lost sheep was not very far away and would not take long to find. Our evangelist Luke says nothing about any of those assumptions or presumptions but simply says the shepherd searches “until he finds” the lost sheep. No good shepherd would leave ninety-nine sheep to fend for themselves as the shepherd went in search for one that was lost. Unless that one lost sheep is your three-old-daughter.
And the parable of the lost coin is not much better. “Until she finds” her lost coin, a woman is in search, dismissing the baking of bread, the washing of clothes, the trip to the community’s well for water and perhaps, the keeping of the Sabbath. All of her efforts are spent on finding her lost coin. This woman leaves aside all of her normal responsibilities as she searches for her lost coin “until she finds it.”
Jesus told parables to help us catch a glimpse of the kingdom of God, to transform our way of seeing into the way God sees. And in the parable of the lost sheep, we meet a shepherd, who, in the words of commentator Fred Craddock is either “foolish or the shepherd loves the lost sheep and will risk everything, including his own life, until he finds it.”
The verb “to risk” comes from an Italian verb which means “to run into danger.” Both the shepherd and the woman this morning court danger as they search for a lost sheep and a lost coin. Ninety-nine sheep are left unprotected and the care of a household is forgotten. We would never court danger to find a lost cellphone or credit card but can imagine the risks we would take to find a lost child or spouse or partner. Only our primary and most intimate relationships would call us to do what this shepherd or this woman do.
Courting danger is exactly what the Pharisees and scribes do not wish to do this morning. Sharing table fellowship with tax collectors and sinners was prohibited by Jewish law. The law was meant to keep the Jews “clean” - free from sin which could be contracted by eating with those who were “unclean.” And while we no longer liken sin to a disease that can be caught like the flu, we continue to believe that the company we keep or that our children keep, makes a difference. “One bad apple can spoil the whole barrel” is what my mother would say. Jesus is courting danger as he “welcomes sinners and eats with them” and the Pharisees are grumbling.
And Jesus responds to their grumbling with two parables of joy, the joy that is known in God’s kingdom when the lost is found.
“Saving the lost” is the mission of the Church. Unfortunately, many embark on that mission presuming that the world is neatly divided between the “saved” and the “lost,” much like the distinction the Pharisees and scribes make between those who are “clean” and those who are “unclean.” What is often forgotten by those who seek to save the lost is that we are, by virtue of our baptism, saved, but are also being saved as we respond to the work of the Holy Spirit from that moment forward. When we promise at our baptism: “to turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as our Savior,” we are beginning a life-long journey, a journey that at times will find us in the sheep fold and at other times wandering among the brambles.
Jesus is my personal Lord and Savior and as such knows me better than I know myself. On any given day, Jesus quietly reminds me that while I may be baptized, salvation is a life-long task to which the Holy Spirit is only too glad to be about. I am both and at the same time, one of the ninety-nine sheep who remain in the fold and the one sheep the shepherd loves and goes in search to find.
The Church, for me, is the one place we can come to find ourselves and to lose ourselves. In the Church we meet folk who will not love us as Christ loved us and in which we will be asked to love them as Christ loves us. In the Church we will regularly be given the example of Jesus and called to follow. In the Church, we will be given ample opportunity to acknowledge our sins and realize that we are among the lost who need to be saved. Baptism is not a graduation from hell into heaven but rather the beginning of a great adventure during which we are constantly stumbling and losing our way. But unlike our culture that relishes in voting folk off islands or whose compassion is limited to “three strikes,” the Church bids us to forgive others seventy times seventy times.
The Church is the only place I know where the only entrance requirement is getting wet. The Church is the only place I know where we can be lost and won’t be fired. The Church is the only place I know where we can find our true selves and leave aside the packaging that makes us look good. The Church is the only place I know where anyone gives a damn about a lost and ugly and smelly sheep who happened to wander away from the fold.
The Church is the only place I know where the reward for a job well done is not money nor fame nor comfort in your retirement but simply joy – the joy that comes from sitting down to a table laden with fine food and good wine with Uncle Peter who is glad we are not eating gefilte fish, Aunt Martha who is always complaining, Cousin Paul who only wants to talk about his hardships, unruly children wanting to leave the table, Brother Lazarus who is just glad to be there and dear Aunt Mary, always asking: “Another cup of wine?”
The Eighteenth Sunday After Pentecost Jeremiah 8: 18 – 9:1
Sunday, September 22, 2013 I Timothy 2: 1 – 7
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 16: 1 – 13
And the master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly;
Luke 16: 8a
Welcome to the strange new world of the Bible! We hear this morning the parable of the dishonest manager from the gospel of Luke and learn to our surprise that a manager who cheats his employer is commended for his behavior. After this manager learns he has been fired, he sets to work changing invoices, falsifying accounts, in order to ingratiate himself with those who owe his employer money in the hope of securing for himself a pleasant retirement. This manager has taken someone else’s money and used that money to insure a comfortable future for himself. And his employer praises him, saying he has acted with prudence. Sounds to me like the Enron executives just became saints!
From start to finish, the parable of the dishonest manager rings wrong. The manager uses what belongs to his employer to make friends for himself, cheating on his employer by reducing the debts owed to him. The debtors are grateful no doubt but his employer should be livid. But the employer is not; indeed, the employer is pleased.
With just twelve words – “And his master commended the dishonest manager for he had acted shrewdly” – we are left with a parable that confounds our sense of right and wrong. And we are not the only ones. Commentators have tried for centuries to make this parable which offends our sense of justice come out right. Some argue that the dishonest manager is only giving away his commission or perhaps the interest that his employer is charging his customers and, so, is not so “bad.”
The problem with this parable is that the dishonest manager does not get what he deserves – condemnation for changing the bills of the debtors. Rather, instead of condemnation, the dishonest manager receives praise for acting wisely. Curiously, the parable of the dishonest manager follows in the gospel of Luke on the heels of the parable of the prodigal son. And the parable of the prodigal son ends with a big party the father decides to throw for his long lost son and a very miffed older brother who refuses to join the celebration. In the parable of the prodigal son, the older brother wants his ne’re do well younger brother who spent all of his inheritance on loose living, to suffer for what he has done, not be welcomed home like a war hero. And, now in the parable of the dishonest manager, we want the dishonest manager to be chastised and punished for his fraud, not praised for his shrewdness. Is our evangelist Luke inviting us to take our place as people who know the difference between right and wrong and wish not to celebrate prodigal sons or praise dishonest managers?
The parable of the dishonest manager “unsettles what we ‘know’ about responsibility and ethics,” in the words of Christian ethicist Richard Hays. In our world, we know that when someone takes money from someone else without their permission, such an act is wrong and we call it stealing. In our world, when you do something wrong you are condemned, not patted on the back. In our world, the rich man is not supposed to praise his dishonest manager, and when he does, we find ourselves invited into a world where the rules we live by have been turned upside down.
The parable of the dishonest manager invites us to see the world differently, to look at the world in a new and maybe uncomfortable way. The parable shocks us because the parable does not end the way we think the parable should end, with the rich man angry over the misdeeds of his manager. And as Hays points out, this parable that does not end the way we think it should end is included in a larger narrative that does not end as we think it should. Luke’s gospel is the story of a messiah who is crucified. And messiah’s are not supposed to die.
The story all four gospels tell us is a strange story about the coming of the promised messiah, the savior of Israel, who dies, who is put to death on a cross. Saint Paul calls the crucifixion a “scandal,” “foolishness to the Greeks and a stumbling block to Jews.” Christ’s death on the cross was not the way God was supposed to rescue the world. The promised messiah was expected to rule the world, rout Israel’s enemies, and establish God’s kingdom of peace and justice. The promised messiah was not expected to die a humiliating death as a criminal accused of crimes against the state.
When God came to save the world, God did not act as God was supposed to act. God revealed Godself to us not in glory but in shame, not in power but through weakness. And we who follow this crucified messiah are no more comfortable with this truth than were those first disciples who watched in horror, as the man for whom they left behind all the comforts of this world, died.
Most scholars believe the parable of the dishonest manager ends with the words: “And his master commended the dishonest manager for he had acted shrewdly;” What follows after those words are attempts to make sense of this parable which “presents people acting in unconventional ways,” in the words of one commentator. What follows after the parable, are admonitions to act decisively before the day of judgment, to be faithful in everything, to use money wisely and not turn money into a god. The early church found this parable as disturbing as we do and sought to glean from the parable “lessons for our learning.”
If we allow this parable to be offensive and disturbing, and resist attempts to “save” this parable by explaining away the difficulties, by saying, for example, that the dishonest manager was simply waving away his commission, and, thus, was not exactly stealing the rich man’s money, we may find ourselves in a world we do not understand, a world in which people do things we do not expect, a world that does not turn according to our rules. If we allow this parable to unsettle us, we may find ourselves in a world much like the world of those first disciples who watched the savior of the world die.
The cross confounded all expectations about who God is and how God acts. And no amount of theological insight will ever completely unravel the mystery of God and God’s ways. In the person of Christ, God has given Godself to us – fully and completely but not so clearly that we can ever presume to say with absolute certainty we know God and God’s will. God will always be “other” than us, inviting our questions, challenging our expectations, disturbing our presumptions.
God desires to be known, and, in the words of Saint Anselm, ours is a faith that seeks to understand. When we stop seeking, we stop finding. When we stop asking questions, when we stop wondering about who God is and how God acts, when we presume to know all we need to know, we become rigid, less tolerant of others who invite us to see things a bit differently.
God does not come to us in neat little sound bites and simple moral platitudes, but rather in disturbing parables and a strange story about a cross and an empty tomb. And God gives us one another, others with whom we can study and discuss, ask questions and raise our doubts. No one of us holds the key to the mystery we seek to understand; all of us, though, are invited to learn and to grow in the knowledge and love of God, the God who came and dwelt among us not to confirm us in our righteousness but to convict us of His.
Sunday, September 22, 2013 I Timothy 2: 1 – 7
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 16: 1 – 13
And the master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly;
Luke 16: 8a
Welcome to the strange new world of the Bible! We hear this morning the parable of the dishonest manager from the gospel of Luke and learn to our surprise that a manager who cheats his employer is commended for his behavior. After this manager learns he has been fired, he sets to work changing invoices, falsifying accounts, in order to ingratiate himself with those who owe his employer money in the hope of securing for himself a pleasant retirement. This manager has taken someone else’s money and used that money to insure a comfortable future for himself. And his employer praises him, saying he has acted with prudence. Sounds to me like the Enron executives just became saints!
From start to finish, the parable of the dishonest manager rings wrong. The manager uses what belongs to his employer to make friends for himself, cheating on his employer by reducing the debts owed to him. The debtors are grateful no doubt but his employer should be livid. But the employer is not; indeed, the employer is pleased.
With just twelve words – “And his master commended the dishonest manager for he had acted shrewdly” – we are left with a parable that confounds our sense of right and wrong. And we are not the only ones. Commentators have tried for centuries to make this parable which offends our sense of justice come out right. Some argue that the dishonest manager is only giving away his commission or perhaps the interest that his employer is charging his customers and, so, is not so “bad.”
The problem with this parable is that the dishonest manager does not get what he deserves – condemnation for changing the bills of the debtors. Rather, instead of condemnation, the dishonest manager receives praise for acting wisely. Curiously, the parable of the dishonest manager follows in the gospel of Luke on the heels of the parable of the prodigal son. And the parable of the prodigal son ends with a big party the father decides to throw for his long lost son and a very miffed older brother who refuses to join the celebration. In the parable of the prodigal son, the older brother wants his ne’re do well younger brother who spent all of his inheritance on loose living, to suffer for what he has done, not be welcomed home like a war hero. And, now in the parable of the dishonest manager, we want the dishonest manager to be chastised and punished for his fraud, not praised for his shrewdness. Is our evangelist Luke inviting us to take our place as people who know the difference between right and wrong and wish not to celebrate prodigal sons or praise dishonest managers?
The parable of the dishonest manager “unsettles what we ‘know’ about responsibility and ethics,” in the words of Christian ethicist Richard Hays. In our world, we know that when someone takes money from someone else without their permission, such an act is wrong and we call it stealing. In our world, when you do something wrong you are condemned, not patted on the back. In our world, the rich man is not supposed to praise his dishonest manager, and when he does, we find ourselves invited into a world where the rules we live by have been turned upside down.
The parable of the dishonest manager invites us to see the world differently, to look at the world in a new and maybe uncomfortable way. The parable shocks us because the parable does not end the way we think the parable should end, with the rich man angry over the misdeeds of his manager. And as Hays points out, this parable that does not end the way we think it should end is included in a larger narrative that does not end as we think it should. Luke’s gospel is the story of a messiah who is crucified. And messiah’s are not supposed to die.
The story all four gospels tell us is a strange story about the coming of the promised messiah, the savior of Israel, who dies, who is put to death on a cross. Saint Paul calls the crucifixion a “scandal,” “foolishness to the Greeks and a stumbling block to Jews.” Christ’s death on the cross was not the way God was supposed to rescue the world. The promised messiah was expected to rule the world, rout Israel’s enemies, and establish God’s kingdom of peace and justice. The promised messiah was not expected to die a humiliating death as a criminal accused of crimes against the state.
When God came to save the world, God did not act as God was supposed to act. God revealed Godself to us not in glory but in shame, not in power but through weakness. And we who follow this crucified messiah are no more comfortable with this truth than were those first disciples who watched in horror, as the man for whom they left behind all the comforts of this world, died.
Most scholars believe the parable of the dishonest manager ends with the words: “And his master commended the dishonest manager for he had acted shrewdly;” What follows after those words are attempts to make sense of this parable which “presents people acting in unconventional ways,” in the words of one commentator. What follows after the parable, are admonitions to act decisively before the day of judgment, to be faithful in everything, to use money wisely and not turn money into a god. The early church found this parable as disturbing as we do and sought to glean from the parable “lessons for our learning.”
If we allow this parable to be offensive and disturbing, and resist attempts to “save” this parable by explaining away the difficulties, by saying, for example, that the dishonest manager was simply waving away his commission, and, thus, was not exactly stealing the rich man’s money, we may find ourselves in a world we do not understand, a world in which people do things we do not expect, a world that does not turn according to our rules. If we allow this parable to unsettle us, we may find ourselves in a world much like the world of those first disciples who watched the savior of the world die.
The cross confounded all expectations about who God is and how God acts. And no amount of theological insight will ever completely unravel the mystery of God and God’s ways. In the person of Christ, God has given Godself to us – fully and completely but not so clearly that we can ever presume to say with absolute certainty we know God and God’s will. God will always be “other” than us, inviting our questions, challenging our expectations, disturbing our presumptions.
God desires to be known, and, in the words of Saint Anselm, ours is a faith that seeks to understand. When we stop seeking, we stop finding. When we stop asking questions, when we stop wondering about who God is and how God acts, when we presume to know all we need to know, we become rigid, less tolerant of others who invite us to see things a bit differently.
God does not come to us in neat little sound bites and simple moral platitudes, but rather in disturbing parables and a strange story about a cross and an empty tomb. And God gives us one another, others with whom we can study and discuss, ask questions and raise our doubts. No one of us holds the key to the mystery we seek to understand; all of us, though, are invited to learn and to grow in the knowledge and love of God, the God who came and dwelt among us not to confirm us in our righteousness but to convict us of His.
The Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost Lamentations 1:1- 6
Sunday, October 6, 2013 2 Timothy 1:1-14
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 17: 5-10
The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”
Luke 17: 6
Give us just a little more faith, the apostles ask Jesus this morning. The apostles are apparently feeling challenged by the demands of discipleship – demands that include breaking bread with sinners, leaving homes and families, becoming dependent upon others for food and lodging, the unlimited practice of forgiveness and sharing their resources with others. The apostles are feeling tested and want more faith. With more faith, the apostles presume they could do what Jesus is asking them to do.
And Jesus replies: “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” Sounds like Jesus is telling the apostles they have no faith, not even faith as little as a mustard seed.
I have long forgotten most of what I learned of Greek, the language of the New Testament, and so now must rely on others to note peculiarities in translation. And today we meet one of those peculiarities in our text. What we meet today is a conditional clause, which in Greek could be translated: “Since you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” That translation affirms the faith the apostles already have. That translation invites faith the size of a mustard seed to ask for the impossible because the power to do the impossible lies not in our faith, but in God.
The faith of the apostles, which is as small as a mustard seed, is sufficient, Jesus tells the apostles, because faith is our trust in the power of God to do, what we, by ourselves, cannot. Trying to believe that mulberry trees can be uprooted and planted in the sea is not required; trusting that God can, indeed, uproot mulberry trees and plant them wherever God desires as well as move mountains, is required.
Our faith is rooted in a strange story that begins in the book of Genesis. After we learn that God created a beautiful world and gave humankind the responsibility to care for God’s very good creation, we next read that beginning with Adam and Eve, humankind failed pretty miserably to live up to God’s expectations, resulting in murder, mayhem and a great flood. And then, in chapter twelve, God makes a promise to Abraham.
God tells Abraham that through Abraham, God is going to make God’s very good creation, very good once more. And Abraham believed that God would do what God said God would do. Beginning with Abraham, a people is born who oddly believe that God is indeed rescuing a world gone horribly wrong and that God is doing so through them. Our faith, like that of Abraham, is our trust that God will keep God’s promise.
Now Abraham is an old man when God tells Abraham that through Abraham all the families of the world will be blessed. Abraham had every reason to believe that God was joking and absolutely no reason to believe that God could do what God said God was going to do. And when Sarah learns that she and Abraham are going to have a child, Sarah laughed.
Faith is defined only once in the New Testament. In the letter to the Hebrews we read, “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Faith is the rather absurd conviction that God will do what God has promised to do and what God has promised to do is to save us, to rescue us, to deliver us from this world of suffering and evil and death and make us and the whole world “new.” Faith is the assurance that God will keep God’s promise to us.
Faith, as a seminary professor once noted, is not how we chain God to ourselves. Having more faith will not make God any more likely to answer our prayers than the prayer of someone who has a very little bit of faith. We can be persistent and we can be encouraged by others to be faithful, but we do not tell God what to do. Faith is our trust that God knows what God is doing even if we have not a clue.
In the gospel of John, we learn that faith is a gift to us from God. The moment we fall on our knees crying: “God help me!” God is already at work, wresting from us the prideful presumption that we can solve all of our problems, be masters of our own fate or make this world turn the way we would like. Before we even utter a word, God has already convicted us that we do not have the power to do what only God can do.
Now some would have us believe that doubt has no place in the life of faith. Faith, from that point of view, is a simple childlike trust that asks no questions. In my experience children ask a lot of questions, often very profound ones, like “Why did God let grandmommy die?” Asking questions about this God in whom we put our trust is itself an act of trust, an act of trust that God is not going to disappear before our eyes simply because we start asking difficult questions.
Doubt is not the opposite of faith. The opposite of faith is fear, the fear that God just might not come through on God’s promise to rescue the world and all of us from suffering, evil and death. Fearing God is simply not out there or if God is, could care less that we are drowning, fear either paralyzes us or drives us to seek to control forces beyond our control. Fear can lead us either to utter despair or a desperate attempt to dominate a world that does not belong to us.
Unfortunately, in our culture the whole notion of trust is under suspicion. We caution our children to be wary of strangers, not welcoming. The telemarketer that calls us with a “great deal” is probably a scam artist and we should not trust what they say. Even in the church, that bastion of faith, we are learning how trust has been abused and abused badly. Trust no one is ultimately the message we get. Or maybe, trust, but verify.
Our verification that God is good and that God does love us and that God does want us to be well is scripture, the story of God’s people through the ages bearing witness to the impossible possibility that God is and God is acting to save us. The story is strange, filled with paradoxes, yet alive with the hope that indeed there is a God who is acting on our behalf.
I can choose to live in a world in which mulberry trees do not uproot themselves and act as if they might or I can live in a world in which mulberry trees do not uproot themselves and act knowing they never will. I can choose to live in a world in which children are not born to old people, a world in which seas are not parted and slaves set free, in a world where people do not come back to life after death but act as if all those things could happen. Or I can choose to live in a world that seems to be a place where only the strong survive; a world in which there are no miracles, simply coincidences; a world in which we really are alone and if you don’t look out for Number One no one else will. I can choose the world in which I live. Faith, if nothing else, bids us to decide what kind of a world we want to inhabit.
This week, I became clear that our twice monthly community suppers need to end with our next community supper on October 16. Attendance is flagging, preparation is significant and we can no longer sustain that ministry. As I offered a blessing this past Wednesday night, I was aware of my disappointment that this ministry, which was begun with such high hopes three years ago, is coming to an end. Part of the challenge of faith is to keep on keeping on when circumstances bid us to make changes. I trust God will lead us where God would have us go and I am grateful for the fruits that our community suppers brought forth – a monetary contribution to Glory Outreach and an opportunity to fellowship with strangers and friends. And I thank everyone who either stewarded or attended a dinner, especially Joey Hancock who embraced leadership of this ministry from the first.
On we go, in faith, trusting God will lead us and not necessarily in a straight line, from one success to another but rather the way God has always led God’s people - from exodus into exile and back again until the day, in the words of Dame Julian of Norwich, "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."
Sunday, October 6, 2013 2 Timothy 1:1-14
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 17: 5-10
The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”
Luke 17: 6
Give us just a little more faith, the apostles ask Jesus this morning. The apostles are apparently feeling challenged by the demands of discipleship – demands that include breaking bread with sinners, leaving homes and families, becoming dependent upon others for food and lodging, the unlimited practice of forgiveness and sharing their resources with others. The apostles are feeling tested and want more faith. With more faith, the apostles presume they could do what Jesus is asking them to do.
And Jesus replies: “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” Sounds like Jesus is telling the apostles they have no faith, not even faith as little as a mustard seed.
I have long forgotten most of what I learned of Greek, the language of the New Testament, and so now must rely on others to note peculiarities in translation. And today we meet one of those peculiarities in our text. What we meet today is a conditional clause, which in Greek could be translated: “Since you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” That translation affirms the faith the apostles already have. That translation invites faith the size of a mustard seed to ask for the impossible because the power to do the impossible lies not in our faith, but in God.
The faith of the apostles, which is as small as a mustard seed, is sufficient, Jesus tells the apostles, because faith is our trust in the power of God to do, what we, by ourselves, cannot. Trying to believe that mulberry trees can be uprooted and planted in the sea is not required; trusting that God can, indeed, uproot mulberry trees and plant them wherever God desires as well as move mountains, is required.
Our faith is rooted in a strange story that begins in the book of Genesis. After we learn that God created a beautiful world and gave humankind the responsibility to care for God’s very good creation, we next read that beginning with Adam and Eve, humankind failed pretty miserably to live up to God’s expectations, resulting in murder, mayhem and a great flood. And then, in chapter twelve, God makes a promise to Abraham.
God tells Abraham that through Abraham, God is going to make God’s very good creation, very good once more. And Abraham believed that God would do what God said God would do. Beginning with Abraham, a people is born who oddly believe that God is indeed rescuing a world gone horribly wrong and that God is doing so through them. Our faith, like that of Abraham, is our trust that God will keep God’s promise.
Now Abraham is an old man when God tells Abraham that through Abraham all the families of the world will be blessed. Abraham had every reason to believe that God was joking and absolutely no reason to believe that God could do what God said God was going to do. And when Sarah learns that she and Abraham are going to have a child, Sarah laughed.
Faith is defined only once in the New Testament. In the letter to the Hebrews we read, “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Faith is the rather absurd conviction that God will do what God has promised to do and what God has promised to do is to save us, to rescue us, to deliver us from this world of suffering and evil and death and make us and the whole world “new.” Faith is the assurance that God will keep God’s promise to us.
Faith, as a seminary professor once noted, is not how we chain God to ourselves. Having more faith will not make God any more likely to answer our prayers than the prayer of someone who has a very little bit of faith. We can be persistent and we can be encouraged by others to be faithful, but we do not tell God what to do. Faith is our trust that God knows what God is doing even if we have not a clue.
In the gospel of John, we learn that faith is a gift to us from God. The moment we fall on our knees crying: “God help me!” God is already at work, wresting from us the prideful presumption that we can solve all of our problems, be masters of our own fate or make this world turn the way we would like. Before we even utter a word, God has already convicted us that we do not have the power to do what only God can do.
Now some would have us believe that doubt has no place in the life of faith. Faith, from that point of view, is a simple childlike trust that asks no questions. In my experience children ask a lot of questions, often very profound ones, like “Why did God let grandmommy die?” Asking questions about this God in whom we put our trust is itself an act of trust, an act of trust that God is not going to disappear before our eyes simply because we start asking difficult questions.
Doubt is not the opposite of faith. The opposite of faith is fear, the fear that God just might not come through on God’s promise to rescue the world and all of us from suffering, evil and death. Fearing God is simply not out there or if God is, could care less that we are drowning, fear either paralyzes us or drives us to seek to control forces beyond our control. Fear can lead us either to utter despair or a desperate attempt to dominate a world that does not belong to us.
Unfortunately, in our culture the whole notion of trust is under suspicion. We caution our children to be wary of strangers, not welcoming. The telemarketer that calls us with a “great deal” is probably a scam artist and we should not trust what they say. Even in the church, that bastion of faith, we are learning how trust has been abused and abused badly. Trust no one is ultimately the message we get. Or maybe, trust, but verify.
Our verification that God is good and that God does love us and that God does want us to be well is scripture, the story of God’s people through the ages bearing witness to the impossible possibility that God is and God is acting to save us. The story is strange, filled with paradoxes, yet alive with the hope that indeed there is a God who is acting on our behalf.
I can choose to live in a world in which mulberry trees do not uproot themselves and act as if they might or I can live in a world in which mulberry trees do not uproot themselves and act knowing they never will. I can choose to live in a world in which children are not born to old people, a world in which seas are not parted and slaves set free, in a world where people do not come back to life after death but act as if all those things could happen. Or I can choose to live in a world that seems to be a place where only the strong survive; a world in which there are no miracles, simply coincidences; a world in which we really are alone and if you don’t look out for Number One no one else will. I can choose the world in which I live. Faith, if nothing else, bids us to decide what kind of a world we want to inhabit.
This week, I became clear that our twice monthly community suppers need to end with our next community supper on October 16. Attendance is flagging, preparation is significant and we can no longer sustain that ministry. As I offered a blessing this past Wednesday night, I was aware of my disappointment that this ministry, which was begun with such high hopes three years ago, is coming to an end. Part of the challenge of faith is to keep on keeping on when circumstances bid us to make changes. I trust God will lead us where God would have us go and I am grateful for the fruits that our community suppers brought forth – a monetary contribution to Glory Outreach and an opportunity to fellowship with strangers and friends. And I thank everyone who either stewarded or attended a dinner, especially Joey Hancock who embraced leadership of this ministry from the first.
On we go, in faith, trusting God will lead us and not necessarily in a straight line, from one success to another but rather the way God has always led God’s people - from exodus into exile and back again until the day, in the words of Dame Julian of Norwich, "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."
The Twenty-First Sunday after Pentecost Jeremiah 29:1, 4 -7
Sunday, October 13, 2013 2 Timothy 2: 8-15
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 17:11-19
Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice.
Luke 17: 15
Alice Walker, winner of a Pulitzer prize and author of The Color Purple, once wrote: “‘Thank you’ is the best prayer that anyone could say. I say that one a lot. Thank you expresses extreme gratitude, humility, understanding.” When we say “Thank you,” we are recognizing that we have been given a gift. This morning in our gospel reading from Luke, ten lepers are healed of their leprosy but only one turns back to give thanks, praising God for the gift he had been given. The other nine, who also have been given a gift, fail to express their gratitude. “Where are they?” Jesus asks.
Most of us, I suspect, were taught to say “thank you” early in life. Saying “thank you” was a sign of good manners, much like covering your mouth when you sneeze or holding a door open for someone who was older. And so, we say “thank you” when someone extends a kindness to us, inviting us to dinner or sending us flowers. We say “thank you” when someone offers to help us change a flat tire or gives us directions when we are lost. “Thank you!” often springs spontaneously from us at those moments when we realize we have been graced, favored, blessed in some way. We say “thank you” when the doctor tells us surgery was successful or the tumor was benign; we say “thank you” when after months of looking for work, the phone rings with an offer of employment. We say “thank you” when, after we have been without power for days, the lights suddenly come back on. At those moments, saying “thank you” comes naturally and spontaneously.
I like Alice Walker’s words because Alice Walker reminds us that saying “thank you” is much more than simply good manners. For her, those words are a prayer.
And indeed they are – a prayer we all offer every Sunday as we join together to give thanks as we celebrate the Eucharist, which is Greek for “thanksgiving.” Every Sunday, we say “thank you” to God for all that God has given to us. Every Sunday is an expression of gratitude to God for the gifts God has given us. Gratitude is the heart of all worship.
And totally unnecessary. All ten lepers were healed and only one gave thanks. The nine who failed to give thanks remained well. God does not need our “thanks and praise” as we say in our Eucharistic prayer to give us good gifts. God showers us with blessings and will continue to do so even if we fail to say “Thank you.” God is not Emily Post who frowns upon brides who fail to write thank you notes for gifts received.
Saying “Thank you,” though, makes us human, the only creatures God created who are able to say “thank you.” Saying “thank you” is an act as Alice Walker notes, of “gratitude, humility, and understanding.” Dogs and cats cannot express gratitude – dogs and cats are creatures of instinct and will show affection to the hands that feed them in the hope of being fed again. We alone of all of God’s creatures can be grateful because we alone of all of God’s creatures have a sense of gift – a totally unmerited and undeserved blessing.
Expressing gratitude is an act of praise, an act that expresses our sense that some things in this world are worthy to be praised. We live in a morally neutral universe, a universe that is home to both good and evil, beauty and ugliness, truth and falsehood. When we express gratitude, we are bearing witness to those things which are good and true and beautiful. Expressing gratitude, saying “thank you,” is akin to saying “I love you;” we praise those things which evoke our love.
Gratitude is the heart of worship, all worship, whether worship takes the form of a table grace, the silence of a Quaker meeting or the liturgy of The Book of Common Prayer. Worship acknowledges what we believe to be worthy of praise, the stuff of life that is noble and good and lovely. We are creatures who were created to give thanks, to be able to distinguish between those things that are worthy of praise and those things which are not.
In 2005, theologians David Ford and Daniel Hardy published a remarkable book called Living in Praise. “Praise of God,” they note, “is not necessary.” God does not need our gratitude to fill the world with blessing. God does not wait for us to become grateful before loving us. God loves us and we can or fail to respond with praise and thanksgiving. Hardy and Ford go on to say: “In a society dominated by efficiency and a functional assessment of everything, the whole ethos supports the despising of praise as futile.” Worship, in other words, doesn’t make much sense in a culture that privileges what we can do rather than who we are. We praise God not because we have to and certainly not as a means of meriting God’s blessing, but because we alone of all of God’s creation, can. We are creatures who can rejoice and we do whenever we encounter something of the goodness of God.
“The joy of God needs to be celebrated,” our authors argue, “as the central and embracing reality of the universe, and everything else seen in the light of this.” Would only that the whole world know that “coming to church” is at root an invitation to rejoice, to give thanks, to dance and to sing and to celebrate and not some sort of moral obligation imposed upon us by a dreary and joyless God.
God does not wait to love us until we are good or grateful or even ready or able to ask for what we need. God does not need our praise to be God. What God wants is that we might see the goodness and the love of God at “all times and in all places,” rejoicing in the glory of God in the midst of a world that is skeptical of any power except our own and any gift that comes with no strings attached. We can do nothing to earn or merit God’s love but we can rejoice. We can give thanks. We can celebrate.
Expressing gratitude is an act of worship, a peculiarly human action, an act we were singularly created to be able to do. Worship makes us more of who God created us to be, creatures who are able to bear witness to the joy and glory of God. In a world that is skeptical about God and suspicious about one another, a world that privileges the individual over the community, worship may be not just a peculiarly human act, but a moral act, the one act from which all our other actions spring.
Living gratefully is a way of being in the world that sees all of life as a gift, in the words of Ernest Kurtz and Katherine Ketcham, authors of The Spirituality of Imperfection. Living gratefully acknowledges that all that we are and all that we have has been given to us and not earned nor merited. As a result, we can share the gifts we have been given with others without fear that we will not have enough and need more. Gratitude sees abundance whereas greed can see only scarce and limited resources for which we must compete one with another.
I trust you are enjoying our changing kaleidoscope of posters in the narthex reflecting on the meaning of stewardship and how we might share our time, talents and treasures with one another. Keeping the light bill paid is not why we all will receive a pledge card in the coming days. Rather, the pledge cards remind us all that we are stewards, created by God to “till and keep God’s garden” and graced with the gifts to do so. We all have been “gifted” in any number of ways and called to share those gifts with others so that this community might continue to show forth the glory and goodness of God.
Our pledge is not a bill we owe to the church but is rather a way of saying “thank you” for all that God has given us – “for the splendor of the whole creation, for the beauty of this world, for the wonder and mystery of love,” as we say in the words of one of our General Thanksgivings. How can we, who have been given a vision of the kingdom of God – of a world made new by the witness of Christ - be anything other than grateful?
Sunday, October 13, 2013 2 Timothy 2: 8-15
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 17:11-19
Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice.
Luke 17: 15
Alice Walker, winner of a Pulitzer prize and author of The Color Purple, once wrote: “‘Thank you’ is the best prayer that anyone could say. I say that one a lot. Thank you expresses extreme gratitude, humility, understanding.” When we say “Thank you,” we are recognizing that we have been given a gift. This morning in our gospel reading from Luke, ten lepers are healed of their leprosy but only one turns back to give thanks, praising God for the gift he had been given. The other nine, who also have been given a gift, fail to express their gratitude. “Where are they?” Jesus asks.
Most of us, I suspect, were taught to say “thank you” early in life. Saying “thank you” was a sign of good manners, much like covering your mouth when you sneeze or holding a door open for someone who was older. And so, we say “thank you” when someone extends a kindness to us, inviting us to dinner or sending us flowers. We say “thank you” when someone offers to help us change a flat tire or gives us directions when we are lost. “Thank you!” often springs spontaneously from us at those moments when we realize we have been graced, favored, blessed in some way. We say “thank you” when the doctor tells us surgery was successful or the tumor was benign; we say “thank you” when after months of looking for work, the phone rings with an offer of employment. We say “thank you” when, after we have been without power for days, the lights suddenly come back on. At those moments, saying “thank you” comes naturally and spontaneously.
I like Alice Walker’s words because Alice Walker reminds us that saying “thank you” is much more than simply good manners. For her, those words are a prayer.
And indeed they are – a prayer we all offer every Sunday as we join together to give thanks as we celebrate the Eucharist, which is Greek for “thanksgiving.” Every Sunday, we say “thank you” to God for all that God has given to us. Every Sunday is an expression of gratitude to God for the gifts God has given us. Gratitude is the heart of all worship.
And totally unnecessary. All ten lepers were healed and only one gave thanks. The nine who failed to give thanks remained well. God does not need our “thanks and praise” as we say in our Eucharistic prayer to give us good gifts. God showers us with blessings and will continue to do so even if we fail to say “Thank you.” God is not Emily Post who frowns upon brides who fail to write thank you notes for gifts received.
Saying “Thank you,” though, makes us human, the only creatures God created who are able to say “thank you.” Saying “thank you” is an act as Alice Walker notes, of “gratitude, humility, and understanding.” Dogs and cats cannot express gratitude – dogs and cats are creatures of instinct and will show affection to the hands that feed them in the hope of being fed again. We alone of all of God’s creatures can be grateful because we alone of all of God’s creatures have a sense of gift – a totally unmerited and undeserved blessing.
Expressing gratitude is an act of praise, an act that expresses our sense that some things in this world are worthy to be praised. We live in a morally neutral universe, a universe that is home to both good and evil, beauty and ugliness, truth and falsehood. When we express gratitude, we are bearing witness to those things which are good and true and beautiful. Expressing gratitude, saying “thank you,” is akin to saying “I love you;” we praise those things which evoke our love.
Gratitude is the heart of worship, all worship, whether worship takes the form of a table grace, the silence of a Quaker meeting or the liturgy of The Book of Common Prayer. Worship acknowledges what we believe to be worthy of praise, the stuff of life that is noble and good and lovely. We are creatures who were created to give thanks, to be able to distinguish between those things that are worthy of praise and those things which are not.
In 2005, theologians David Ford and Daniel Hardy published a remarkable book called Living in Praise. “Praise of God,” they note, “is not necessary.” God does not need our gratitude to fill the world with blessing. God does not wait for us to become grateful before loving us. God loves us and we can or fail to respond with praise and thanksgiving. Hardy and Ford go on to say: “In a society dominated by efficiency and a functional assessment of everything, the whole ethos supports the despising of praise as futile.” Worship, in other words, doesn’t make much sense in a culture that privileges what we can do rather than who we are. We praise God not because we have to and certainly not as a means of meriting God’s blessing, but because we alone of all of God’s creation, can. We are creatures who can rejoice and we do whenever we encounter something of the goodness of God.
“The joy of God needs to be celebrated,” our authors argue, “as the central and embracing reality of the universe, and everything else seen in the light of this.” Would only that the whole world know that “coming to church” is at root an invitation to rejoice, to give thanks, to dance and to sing and to celebrate and not some sort of moral obligation imposed upon us by a dreary and joyless God.
God does not wait to love us until we are good or grateful or even ready or able to ask for what we need. God does not need our praise to be God. What God wants is that we might see the goodness and the love of God at “all times and in all places,” rejoicing in the glory of God in the midst of a world that is skeptical of any power except our own and any gift that comes with no strings attached. We can do nothing to earn or merit God’s love but we can rejoice. We can give thanks. We can celebrate.
Expressing gratitude is an act of worship, a peculiarly human action, an act we were singularly created to be able to do. Worship makes us more of who God created us to be, creatures who are able to bear witness to the joy and glory of God. In a world that is skeptical about God and suspicious about one another, a world that privileges the individual over the community, worship may be not just a peculiarly human act, but a moral act, the one act from which all our other actions spring.
Living gratefully is a way of being in the world that sees all of life as a gift, in the words of Ernest Kurtz and Katherine Ketcham, authors of The Spirituality of Imperfection. Living gratefully acknowledges that all that we are and all that we have has been given to us and not earned nor merited. As a result, we can share the gifts we have been given with others without fear that we will not have enough and need more. Gratitude sees abundance whereas greed can see only scarce and limited resources for which we must compete one with another.
I trust you are enjoying our changing kaleidoscope of posters in the narthex reflecting on the meaning of stewardship and how we might share our time, talents and treasures with one another. Keeping the light bill paid is not why we all will receive a pledge card in the coming days. Rather, the pledge cards remind us all that we are stewards, created by God to “till and keep God’s garden” and graced with the gifts to do so. We all have been “gifted” in any number of ways and called to share those gifts with others so that this community might continue to show forth the glory and goodness of God.
Our pledge is not a bill we owe to the church but is rather a way of saying “thank you” for all that God has given us – “for the splendor of the whole creation, for the beauty of this world, for the wonder and mystery of love,” as we say in the words of one of our General Thanksgivings. How can we, who have been given a vision of the kingdom of God – of a world made new by the witness of Christ - be anything other than grateful?
The Twenty-Third Sunday After Pentecost Joel 2: 23 – 32
Sunday, October 27, 2013 2 Timothy 4: 6 – 8, 16 – 18
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 18: 9 – 14
“Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.”
Luke 18: 10
Three years ago, an evangelical organization that studies and researches, according to their website, “the role of faith in America,” called BARNA, conducted a survey of young people concerning their perceptions of Christianity. Thousands of non-Christian young people between the ages of 16 and 29 were interviewed. At the time, 87% said that present day Christianity is judgmental; 85 % said that Christianity today is hypocritical; and 78 % said that Christianity is old-fashioned. For 91% of these young non-Christians, Christianity was routinely perceived to be “anti-homosexual.”
The survey is documented in a book titled “UnChristian: What a New Generation Really Thinks About Christianity and Why It Matters.” We have an “image problem,” the authors note on the first page. We have a problem because although Christianity may have been “the faith of our fathers,” Christianity may not be the faith of our children.
We hear this morning in our reading from the gospel of Luke, the parable of the self-righteous Pharisee and the penitent tax collector. “Thank God, I am not like that tax collector!” the Pharisee prays. And we, after hearing the prayer of the tax collector, who will not even raise his eyes up to heaven, but rather beats his breast, saying: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” leave the parable thinking how glad we are that we are not like that self-righteous Pharisee. We, good Protestants that we are, know that we are saved by grace and would never think to exalt our own righteousness.
Apparently, for many young people, we are not as humble as we think we are.
Luke wrote his gospel probably sometime around 85 A.D. to a community that included both Jews and gentiles. Not too many years before, in 70 A.D., the Roman Empire had crushed a Jewish revolt and destroyed the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem. The revolt which began in 66 A.D., culminated years of frustration as Jews sought to preserve their common life in the face of an Empire which regularly sought ways to make the Jews more Roman and less Jewish.
One of the ways Rome sought to bring Jews more in line with the party program was by levying taxes and getting Jews to collect those taxes from their fellow Jews. Tax collectors were routinely perceived to be collaborators, Roman sympathizers who were working for the enemy. No one in Luke’s community would have heard the parable we just heard without being completely surprised that the tax collector, not the Pharisee, went home justified.
Tax collectors, like Nazi sympathizers during World War II, deserved unreserved condemnation, not forgiveness.
Following the destruction of the Jewish Temple, Luke’s community struggled to forge a common life grounded in God’s grace, in God’s generous undeserved goodness first to the house of Israel and then to all the nations. No one deserved God’s favor, not Israel and certainly not tax collectors.
Three years ago, at a diocesan gathering, our Assistant Bishop Ted Gulick spoke of the BARNA survey and noted that we live in a graceless culture. In a graceless culture, nothing is given to us for free, we must earn everything we get, and we all have to prove our worth. In a graceless culture we are judged on our merits, rewarded for what we can do and, when we fail to live up to the expectations of our families, friends or employers, often dismissed. In a graceless culture, we might get a “second chance” but usually not unlimited forgiveness.
In the midst of this graceless culture is the church, professing faith in a generous and loving God who makes no distinction between the righteous and the unrighteous, the saint and the sinner, the tax collector and the Pharisee. God withholds God’s love from no one. And if the God we worship will only give us two chances in this life, and after that stop forgiving us, we are all in very deep trouble.
We all, I suspect, can recall times when the church failed us, when the church was not “good news” but “bad news,” when the church in whatever shape or form simply was not gracious to us. I trust we can also remember times when the church was indeed church, a grace filled community that loved us in spite of ourselves, in spite of our personalities and quirks and warts and, yes, even our convictions.
I am saddened by this survey of the BARNA group. I am saddened to think that most young people would not dare to darken our door for fear of being judged or finding that we do not live up to the truths we profess or that we are simply old fashioned, out of touch with reality. I am saddened that the “good news” has been reduced to a question about sexuality. I am saddened that so many young people see Christianity as the enemy.
And young people are not the only segment of the population who perceive the church as ungracious. Some years ago I was making a visit in a Richmond hospital and I was dressed in my collar. As I was leaving the hospital, an older woman was walking toward me in the opposite direction. As we came close, she slowed, looking me over. “Are you a nun?” she asked, to which I replied, trying not to laugh, “Oh, no! I am an Episcopal priest.” And then she asked: “Do you pray for anybody?” I was stunned and saddened to think that maybe she thought I only prayed for Episcopalians.
Living gracefully in the midst of a culture in which there is no free lunch is disorienting. The grace of God is a gift and can only be received and shared. Most of us, though, are not accustomed to getting something for nothing. Most of us when we receive a gift, endeavor to return the favor, to do something nice for someone who has done something nice for us. But just as the grace of God is not anything we can earn, we also can do nothing to pay God back for God’s amazing goodness towards us.
In the face of grace, all we can do is say “thank you,” to be grateful. And that may be the most humbling experience of all – to be grateful for a gift we neither earned nor deserved nor can possibly “pay back.” Maybe the most humbling experience for any of us is simply receiving God’s grace. We all, I would say, are far more comfortable being the giver than being the receiver.
Since A.G. and I have landed in your midst, we have, uncomfortably suffered a motorcycle accident, hospital procedures, a broken ankle and a move. And before I forget, we found the coffee pot Friday! We had hoped we could come among you all a bit more gently! We have been moved beyond words by your graciousness. We have both been humbled by your care and your support and your encouragement. We have been brought to tears by what you have done and by what you have said. We are grateful beyond measure. And we both thank you.
This past week, as we joined together to commend Kelly Nunnally to God, I was again reminded of the graciousness of this parish. None of us likes to be on the receiving end of grace and this parish is more than gracious! Problem is most us want to give; few of us want to receive. We will need to work that out.
Bishop Gulick ended his remarks at that diocesan meeting three years ago by taking us back to the beginning of Luke’s gospel where the angel Gabriel greets Mary, saying: “Hail Mary, full of grace!” Mary has been graced by God to bear the savior of the world into the world. And Mary breaks forth in the words of the Magnificat:
“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,
my spirit rejoices in God my Savior;
for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant.”
God has poured out God’s grace upon us as well, and sends us out into the world “to lift up the lowly” and “fill the hungry with good things” so that the whole world may know of the grace, mercy and peace of Christ. We cannot do so, unless we like Mary, know that we ourselves have been graced, sometimes uncomfortably.
Sunday, October 27, 2013 2 Timothy 4: 6 – 8, 16 – 18
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 18: 9 – 14
“Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.”
Luke 18: 10
Three years ago, an evangelical organization that studies and researches, according to their website, “the role of faith in America,” called BARNA, conducted a survey of young people concerning their perceptions of Christianity. Thousands of non-Christian young people between the ages of 16 and 29 were interviewed. At the time, 87% said that present day Christianity is judgmental; 85 % said that Christianity today is hypocritical; and 78 % said that Christianity is old-fashioned. For 91% of these young non-Christians, Christianity was routinely perceived to be “anti-homosexual.”
The survey is documented in a book titled “UnChristian: What a New Generation Really Thinks About Christianity and Why It Matters.” We have an “image problem,” the authors note on the first page. We have a problem because although Christianity may have been “the faith of our fathers,” Christianity may not be the faith of our children.
We hear this morning in our reading from the gospel of Luke, the parable of the self-righteous Pharisee and the penitent tax collector. “Thank God, I am not like that tax collector!” the Pharisee prays. And we, after hearing the prayer of the tax collector, who will not even raise his eyes up to heaven, but rather beats his breast, saying: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” leave the parable thinking how glad we are that we are not like that self-righteous Pharisee. We, good Protestants that we are, know that we are saved by grace and would never think to exalt our own righteousness.
Apparently, for many young people, we are not as humble as we think we are.
Luke wrote his gospel probably sometime around 85 A.D. to a community that included both Jews and gentiles. Not too many years before, in 70 A.D., the Roman Empire had crushed a Jewish revolt and destroyed the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem. The revolt which began in 66 A.D., culminated years of frustration as Jews sought to preserve their common life in the face of an Empire which regularly sought ways to make the Jews more Roman and less Jewish.
One of the ways Rome sought to bring Jews more in line with the party program was by levying taxes and getting Jews to collect those taxes from their fellow Jews. Tax collectors were routinely perceived to be collaborators, Roman sympathizers who were working for the enemy. No one in Luke’s community would have heard the parable we just heard without being completely surprised that the tax collector, not the Pharisee, went home justified.
Tax collectors, like Nazi sympathizers during World War II, deserved unreserved condemnation, not forgiveness.
Following the destruction of the Jewish Temple, Luke’s community struggled to forge a common life grounded in God’s grace, in God’s generous undeserved goodness first to the house of Israel and then to all the nations. No one deserved God’s favor, not Israel and certainly not tax collectors.
Three years ago, at a diocesan gathering, our Assistant Bishop Ted Gulick spoke of the BARNA survey and noted that we live in a graceless culture. In a graceless culture, nothing is given to us for free, we must earn everything we get, and we all have to prove our worth. In a graceless culture we are judged on our merits, rewarded for what we can do and, when we fail to live up to the expectations of our families, friends or employers, often dismissed. In a graceless culture, we might get a “second chance” but usually not unlimited forgiveness.
In the midst of this graceless culture is the church, professing faith in a generous and loving God who makes no distinction between the righteous and the unrighteous, the saint and the sinner, the tax collector and the Pharisee. God withholds God’s love from no one. And if the God we worship will only give us two chances in this life, and after that stop forgiving us, we are all in very deep trouble.
We all, I suspect, can recall times when the church failed us, when the church was not “good news” but “bad news,” when the church in whatever shape or form simply was not gracious to us. I trust we can also remember times when the church was indeed church, a grace filled community that loved us in spite of ourselves, in spite of our personalities and quirks and warts and, yes, even our convictions.
I am saddened by this survey of the BARNA group. I am saddened to think that most young people would not dare to darken our door for fear of being judged or finding that we do not live up to the truths we profess or that we are simply old fashioned, out of touch with reality. I am saddened that the “good news” has been reduced to a question about sexuality. I am saddened that so many young people see Christianity as the enemy.
And young people are not the only segment of the population who perceive the church as ungracious. Some years ago I was making a visit in a Richmond hospital and I was dressed in my collar. As I was leaving the hospital, an older woman was walking toward me in the opposite direction. As we came close, she slowed, looking me over. “Are you a nun?” she asked, to which I replied, trying not to laugh, “Oh, no! I am an Episcopal priest.” And then she asked: “Do you pray for anybody?” I was stunned and saddened to think that maybe she thought I only prayed for Episcopalians.
Living gracefully in the midst of a culture in which there is no free lunch is disorienting. The grace of God is a gift and can only be received and shared. Most of us, though, are not accustomed to getting something for nothing. Most of us when we receive a gift, endeavor to return the favor, to do something nice for someone who has done something nice for us. But just as the grace of God is not anything we can earn, we also can do nothing to pay God back for God’s amazing goodness towards us.
In the face of grace, all we can do is say “thank you,” to be grateful. And that may be the most humbling experience of all – to be grateful for a gift we neither earned nor deserved nor can possibly “pay back.” Maybe the most humbling experience for any of us is simply receiving God’s grace. We all, I would say, are far more comfortable being the giver than being the receiver.
Since A.G. and I have landed in your midst, we have, uncomfortably suffered a motorcycle accident, hospital procedures, a broken ankle and a move. And before I forget, we found the coffee pot Friday! We had hoped we could come among you all a bit more gently! We have been moved beyond words by your graciousness. We have both been humbled by your care and your support and your encouragement. We have been brought to tears by what you have done and by what you have said. We are grateful beyond measure. And we both thank you.
This past week, as we joined together to commend Kelly Nunnally to God, I was again reminded of the graciousness of this parish. None of us likes to be on the receiving end of grace and this parish is more than gracious! Problem is most us want to give; few of us want to receive. We will need to work that out.
Bishop Gulick ended his remarks at that diocesan meeting three years ago by taking us back to the beginning of Luke’s gospel where the angel Gabriel greets Mary, saying: “Hail Mary, full of grace!” Mary has been graced by God to bear the savior of the world into the world. And Mary breaks forth in the words of the Magnificat:
“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,
my spirit rejoices in God my Savior;
for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant.”
God has poured out God’s grace upon us as well, and sends us out into the world “to lift up the lowly” and “fill the hungry with good things” so that the whole world may know of the grace, mercy and peace of Christ. We cannot do so, unless we like Mary, know that we ourselves have been graced, sometimes uncomfortably.
All Saints’ Day Daniel 7: 1 -3, 15-18
Sunday, November 3, 2013 Ephesians 1: 11 – 23
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 6: 20 - 36
“Give us grace so to follow your blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living, that we may come to those ineffable joys that you have prepared for those who truly love you;”
From the collect for All Saints’ Day
“Give us grace,” we prayed in our collect this morning as we celebrate the feast of All Saints’ Day,” so to follow your blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living, that we may come to those ineffable joys that you have prepared for those who truly love you;” My maternal grandmother would not have liked that prayer.
My maternal grandmother was a good New England Congregationalist, practical, thrifty and not given to a lot of show. My grandmother would remove the buttons from worn out sweaters before consigning the sweaters to the trash in order to use the buttons again and the largest section in her cookbook was the section marked “Leftovers.”
My grandmother, who died when I was but six weeks old bequeathed to me a button box, a cook book and a prayer. “Lord,” the prayer begins, “thou knowest better than I know myself that I am growing older, and will someday be old.” What follows are a series of eight petitions beginning with, “Keep me from getting talkative, and particularly from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject on every occasion” and ending with “Make me thoughtful, but not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom it seems a pity not to use it all. But thou knowest, Lord, that I want a few friends at the end.”
One of the eight petitions reads as follows: “Keep me reasonably sweet. I do not want to be a saint. Some of them are so hard to live with but a sour man or woman is one of the crowning works of the devil.” My grandmother, I would venture to say, had little use for saints, preferring the company of those who like herself, lived life not in a monastery but in the mill town of Holyoke, Massachusetts.
The word “saint” comes from the Latin word “sanctus,” and means “holy.” For my grandmother and others of like mind, saints are not just holy but often “holier than thou,” making such persons, in the words of the prayer “hard to live with,” people who make the rest of us ordinary mortals feel diminished, less than what we ought to be. Saints are “perfect” people and, most of us are not inclined to think of ourselves as “perfect,” even less inclined to enjoy the company of someone who believes they, unlike us, are perfect.
So today as we celebrate All Saints’ Day, we remember all those who throughout the history of the Church have born witness to Christ in extraordinary ways as well as the words of my grandmother’s prayer: “Keep me reasonably sweet. I do not want to be a saint.” And I have to wonder when we prayed our opening collect this morning, asking God to “Give us grace so to follow your blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living,” we did so with our fingers crossed, hoping God will do no such thing!
All Saints’ Day is one of seven “high holy days” we observe during the church year, a principal feast day like Christmas and Easter. All Saints’ Day is observed on November 1, but may be celebrated, as we are doing today, on the following Sunday. All Saints’ Day originated early in the life of the church and we have references dating from 270 A.D., to a festival commemorating martyrs, those men and women who had died for their profession of faith. In time, the church came to celebrate not only the martyrs but all those whose lives have born witness to us of the glory of God revealed to us through Jesus Christ.
For most of us, the stories of the martyrs are now lost in libraries, among books that are gathering dust. The gruesome sagas of Christians torn apart by wild animals in the Roman Coliseum are just hard to read. Few doubt the veracity of the accounts but most Christians disbelieve anything of the sort would happen today. And here in Bowling Green, we would probably be justified in that belief.
Martyrs, of course, are not the only folk we deem to be saints. Mother Teresa comes to mind. Mother Teresa, who died in 1997, of natural causes, spent her life living and working among the poorest of the poor in Calcutta, India. Her selfless devotion to those who have nothing and often die in a dirty street, makes our work as teachers or lawyers or farmers or parish priests or homemakers look a bit shallow. The story of Mother Teresa is not, like those of the early martyrs, lost on the shelf of some seminary library, but is, like the story of the early martyrs, hard for most of us to believe. What Mother Teresa did was simply extraordinary, beyond imagining for us ordinary folk.
The extraordinary stories of the saints, for us Episcopalians, are memorialized in a book we call Lesser Feasts and Fasts, a compendium of particular men and women who our General Convention deems worthy of our corporate remembrance. And now we have on trial use a book called Holy Women, Holy Men, which includes many more worthy folk. What we find in Lesser Feasts and Fasts and Holy Women, Holy Men, is a calendar that includes Saint Mark, who we remember annually on April 25th and Saints Peter and Paul, who we remember on June 29. Mary Magdalene is on the calendar as is Martin Luther King, Jr. and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, a woman suffragette, remembered on July 20th. What we find in Lesser Feasts and Fasts and Holy Women, Holy Men is a list of those men and women in every generation, whose lives have reflected the presence of Christ. To be included in the calendar, a person will have demonstrated a heroic faith, love, goodness of life, joyousness, service to others for Christ’s sake, devotion, recognition by the faithful and historical perspective, which generally means those who are remembered have been dead for awhile.
For us Episcopalians, saints are not miracle workers but life givers, folk who do not walk on water but whose lives enable us to see Christ “more clearly, love thee more dearly, and follow more nearly,” in the words of a hymn. The folk we remember did not literally raise anyone from the dead, but all in some way brought life into the midst of death. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, for example, at a time when women were deemed second class citizens said: “Not true!” and every woman in this congregation this day is a beneficiary of her work as well as that of Amelia Bloomer, Sojourner Truth and Harriet Ross Tubman who we remember on the same day. Bearing witness to Christ and Christ’s life giving Spirit for all takes many forms and these women transformed our civic and eventually our ecclesiastical life.
Perfection, for us Episcopalians, is not a requirement for sainthood. And in the Preface to Lesser Feast and Fasts we read:
What we celebrate in the lives of the saints is the presence of Christ expressing itself in and through particular lives lived in the midst of specific historical circumstances. In the saints we are not dealing primarily with absolutes of perfection but human lives, in all their diversity, open to the motions of the Holy Spirit. Many a holy life, when carefully examined, will reveal flaws or the bias of a particular moment in history or ecclesial perspective: Attitudes toward those outside the Church, assumptions about gender, understandings of the world may appear to be defective and wrong. And what, in one age, was taken as virtue may at another time seem misguided. It should encourage us to realize that the saints, like us, are first and foremost redeemed sinners in whom the risen Christ’s words to St. Paul come to fulfillment, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
We remember the saints today, not in the hope (or perhaps, dismay) of being made perfect, but rather with the conviction that we ordinary human beings can be instruments of God’s grace, that by the power of the Holy Spirit we can, like those we call saints, do extraordinary things with our ordinary lives. No one here is beyond the pale of sainthood, because sainthood is not anything we accomplish, but rather what God can accomplish through us. In and through our ordinary lives, God can and does work miracles, bringing life out of death, joy out of sorrow, hope out of despair. We do not need to be perfect but we do need to be open to the pleadings of the Holy Spirit and trust that God will give us what we need to do what God would have us do. The lives of the saints are our assurance that God will not fail us.
So, for all the saints of the Church of God, past, present and those yet to be born, let us give thanks, and pray that we each might glorify Christ in our own time.
Sunday, November 3, 2013 Ephesians 1: 11 – 23
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 6: 20 - 36
“Give us grace so to follow your blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living, that we may come to those ineffable joys that you have prepared for those who truly love you;”
From the collect for All Saints’ Day
“Give us grace,” we prayed in our collect this morning as we celebrate the feast of All Saints’ Day,” so to follow your blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living, that we may come to those ineffable joys that you have prepared for those who truly love you;” My maternal grandmother would not have liked that prayer.
My maternal grandmother was a good New England Congregationalist, practical, thrifty and not given to a lot of show. My grandmother would remove the buttons from worn out sweaters before consigning the sweaters to the trash in order to use the buttons again and the largest section in her cookbook was the section marked “Leftovers.”
My grandmother, who died when I was but six weeks old bequeathed to me a button box, a cook book and a prayer. “Lord,” the prayer begins, “thou knowest better than I know myself that I am growing older, and will someday be old.” What follows are a series of eight petitions beginning with, “Keep me from getting talkative, and particularly from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject on every occasion” and ending with “Make me thoughtful, but not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom it seems a pity not to use it all. But thou knowest, Lord, that I want a few friends at the end.”
One of the eight petitions reads as follows: “Keep me reasonably sweet. I do not want to be a saint. Some of them are so hard to live with but a sour man or woman is one of the crowning works of the devil.” My grandmother, I would venture to say, had little use for saints, preferring the company of those who like herself, lived life not in a monastery but in the mill town of Holyoke, Massachusetts.
The word “saint” comes from the Latin word “sanctus,” and means “holy.” For my grandmother and others of like mind, saints are not just holy but often “holier than thou,” making such persons, in the words of the prayer “hard to live with,” people who make the rest of us ordinary mortals feel diminished, less than what we ought to be. Saints are “perfect” people and, most of us are not inclined to think of ourselves as “perfect,” even less inclined to enjoy the company of someone who believes they, unlike us, are perfect.
So today as we celebrate All Saints’ Day, we remember all those who throughout the history of the Church have born witness to Christ in extraordinary ways as well as the words of my grandmother’s prayer: “Keep me reasonably sweet. I do not want to be a saint.” And I have to wonder when we prayed our opening collect this morning, asking God to “Give us grace so to follow your blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living,” we did so with our fingers crossed, hoping God will do no such thing!
All Saints’ Day is one of seven “high holy days” we observe during the church year, a principal feast day like Christmas and Easter. All Saints’ Day is observed on November 1, but may be celebrated, as we are doing today, on the following Sunday. All Saints’ Day originated early in the life of the church and we have references dating from 270 A.D., to a festival commemorating martyrs, those men and women who had died for their profession of faith. In time, the church came to celebrate not only the martyrs but all those whose lives have born witness to us of the glory of God revealed to us through Jesus Christ.
For most of us, the stories of the martyrs are now lost in libraries, among books that are gathering dust. The gruesome sagas of Christians torn apart by wild animals in the Roman Coliseum are just hard to read. Few doubt the veracity of the accounts but most Christians disbelieve anything of the sort would happen today. And here in Bowling Green, we would probably be justified in that belief.
Martyrs, of course, are not the only folk we deem to be saints. Mother Teresa comes to mind. Mother Teresa, who died in 1997, of natural causes, spent her life living and working among the poorest of the poor in Calcutta, India. Her selfless devotion to those who have nothing and often die in a dirty street, makes our work as teachers or lawyers or farmers or parish priests or homemakers look a bit shallow. The story of Mother Teresa is not, like those of the early martyrs, lost on the shelf of some seminary library, but is, like the story of the early martyrs, hard for most of us to believe. What Mother Teresa did was simply extraordinary, beyond imagining for us ordinary folk.
The extraordinary stories of the saints, for us Episcopalians, are memorialized in a book we call Lesser Feasts and Fasts, a compendium of particular men and women who our General Convention deems worthy of our corporate remembrance. And now we have on trial use a book called Holy Women, Holy Men, which includes many more worthy folk. What we find in Lesser Feasts and Fasts and Holy Women, Holy Men, is a calendar that includes Saint Mark, who we remember annually on April 25th and Saints Peter and Paul, who we remember on June 29. Mary Magdalene is on the calendar as is Martin Luther King, Jr. and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, a woman suffragette, remembered on July 20th. What we find in Lesser Feasts and Fasts and Holy Women, Holy Men is a list of those men and women in every generation, whose lives have reflected the presence of Christ. To be included in the calendar, a person will have demonstrated a heroic faith, love, goodness of life, joyousness, service to others for Christ’s sake, devotion, recognition by the faithful and historical perspective, which generally means those who are remembered have been dead for awhile.
For us Episcopalians, saints are not miracle workers but life givers, folk who do not walk on water but whose lives enable us to see Christ “more clearly, love thee more dearly, and follow more nearly,” in the words of a hymn. The folk we remember did not literally raise anyone from the dead, but all in some way brought life into the midst of death. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, for example, at a time when women were deemed second class citizens said: “Not true!” and every woman in this congregation this day is a beneficiary of her work as well as that of Amelia Bloomer, Sojourner Truth and Harriet Ross Tubman who we remember on the same day. Bearing witness to Christ and Christ’s life giving Spirit for all takes many forms and these women transformed our civic and eventually our ecclesiastical life.
Perfection, for us Episcopalians, is not a requirement for sainthood. And in the Preface to Lesser Feast and Fasts we read:
What we celebrate in the lives of the saints is the presence of Christ expressing itself in and through particular lives lived in the midst of specific historical circumstances. In the saints we are not dealing primarily with absolutes of perfection but human lives, in all their diversity, open to the motions of the Holy Spirit. Many a holy life, when carefully examined, will reveal flaws or the bias of a particular moment in history or ecclesial perspective: Attitudes toward those outside the Church, assumptions about gender, understandings of the world may appear to be defective and wrong. And what, in one age, was taken as virtue may at another time seem misguided. It should encourage us to realize that the saints, like us, are first and foremost redeemed sinners in whom the risen Christ’s words to St. Paul come to fulfillment, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
We remember the saints today, not in the hope (or perhaps, dismay) of being made perfect, but rather with the conviction that we ordinary human beings can be instruments of God’s grace, that by the power of the Holy Spirit we can, like those we call saints, do extraordinary things with our ordinary lives. No one here is beyond the pale of sainthood, because sainthood is not anything we accomplish, but rather what God can accomplish through us. In and through our ordinary lives, God can and does work miracles, bringing life out of death, joy out of sorrow, hope out of despair. We do not need to be perfect but we do need to be open to the pleadings of the Holy Spirit and trust that God will give us what we need to do what God would have us do. The lives of the saints are our assurance that God will not fail us.
So, for all the saints of the Church of God, past, present and those yet to be born, let us give thanks, and pray that we each might glorify Christ in our own time.
The Twenty-Fifth Sunday after Pentecost Haggai 1: 15b - 2: 9
Sunday, November 10, 2013 2 Thessalonians 2: 1-5, 13 -17
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 20: 27 -38
“but those who are considered worthy of a place in that age and in the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage. Indeed they cannot die any more, because they are like angels and are children of God, being children of the resurrection.”
Luke 20: 35 - 36
In just a few moments, we will baptize Kirsten Dotson, Savannah Howard and Landon Howard, the children of Bridget and Chris Howard and the grandchildren of Jean Young and Deborah Howard. And we are going to baptize these three young folk because, each in their own way, have expressed a desire to become a part of this community. Some weeks ago, when I asked Kirstin why she wanted to be baptized, she told me she wanted to be baptized because she wanted to feel like she belonged in this place and among all of us. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon have tasted something sweet here in this place and they want more.
For now, that is enough. Later, as these three young folk grow and mature, they will come to learn the story of our faith and how God created us all in God’s image to reflect the glory of God in this world. They will learn how we each have lost our original glorious beauty through sin and our vain attempts to become something other than the creatures God created us to be. And as they grow and learn, they, like all of us, will hopefully come to realize they are not like anyone else in this world and were not created by God to be so. But they were created by God in God’s own image and, accordingly, have a place in God’s good world and, I trust, will always feel like they belong to this community.
In our reading this morning from the gospel of Luke, Jesus is being tested by the Sadducees, and the question is a question about belonging. The Sadducees like the Pharisees, were learned interpreters of the law of Moses and, like our Supreme Court justices not always of like mind. The question this morning concerns the possibility of resurrection which the Sadducees resisted. The Sadducees argue, in good Rabbinic fashion, that if the law of levirate marriage is observed, the idea of resurrection becomes a logical impossibility.
Levirate marriage stipulated that a woman who was married and subsequently widowed but childless, would be married to her dead husband’s brother in the hope of having children. In the first century, women were not able to earn a living and a woman was dependent upon her husband and her children to take care of her. Hoping to insure a woman’s well-being, a widow would be passed along to her husband’s brothers in the hope of being impregnated. After seven childless marriages, the Sadducees want to know whose wife this woman will be in the resurrection. To whom will this woman belong?
This woman, Jesus says, will belong to God in the resurrection. In the resurrection, this woman will not need to be married in order to survive nor will she be instrumental in assuring the continuation of life by giving birth because in the resurrection, death will be no more. The rules of this age will not apply in the resurrection, Jesus tells the Sadducees and what is not possible now will be possible in the resurrection.
Childless widows are no longer married off to their brothers-in-law and women no longer need to depend upon a husband for their support. Women, however, continue to remain vulnerable, often left to raise children fathered by men who subsequently jump ship. And women routinely earn less than men. This week at clergy conference, Bishop Gulick told us that the twenty largest churches in the diocese were all shepherded by men. Misogyny, like racism, is still very much a part of the world in which we live. But in the resurrection, we all will be children of God, enabled to show forth our original, ordained, and glorious God bearing image – a literal symphony of folk all praising God in every way imaginable.
This vision of a world in which everyone and everything belongs is the world into which Kirstin, Savannah and Landon wish to be baptized. These three young folk want to belong to a world in which they will be treasured for who they are and not for what they can do. They want a place that will miss them when they are not here, offer them opportunities to do new things and not fire them if they miss the mark. They want a hug when they come among us after a long week and mentors who will encourage them when times get tough. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon want to belong to us and to this community and none of us should take that lightly. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon have been among us for a goodly while and now they all want to “belong,” to be a part of this community and our faith and practice.
Kirstin, Savannah and Landon have yet to realize that their baptism is into Christ and not just this community. That will come in time. For now Kirstin, Savannah and Landon want only to be a part of this community which has loved them and to share with us in the receiving of bread and wine. For now Kirstin, Savannah and Landon want to come to the altar and share with us in the breaking of bread and the drinking of wine. They no longer want a blessing but food, the holy food of the body and blood of Christ. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon are hungry and they want more.
On Wednesday this week I listened to our Assisting Bishop Ted Gulick describe a baptism at Shrine Mont, our diocesan conference center in Orkney Springs. Orkney Springs is up in the mountains and the baptism was done in a pool, probably spring fed and very cold. The baptizand was submerged three times, once in the name of the Father, and then the Son and then the Holy Spirit. Something similar was done in the ancient church and bore little resemblance to what we will do in a few minutes as we drip water on the heads of Kirstin, Savannah and Landon. Being submerged in a pool of cold water is a little scary and the baptizand must trust that the baptizer will bring them up and hold them up if anything goes wrong.
Baptism, back then, was an act of trust, trust that the one who thrust you under the water would bring you back up. Baptism these days is not nearly so dramatic but is no less an act of trust as the baptizands take their place within an established community wondering if they will fit in, if they will belong, if they will be loved for the long haul. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon have been with us for a goodly while and are trusting we all will be with them for the long haul. That is an act of trust which we need to take seriously and soberly. These young folk are now our young folk and we are committing ourselves to them for better and for worse for the rest of our lives. We are all making a promise this day - Kirstin, Savannah and Landon are promising to be with us and we are promising to be with them and we all are trusting in the grace of God to further God’s good purposes through us, a community now changed by the presence of Kirstin, Savannah and Landon.
In the age of the resurrection, Jesus tells us this morning, we all will belong, not to one another, but to God. In the resurrection we will come know ourselves as God knows us – not as husbands and wives, parents and children, sisters and brothers, but rather as bearers of God’s image, unique, one-of-a-kind persons whose truest self is divinely given and glorious beyond words. Baptism anticipates that reality now in the present age, as we leave behind the part of us that conforms to this present age and seek that part of us that is the very image of God, an image that was most perfectly revealed to us in Christ.
Our hope is that in the Church, the body of Christ, we can come to know ourselves as God knows us –dearly beloved particular persons fashioned by God for God. God is quite free to fashion us as God wills, and God has so fashioned us that we are not like one another, but are rather graced and gifted in any number of different ways. Baptism does not call us to be ‘like others,” but rather to assume our place within the body of Christ, a body which, as Saint Paul tells us, needs hands and feet as much as a heart and lungs. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon will, like all of us, be tasked to discover what God would have them do with the gifts God has given them. You and I will need to support and encourage them as they do. We are here, as we will re-affirm in a moment, “to seek and serve Christ in all persons” and not insist that others conform to our will and ways.
The Church – that glorious and sacred mystery – is not a static reality but rather an ever changing communion as God draws new folk into our midst. That God has drawn Kirstin, Savannah and Landon into our midst and given them the desire to be baptized we can only celebrate. Today, Kirstin, Savannah and Landon now belong to God who will never abandon nor forsake them no matter what. And insofar as we all have been a part of incarnating the good news for these three young folk, let us also give thanks and pray that we might always be the body of Christ for them.
Sunday, November 10, 2013 2 Thessalonians 2: 1-5, 13 -17
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 20: 27 -38
“but those who are considered worthy of a place in that age and in the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage. Indeed they cannot die any more, because they are like angels and are children of God, being children of the resurrection.”
Luke 20: 35 - 36
In just a few moments, we will baptize Kirsten Dotson, Savannah Howard and Landon Howard, the children of Bridget and Chris Howard and the grandchildren of Jean Young and Deborah Howard. And we are going to baptize these three young folk because, each in their own way, have expressed a desire to become a part of this community. Some weeks ago, when I asked Kirstin why she wanted to be baptized, she told me she wanted to be baptized because she wanted to feel like she belonged in this place and among all of us. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon have tasted something sweet here in this place and they want more.
For now, that is enough. Later, as these three young folk grow and mature, they will come to learn the story of our faith and how God created us all in God’s image to reflect the glory of God in this world. They will learn how we each have lost our original glorious beauty through sin and our vain attempts to become something other than the creatures God created us to be. And as they grow and learn, they, like all of us, will hopefully come to realize they are not like anyone else in this world and were not created by God to be so. But they were created by God in God’s own image and, accordingly, have a place in God’s good world and, I trust, will always feel like they belong to this community.
In our reading this morning from the gospel of Luke, Jesus is being tested by the Sadducees, and the question is a question about belonging. The Sadducees like the Pharisees, were learned interpreters of the law of Moses and, like our Supreme Court justices not always of like mind. The question this morning concerns the possibility of resurrection which the Sadducees resisted. The Sadducees argue, in good Rabbinic fashion, that if the law of levirate marriage is observed, the idea of resurrection becomes a logical impossibility.
Levirate marriage stipulated that a woman who was married and subsequently widowed but childless, would be married to her dead husband’s brother in the hope of having children. In the first century, women were not able to earn a living and a woman was dependent upon her husband and her children to take care of her. Hoping to insure a woman’s well-being, a widow would be passed along to her husband’s brothers in the hope of being impregnated. After seven childless marriages, the Sadducees want to know whose wife this woman will be in the resurrection. To whom will this woman belong?
This woman, Jesus says, will belong to God in the resurrection. In the resurrection, this woman will not need to be married in order to survive nor will she be instrumental in assuring the continuation of life by giving birth because in the resurrection, death will be no more. The rules of this age will not apply in the resurrection, Jesus tells the Sadducees and what is not possible now will be possible in the resurrection.
Childless widows are no longer married off to their brothers-in-law and women no longer need to depend upon a husband for their support. Women, however, continue to remain vulnerable, often left to raise children fathered by men who subsequently jump ship. And women routinely earn less than men. This week at clergy conference, Bishop Gulick told us that the twenty largest churches in the diocese were all shepherded by men. Misogyny, like racism, is still very much a part of the world in which we live. But in the resurrection, we all will be children of God, enabled to show forth our original, ordained, and glorious God bearing image – a literal symphony of folk all praising God in every way imaginable.
This vision of a world in which everyone and everything belongs is the world into which Kirstin, Savannah and Landon wish to be baptized. These three young folk want to belong to a world in which they will be treasured for who they are and not for what they can do. They want a place that will miss them when they are not here, offer them opportunities to do new things and not fire them if they miss the mark. They want a hug when they come among us after a long week and mentors who will encourage them when times get tough. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon want to belong to us and to this community and none of us should take that lightly. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon have been among us for a goodly while and now they all want to “belong,” to be a part of this community and our faith and practice.
Kirstin, Savannah and Landon have yet to realize that their baptism is into Christ and not just this community. That will come in time. For now Kirstin, Savannah and Landon want only to be a part of this community which has loved them and to share with us in the receiving of bread and wine. For now Kirstin, Savannah and Landon want to come to the altar and share with us in the breaking of bread and the drinking of wine. They no longer want a blessing but food, the holy food of the body and blood of Christ. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon are hungry and they want more.
On Wednesday this week I listened to our Assisting Bishop Ted Gulick describe a baptism at Shrine Mont, our diocesan conference center in Orkney Springs. Orkney Springs is up in the mountains and the baptism was done in a pool, probably spring fed and very cold. The baptizand was submerged three times, once in the name of the Father, and then the Son and then the Holy Spirit. Something similar was done in the ancient church and bore little resemblance to what we will do in a few minutes as we drip water on the heads of Kirstin, Savannah and Landon. Being submerged in a pool of cold water is a little scary and the baptizand must trust that the baptizer will bring them up and hold them up if anything goes wrong.
Baptism, back then, was an act of trust, trust that the one who thrust you under the water would bring you back up. Baptism these days is not nearly so dramatic but is no less an act of trust as the baptizands take their place within an established community wondering if they will fit in, if they will belong, if they will be loved for the long haul. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon have been with us for a goodly while and are trusting we all will be with them for the long haul. That is an act of trust which we need to take seriously and soberly. These young folk are now our young folk and we are committing ourselves to them for better and for worse for the rest of our lives. We are all making a promise this day - Kirstin, Savannah and Landon are promising to be with us and we are promising to be with them and we all are trusting in the grace of God to further God’s good purposes through us, a community now changed by the presence of Kirstin, Savannah and Landon.
In the age of the resurrection, Jesus tells us this morning, we all will belong, not to one another, but to God. In the resurrection we will come know ourselves as God knows us – not as husbands and wives, parents and children, sisters and brothers, but rather as bearers of God’s image, unique, one-of-a-kind persons whose truest self is divinely given and glorious beyond words. Baptism anticipates that reality now in the present age, as we leave behind the part of us that conforms to this present age and seek that part of us that is the very image of God, an image that was most perfectly revealed to us in Christ.
Our hope is that in the Church, the body of Christ, we can come to know ourselves as God knows us –dearly beloved particular persons fashioned by God for God. God is quite free to fashion us as God wills, and God has so fashioned us that we are not like one another, but are rather graced and gifted in any number of different ways. Baptism does not call us to be ‘like others,” but rather to assume our place within the body of Christ, a body which, as Saint Paul tells us, needs hands and feet as much as a heart and lungs. Kirstin, Savannah and Landon will, like all of us, be tasked to discover what God would have them do with the gifts God has given them. You and I will need to support and encourage them as they do. We are here, as we will re-affirm in a moment, “to seek and serve Christ in all persons” and not insist that others conform to our will and ways.
The Church – that glorious and sacred mystery – is not a static reality but rather an ever changing communion as God draws new folk into our midst. That God has drawn Kirstin, Savannah and Landon into our midst and given them the desire to be baptized we can only celebrate. Today, Kirstin, Savannah and Landon now belong to God who will never abandon nor forsake them no matter what. And insofar as we all have been a part of incarnating the good news for these three young folk, let us also give thanks and pray that we might always be the body of Christ for them.
The Twenty-Sixth Sunday after Pentecost Isaiah 65: 17 – 25
Sunday, November 17, 2013 2 Thessalonians 3: 6 – 13
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 21: 5 - 19
When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, he said, ‘As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.’
Luke 21: 5 - 6
When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, he said, ‘As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.’
In 70 A.D., after four long years of war, the Roman army finally conquered Jerusalem and burned the Jewish Temple to the ground. The Jews had been governed by Rome for a hundred and thirty years and frustrations at their foreign overlords had reached fever pitch by 66 A.D. Roman rule was becoming increasingly intolerable and Jewish zealots were convinced the only way out was to violently revolt.
Not all Jews were convinced that revolt was appropriate and sought less violent ways to improve relations with Rome. The zealots, however, would broker no compromise, and killed fellow Jews who were reluctant to participate in the Great Revolt. An estimated one million Jews died during this Great Revolt, and not all by the swords of Rome. By 70 A.D., the great city of Jerusalem was decimated and the glorious Jewish Temple burned to the ground, never to be re-built.
Our evangelist Luke is writing about thirty years after this horror. Those first hearing Luke’s words would be remembering vividly the devastation, death and betrayal as Jew battled Jew against Rome. An entire way of life centered in the Temple was now in dust and ashes; thirty years later yet another revolt led by Simon Bar Kokhba would again be crushed by all-powerful Rome. Three hundred years later, the great empire of Rome would also fall but no one knew that then.
For now, our evangelist is preparing his community for a time of trial and tribulation, a time when some within his community will be persecuted and handed over to death. The fledging Christian community, still a sect of Judaism, was neither fish nor fowl – increasingly strange to their Jewish brothers and sisters, absolutely incoherent to Rome with their belief in a man who was raised from the dead. A new community was being raised up in the midst of the ashes of Jerusalem who was neither Jewish nor Roman and increasingly welcomed by neither.
In our text this morning, Luke is drawing upon the tradition of Jewish apocalyptic literature, a literature that surfaces during times of great persecution to assure the faithful that God is at work “behind and beyond history,” in the words of theologian Fred Craddock. “As strange as this literature may seem to us,” Craddock notes, “it is a dramatic witness to the tenacity of faith and hope among the people of God. Amid painful and prolonged suffering, when there can be seen on the horizon of predictable history no relief from disaster, faith turns its face toward heaven not only for a revelation of God’s will but also for a vision of the end of the present misery and the beginning of the age to come.”
“Endure,” Jesus tells his followers and us, this morning. To endure means to remain steadfast and to persevere, to keep on keeping on we might say. For the early church, enduring meant continuing to meet together to hear first the letters of Paul and then the gospels, all the while breaking bread and drinking wine in accordance with the command of Jesus. That they continued to gather amidst the chaos and confusion of those early years is a wonder. Indeed, their persistence did nothing to minimize the suffering of those years; rather, their continued witness often invited persecution as the Roman Emperor sought to be worshipped as a god which neither Jews nor Christians would do.
You and I are heirs of the early church’s witness and endurance. You and I know that the glory that was Rome eventually faded and that the church persisted through the Dark Ages and into the Renaissance, the Enlightenment and into the modern era. And while you and I live in relatively peaceful times, suffering no hardship by coming to church, other Christians are not so blessed. I am left to wonder what our witness would be if indeed we were persecuted and threatened with death if we came to church.
On the other hand, the Church does not owe her existence to our faithfulness or persistence. And while the history of the Church is filled with many exemplary witnesses, our history is also fraught with just as many who were anything but exemplary, witnesses not of Christ but of our selfish and prideful human nature. That the Church exists and continues to exist is an act of God. We, for our part, are invited to share in and show forth, the glory of God made known to us in and through the Church.
And we do so in the midst of a cynical culture, a culture that with good reason wonders if there is a God and if there is a God, why then is the world in such a mess. Going to Church seems for many to be utterly meaningless and wholly irrelevant. Worse, in the midst of a pluralistic culture, going to Church would seem to imply that we are opposed to Muslims, Jews, Buddhists and all non-Christian religious practice. Add to this our radical individualism and desire for some private spiritual experience and the whole idea of belonging to a community of different minded people who together pray, hear scripture, sing hymns and share in the Eucharist seems a bit bizarre.
In short, we have a whole lot of reasons not to go to Church, not to “continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers,” as we affirm in our Baptismal Covenant. We have a whole lot of reasons not to endure. In this, we have common ground with all the faithful in every generation who have clung to a vision of a world made new and gathered week in and week out to hear that vision expressed by the son of a Jewish carpenter. Wars waged, nations came and went, barbarians sacked and looted cities, crusades were waged to eradicate the infidels, the learned were drawn and quartered and when we thought we as a race had finally reached the zenith of human civilization, two world wars broke out.
Coming to church does seem a bit nonsensical in the midst of our human history. And our challenge now as it has always been is to bear witness, especially witness to the next generation who by and large did not grow up in church and have little or no reason to participate. We will, in the words of Saint Paul, need to “give an account of the hope that is within us,” and say something about why we come to church.
I come to church because in the Church and in this church in particular I find hope, hope that amidst the trials and travails of life on this earth, something more is going on behind the scenes. I have, for three and a half years, caught glimpses of the kingdom of heaven in ways great and small and am mystified. Captivated would be a better word.
My first hint came when then Senior Warden John Nunnally called to ask if I would serve as interim after supplying for you on an Ash Wednesday, 2010. At the time, my calendar was horribly empty. After my husband suffered a devastating motorcycle accident some months later, I “bumped” into Mary Frances Coleman who was in church early the following morning setting the altar. “You look like you need a hug,” she said as I dissolved into her arms. Before that, I was visited by a young woman seeking a mission trip, meeting Janet Nunnally for the first time, who subsequently served a year in the Episcopal Service Corps in Baltimore. Later the vestry wrestled with inviting the McShin Foundation to use our pavilion, finally settling upon welcoming that organization into our midst. And then after Josie Spencer was baptized and she gave a thumbs up to the congregation, I dissolved again knowing Josie knew more about the Eucharist than I could have ever taught her. And then this past June as we celebrated our first same-sex blessing, I was radically aware that although we all were not of like mind we were all gathered together to do a new thing. Not two weeks ago young James White, age four, came into my office after the service to “tell me something” and proceeded to recite the twenty-third psalm from memory.
I am convinced the vestry is not in charge and further convinced that all of you are open to the pleadings of the Spirit however much we moan and groan. I daresay none of us will fall out into the aisles “slain in the Spirit” but I believe the Holy Spirit is alive and well and moving in this place.
My testimony is not our testimony and you will need to give your own. We have just finished our formal stewardship campaign and I thank all of you who made pledges. We had considered asking folk to say something about why they come to church and this church in particular. I doubt you will be surprised to learn the stewardship committee quaked at that suggestion. In the years to come I hope we will not be so timid. We all have stories to tell, stories about this community and the difference this community has made to us. We are asked to endure and as we endure we will have a story to tell. Unless we tell our stories, no one, not least the next generation, will know why we come to church. Saint Paul had a story to tell, as did Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. We too have a story to tell. You will need not to prepare your defense in advance as our gospel reading tells us this day. You will simply need to give voice to what God is doing in our midst.
Sunday, November 17, 2013 2 Thessalonians 3: 6 – 13
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 21: 5 - 19
When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, he said, ‘As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.’
Luke 21: 5 - 6
When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, he said, ‘As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.’
In 70 A.D., after four long years of war, the Roman army finally conquered Jerusalem and burned the Jewish Temple to the ground. The Jews had been governed by Rome for a hundred and thirty years and frustrations at their foreign overlords had reached fever pitch by 66 A.D. Roman rule was becoming increasingly intolerable and Jewish zealots were convinced the only way out was to violently revolt.
Not all Jews were convinced that revolt was appropriate and sought less violent ways to improve relations with Rome. The zealots, however, would broker no compromise, and killed fellow Jews who were reluctant to participate in the Great Revolt. An estimated one million Jews died during this Great Revolt, and not all by the swords of Rome. By 70 A.D., the great city of Jerusalem was decimated and the glorious Jewish Temple burned to the ground, never to be re-built.
Our evangelist Luke is writing about thirty years after this horror. Those first hearing Luke’s words would be remembering vividly the devastation, death and betrayal as Jew battled Jew against Rome. An entire way of life centered in the Temple was now in dust and ashes; thirty years later yet another revolt led by Simon Bar Kokhba would again be crushed by all-powerful Rome. Three hundred years later, the great empire of Rome would also fall but no one knew that then.
For now, our evangelist is preparing his community for a time of trial and tribulation, a time when some within his community will be persecuted and handed over to death. The fledging Christian community, still a sect of Judaism, was neither fish nor fowl – increasingly strange to their Jewish brothers and sisters, absolutely incoherent to Rome with their belief in a man who was raised from the dead. A new community was being raised up in the midst of the ashes of Jerusalem who was neither Jewish nor Roman and increasingly welcomed by neither.
In our text this morning, Luke is drawing upon the tradition of Jewish apocalyptic literature, a literature that surfaces during times of great persecution to assure the faithful that God is at work “behind and beyond history,” in the words of theologian Fred Craddock. “As strange as this literature may seem to us,” Craddock notes, “it is a dramatic witness to the tenacity of faith and hope among the people of God. Amid painful and prolonged suffering, when there can be seen on the horizon of predictable history no relief from disaster, faith turns its face toward heaven not only for a revelation of God’s will but also for a vision of the end of the present misery and the beginning of the age to come.”
“Endure,” Jesus tells his followers and us, this morning. To endure means to remain steadfast and to persevere, to keep on keeping on we might say. For the early church, enduring meant continuing to meet together to hear first the letters of Paul and then the gospels, all the while breaking bread and drinking wine in accordance with the command of Jesus. That they continued to gather amidst the chaos and confusion of those early years is a wonder. Indeed, their persistence did nothing to minimize the suffering of those years; rather, their continued witness often invited persecution as the Roman Emperor sought to be worshipped as a god which neither Jews nor Christians would do.
You and I are heirs of the early church’s witness and endurance. You and I know that the glory that was Rome eventually faded and that the church persisted through the Dark Ages and into the Renaissance, the Enlightenment and into the modern era. And while you and I live in relatively peaceful times, suffering no hardship by coming to church, other Christians are not so blessed. I am left to wonder what our witness would be if indeed we were persecuted and threatened with death if we came to church.
On the other hand, the Church does not owe her existence to our faithfulness or persistence. And while the history of the Church is filled with many exemplary witnesses, our history is also fraught with just as many who were anything but exemplary, witnesses not of Christ but of our selfish and prideful human nature. That the Church exists and continues to exist is an act of God. We, for our part, are invited to share in and show forth, the glory of God made known to us in and through the Church.
And we do so in the midst of a cynical culture, a culture that with good reason wonders if there is a God and if there is a God, why then is the world in such a mess. Going to Church seems for many to be utterly meaningless and wholly irrelevant. Worse, in the midst of a pluralistic culture, going to Church would seem to imply that we are opposed to Muslims, Jews, Buddhists and all non-Christian religious practice. Add to this our radical individualism and desire for some private spiritual experience and the whole idea of belonging to a community of different minded people who together pray, hear scripture, sing hymns and share in the Eucharist seems a bit bizarre.
In short, we have a whole lot of reasons not to go to Church, not to “continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers,” as we affirm in our Baptismal Covenant. We have a whole lot of reasons not to endure. In this, we have common ground with all the faithful in every generation who have clung to a vision of a world made new and gathered week in and week out to hear that vision expressed by the son of a Jewish carpenter. Wars waged, nations came and went, barbarians sacked and looted cities, crusades were waged to eradicate the infidels, the learned were drawn and quartered and when we thought we as a race had finally reached the zenith of human civilization, two world wars broke out.
Coming to church does seem a bit nonsensical in the midst of our human history. And our challenge now as it has always been is to bear witness, especially witness to the next generation who by and large did not grow up in church and have little or no reason to participate. We will, in the words of Saint Paul, need to “give an account of the hope that is within us,” and say something about why we come to church.
I come to church because in the Church and in this church in particular I find hope, hope that amidst the trials and travails of life on this earth, something more is going on behind the scenes. I have, for three and a half years, caught glimpses of the kingdom of heaven in ways great and small and am mystified. Captivated would be a better word.
My first hint came when then Senior Warden John Nunnally called to ask if I would serve as interim after supplying for you on an Ash Wednesday, 2010. At the time, my calendar was horribly empty. After my husband suffered a devastating motorcycle accident some months later, I “bumped” into Mary Frances Coleman who was in church early the following morning setting the altar. “You look like you need a hug,” she said as I dissolved into her arms. Before that, I was visited by a young woman seeking a mission trip, meeting Janet Nunnally for the first time, who subsequently served a year in the Episcopal Service Corps in Baltimore. Later the vestry wrestled with inviting the McShin Foundation to use our pavilion, finally settling upon welcoming that organization into our midst. And then after Josie Spencer was baptized and she gave a thumbs up to the congregation, I dissolved again knowing Josie knew more about the Eucharist than I could have ever taught her. And then this past June as we celebrated our first same-sex blessing, I was radically aware that although we all were not of like mind we were all gathered together to do a new thing. Not two weeks ago young James White, age four, came into my office after the service to “tell me something” and proceeded to recite the twenty-third psalm from memory.
I am convinced the vestry is not in charge and further convinced that all of you are open to the pleadings of the Spirit however much we moan and groan. I daresay none of us will fall out into the aisles “slain in the Spirit” but I believe the Holy Spirit is alive and well and moving in this place.
My testimony is not our testimony and you will need to give your own. We have just finished our formal stewardship campaign and I thank all of you who made pledges. We had considered asking folk to say something about why they come to church and this church in particular. I doubt you will be surprised to learn the stewardship committee quaked at that suggestion. In the years to come I hope we will not be so timid. We all have stories to tell, stories about this community and the difference this community has made to us. We are asked to endure and as we endure we will have a story to tell. Unless we tell our stories, no one, not least the next generation, will know why we come to church. Saint Paul had a story to tell, as did Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. We too have a story to tell. You will need not to prepare your defense in advance as our gospel reading tells us this day. You will simply need to give voice to what God is doing in our midst.
The Last Sunday after Pentecost: Christ the King Jeremiah 23: 1 – 6
Sunday, November 24, 2013 Colossians 1: 11 – 20
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 23: 33 – 43
Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ Jesus replied, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’
Luke 23: 42 - 43
Remember me. Many years ago as I was visiting with a woman who was dying of liver failure, her last words to me were: “Remember me.” She had been a patient at MCV for some time and now nothing more could be done. I did not know her well but remember clearly her desire not to be forgotten. She was from out of state, had a loving and attentive husband and wanted a hospital chaplain to remember her.
As a hospital chaplain, I met many folk, usually only briefly during their sojourn in the hospital. Often those brief relationships were forged during times of life and death and will remain forever a part of who I am. But until I met this woman, no one had ever asked me directly to remember them. Although I do not know why this woman asked me to remember her, I suspect she wanted to know that she was a unique human being, precious to God, and not a nameless patient whose chart would say something like she was a sixty-five year old white female Caucasian with advanced liver cancer. This woman was prepared to die; what this woman did not want to do was to be forgotten.
No one should be forgotten. But as a hospital chaplain in a large Level I Trauma Center, I came to appreciate the reality that many folk often came into the hospital alone, without friends or family to be with them. Without the benefit of companions, these folk would have to wait for someone to answer their call bell sometimes for simple needs like getting a glass of water or an extra blanket. At times I would hear folk wonder if they had indeed been forgotten as they waited for a busy staff to respond. Some folk, sadly, in any hospital, while not forgotten, are regularly required to wait before they are remembered.
Remember me. I like to think that what this woman was asking through me was that God would remember her. This woman was being discharged, sent home to die as the hospital could do no more and she did not want to be forgotten. She had come to MCV looking for help and they had done what they could. She was not, as she lay dying looking for miracles, but rather hoping she had made some difference in this world, that her life and now her death, would mean more than simply offering the oncology unit more data on the survival rates of advanced liver cancer patients.
And this woman and her request are vividly brought back to my memory as we hear our reading this morning from the gospel of Luke. “Jesus,” a condemned criminal says to Jesus, “remember me when you come into your kingdom.” A man, condemned to death for crimes he has committed, wants to be remembered by Jesus who is also dying, but not for any crime Jesus committed. A man who is being punished justly wants Jesus to remember him when Jesus becomes King of kings and Lord of lords, as we prayed in our collect this morning. The Roman Empire no longer wants this criminal to be a part of their world; this criminal, however, continues to want to be a part of a world made new.
“Truly, I tell you,” Jesus responds, “today you will be with me in Paradise.” Whatever guilt this man had incurred for his crimes was, with those words, forgotten, to be remembered no more. This man will be remembered but not for the crimes he committed.
You and I have been graced by the gift of memory and are able to remember past events, experiences and people who are no longer physically present with us. While being able to remember is a blessing, what we remember is not always a blessing and sometimes feels more like a curse. Most of us carry with us a mix of joyful and painful memories and for some folk, painful memories can literally become stumbling blocks, handicapping them in ways psychologists are only now beginning to understand. We are not able simply to wish away painful memories by an act of will. We can make peace often with those memories but what we cannot do usually is simply excise them from our histories.
Jesus, this morning promises to remember this man, and offers this criminal a place in the kingdom of God. What Jesus is choosing to forget is this man’s guilt not the man himself. Unlike Jesus, when you and I remember some past painful experience, we often hang on to the guilt and blame, either our own or that of others. What Jesus is doing this morning is “re-membering” this man, restoring this man to his divinely ordained place in God’s kingdom.
Every Sunday God re-members us as we participate in worship and supremely in the Eucharist. Every Sunday, God freely and graciously invites to God’s table to eat bread and drink wine, forgetting our sins and offenses, those things “we have done and left undone” in the words of our confession. When we come to God’s table, we come re-membered by God, restored to our proper place within the order of creation – a kingdom of priests to love and serve the Lord we are told in the book of Exodus.
For our part, we can only be grateful, “lifting up our hearts” in praise and thanksgiving. Imagine this morning when you come to the altar, what the convicted criminal who was dying for crimes he had committed must have felt after Jesus told him: “Today you will be with me in Paradise.” That day this man’s life was not over but rather filled with all the possibilities of Paradise. And what was true for him, is true for us.
“Do this for the remembrance of me,” we hear every Sunday in our Eucharistic prayer. We are commanded to share in the Eucharist so that we will remember this Lord who “died for us” and promised Paradise to a convicted criminal. We are commanded every Sunday, not to forget what God has done for us in Christ. Sunday after Sunday, God re-members us, forgiving our sins, transforming us from convicted criminals into “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” created to show forth the glory of God in all the world.
We unfortunately can become complacent about what we are doing here on Sunday morning. We can forget what God is doing and fail to remember that you and I come into this church guilty as sin and leave, beyond our wildest imagining, redeemed, renewed and re-membered. On this, the last day of this liturgical year, remember anew what God has done and is doing in you and through you and rejoice.
This morning after our service, we will gather together for lunch and our annual congregational meeting. Congregational meetings are not as a rule “fun” affairs as minutes of the last meeting are read and approved, reports from our various organizations are offered and new vestry members elected. I rarely hear anyone say how much they look forward to this annual event; indeed, what I rather consistently hear is to “keep it short,” which I will do my best to do.
What we are about to do this afternoon, however, is not so much about adhering to the canons of the church which require us to have an annual meeting, but rather is much more about remembering what God has done in our midst this past year. Rather than grow weary with the tedium of endless reports, we might consider celebrating as we listen to the many ways the Holy Spirit has moved among us this past year. We have much for which we can be grateful – rising attendance at worship, a more than balanced budget, new faces, and a holy host of young people in Sunday School, just to mention a few. This afternoon would be a great opportunity to celebrate and to give thanks to God and for one another.
Our gratitude and our joy for this parish is the heart and soul of evangelism and preaches the good news far more profoundly than any sermon. And I pray that we will not grow weary in showing forth our gladness. God does not need our thanks and praise to be God for us. But I remember as I was growing up my mother’s insistence that I write a personal thank you note after I received a gift. I remember groaning at the time, preferring to spend my time otherwise. Consider this afternoon’s congregational meeting an opportunity, if nothing else, to honor your mother and to say “thank you” by your presence to God first and then to one another.
Sunday, November 24, 2013 Colossians 1: 11 – 20
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 23: 33 – 43
Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ Jesus replied, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’
Luke 23: 42 - 43
Remember me. Many years ago as I was visiting with a woman who was dying of liver failure, her last words to me were: “Remember me.” She had been a patient at MCV for some time and now nothing more could be done. I did not know her well but remember clearly her desire not to be forgotten. She was from out of state, had a loving and attentive husband and wanted a hospital chaplain to remember her.
As a hospital chaplain, I met many folk, usually only briefly during their sojourn in the hospital. Often those brief relationships were forged during times of life and death and will remain forever a part of who I am. But until I met this woman, no one had ever asked me directly to remember them. Although I do not know why this woman asked me to remember her, I suspect she wanted to know that she was a unique human being, precious to God, and not a nameless patient whose chart would say something like she was a sixty-five year old white female Caucasian with advanced liver cancer. This woman was prepared to die; what this woman did not want to do was to be forgotten.
No one should be forgotten. But as a hospital chaplain in a large Level I Trauma Center, I came to appreciate the reality that many folk often came into the hospital alone, without friends or family to be with them. Without the benefit of companions, these folk would have to wait for someone to answer their call bell sometimes for simple needs like getting a glass of water or an extra blanket. At times I would hear folk wonder if they had indeed been forgotten as they waited for a busy staff to respond. Some folk, sadly, in any hospital, while not forgotten, are regularly required to wait before they are remembered.
Remember me. I like to think that what this woman was asking through me was that God would remember her. This woman was being discharged, sent home to die as the hospital could do no more and she did not want to be forgotten. She had come to MCV looking for help and they had done what they could. She was not, as she lay dying looking for miracles, but rather hoping she had made some difference in this world, that her life and now her death, would mean more than simply offering the oncology unit more data on the survival rates of advanced liver cancer patients.
And this woman and her request are vividly brought back to my memory as we hear our reading this morning from the gospel of Luke. “Jesus,” a condemned criminal says to Jesus, “remember me when you come into your kingdom.” A man, condemned to death for crimes he has committed, wants to be remembered by Jesus who is also dying, but not for any crime Jesus committed. A man who is being punished justly wants Jesus to remember him when Jesus becomes King of kings and Lord of lords, as we prayed in our collect this morning. The Roman Empire no longer wants this criminal to be a part of their world; this criminal, however, continues to want to be a part of a world made new.
“Truly, I tell you,” Jesus responds, “today you will be with me in Paradise.” Whatever guilt this man had incurred for his crimes was, with those words, forgotten, to be remembered no more. This man will be remembered but not for the crimes he committed.
You and I have been graced by the gift of memory and are able to remember past events, experiences and people who are no longer physically present with us. While being able to remember is a blessing, what we remember is not always a blessing and sometimes feels more like a curse. Most of us carry with us a mix of joyful and painful memories and for some folk, painful memories can literally become stumbling blocks, handicapping them in ways psychologists are only now beginning to understand. We are not able simply to wish away painful memories by an act of will. We can make peace often with those memories but what we cannot do usually is simply excise them from our histories.
Jesus, this morning promises to remember this man, and offers this criminal a place in the kingdom of God. What Jesus is choosing to forget is this man’s guilt not the man himself. Unlike Jesus, when you and I remember some past painful experience, we often hang on to the guilt and blame, either our own or that of others. What Jesus is doing this morning is “re-membering” this man, restoring this man to his divinely ordained place in God’s kingdom.
Every Sunday God re-members us as we participate in worship and supremely in the Eucharist. Every Sunday, God freely and graciously invites to God’s table to eat bread and drink wine, forgetting our sins and offenses, those things “we have done and left undone” in the words of our confession. When we come to God’s table, we come re-membered by God, restored to our proper place within the order of creation – a kingdom of priests to love and serve the Lord we are told in the book of Exodus.
For our part, we can only be grateful, “lifting up our hearts” in praise and thanksgiving. Imagine this morning when you come to the altar, what the convicted criminal who was dying for crimes he had committed must have felt after Jesus told him: “Today you will be with me in Paradise.” That day this man’s life was not over but rather filled with all the possibilities of Paradise. And what was true for him, is true for us.
“Do this for the remembrance of me,” we hear every Sunday in our Eucharistic prayer. We are commanded to share in the Eucharist so that we will remember this Lord who “died for us” and promised Paradise to a convicted criminal. We are commanded every Sunday, not to forget what God has done for us in Christ. Sunday after Sunday, God re-members us, forgiving our sins, transforming us from convicted criminals into “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” created to show forth the glory of God in all the world.
We unfortunately can become complacent about what we are doing here on Sunday morning. We can forget what God is doing and fail to remember that you and I come into this church guilty as sin and leave, beyond our wildest imagining, redeemed, renewed and re-membered. On this, the last day of this liturgical year, remember anew what God has done and is doing in you and through you and rejoice.
This morning after our service, we will gather together for lunch and our annual congregational meeting. Congregational meetings are not as a rule “fun” affairs as minutes of the last meeting are read and approved, reports from our various organizations are offered and new vestry members elected. I rarely hear anyone say how much they look forward to this annual event; indeed, what I rather consistently hear is to “keep it short,” which I will do my best to do.
What we are about to do this afternoon, however, is not so much about adhering to the canons of the church which require us to have an annual meeting, but rather is much more about remembering what God has done in our midst this past year. Rather than grow weary with the tedium of endless reports, we might consider celebrating as we listen to the many ways the Holy Spirit has moved among us this past year. We have much for which we can be grateful – rising attendance at worship, a more than balanced budget, new faces, and a holy host of young people in Sunday School, just to mention a few. This afternoon would be a great opportunity to celebrate and to give thanks to God and for one another.
Our gratitude and our joy for this parish is the heart and soul of evangelism and preaches the good news far more profoundly than any sermon. And I pray that we will not grow weary in showing forth our gladness. God does not need our thanks and praise to be God for us. But I remember as I was growing up my mother’s insistence that I write a personal thank you note after I received a gift. I remember groaning at the time, preferring to spend my time otherwise. Consider this afternoon’s congregational meeting an opportunity, if nothing else, to honor your mother and to say “thank you” by your presence to God first and then to one another.
The First Sunday of Advent Isaiah 2: 1 – 5
Sunday, December 1, 2013 Romans 13: 11 – 14
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 24: 36 - 44
Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.
Matthew 24: 44
The countdown has begun in earnest. Today is December 1, and twenty four shopping days remain before Christmas. Black Friday has come and gone but you can still take advantage of Cyber Monday. Unfortunately, Thanksgiving was late this year and as a result, we now have just a little over three weeks to clean up after Thanksgiving, buy gifts, wrap gifts, decorate, plan another turkey dinner, send Christmas cards, prepare to entertain friends, and, of course, show up for the Christmas pageant and Christmas Eve and maybe Christmas Day. This time of year is always busy; this year, though, the pace picked up.
But today for us is the first Sunday of Advent. Advent is a strange season because Advent is so radically out of tune with the secular culture within which we live. Advent is a season of waiting, not hustling; a season in which we are expecting but are not frantic; a season of reflection, not busy-ness. Advent is a time when we are invited to sit still and prepare for the coming of the Lord in the midst of a culture that wants us to get up from the dinner table on Thanksgiving and go stand in line at Wal Mart to get a deal. Advent is very counter cultural.
But then, so too is Christmas, which does not begin until December 25, but which then lasts for twelve days. Come December 26, Christmas is over for the secular world and all that is left are the after Christmas sales. Both the season of Advent and the season of Christmas are out of tune in the world in which we live.
The deep rhythm of Advent has classically been offered to the Church by Mary and her impending birth. Throughout this season of Advent, we are waiting with Mary, expecting the birth of a king, a Messiah, a savior. This child will take the world by surprise and like the flood in the days of Noah, not everyone will be prepared to receive this king. God is about to do a new thing, and our evangelist Matthew this morning, likens the coming of the Son of Man to the rising waters that covered the earth save for those in the ark.
Advent, this season of waiting, always begins with a reading concerning the “Second Coming,” that time when God will finally and fully create a new heaven and a new earth, bringing to an end all the pain and bitterness of life as we know life in this world. What we are waiting for during Advent is a world made new, a world such as the world we glimpsed in the ministry of Jesus, a world in which lepers were cleansed, the blind received their sight and prodigal sons forgiven.
What we are not waiting for is a moment in time when some folk will be plucked out of this world, leaving their cars “unmanned,” and handed a pair of angel wings. We are not waiting for a day when we can leave this world behind but rather anticipating that day when God will make this world new, a world filled with glory of God. Mary is not waiting for a child who will bring her and Joseph comfort and consolation in their old age; Mary is waiting to give birth to the Son of God, the redeemer of the world.
So, during Advent we are waiting. And we are waiting with the folk in the Philippines devastated by a typhoon that blasted the island away on November 8, and those in Ocean City, Maryland, after a man walked into a parish church this week, setting himself on fire, destroying the church, causing the death of the priest and leaving another person with life threatening injuries. We are waiting with all people who in this season are yearning for a world no longer haunted by death and tragedy and grief.
This past Friday, I did what I have never done before – I strung a few Christmas lights the day after Thanksgiving. I confess I am too much of a purist to put the Christmas tree up over Thanksgiving but hanging lights out seemed a better way to spend the day than shopping at Wal Mart. As I rooted through boxes in the garage for extension cords, strings of lights and replacement bulbs, I was aware how disruptive moving house can be. What was easy to find just a few weeks ago, is now hidden and may be forever! I had not been at my task for long before I thought to myself: “Why am I doing this?”
“Because,” I reminded myself, “You are looking forward to a merry Christmas.” True, this Christmas will not be the same as Christmas last year. Locating the Christmas tree for the first time takes a bit more effort than putting the tree up in the same place as the year before. But I, unlike many others in this world, have a place to put up a Christmas tree and it would be a shame to waste that space. And just maybe, some lonely traveler passing by on 301, will be gladdened by my lights.
Waiting on the kingdom of God to come can be wearisome. And we can grow tired, tired of chasing after justice and peace, tired of forgiving others for the same hurts over and over again, tired of loving our enemies and tired of sharing our gifts with others. And every now and again, we are tempted to believe that the kingdom of God will never come and that the world in which we live will never be put to rights. And if that be true, then hoping to escape this world of doom and gloom, to be taken out of this world of misery and transported into some heavenly dimension, may be our best hope.
That is the hope of those who interpret our text this morning to mean that when the Son Man comes again, some folk will get “beamed up” while others will be “left behind.” “Then two will be in the field;” we hear today, “one will be taken and one will be left. Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left.” What is emphasized in this theology of the “rapture” is our individual accountability and not our collective responsibility for the well-being of the world. “Saving yourself” becomes more important than bringing light to the world. When the Lord comes again, this world will be made new and not left to rot. God did not create a world and all of us to simply walk away when we made a mess of things. Indeed, God said to Noah after the great flood,
Then God said to Noah and to his sons with him, ‘As for me, I am establishing my covenant with you and your descendants after you, and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the domestic animals, and every animal of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark. I establish my covenant with you, that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.’ God said, ‘This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth.
Remember the rainbow.
We can anticipate the day of the Lord’s coming now and keep striving toward a vision of a world made new. Or we can despair and hope on that day we are not “left behind.” That hope is countered by the hope of the great Protestant Reformer Martin Luther. “If I knew the world were going to end tomorrow I would plant a tree,” Luther wrote. Why would you plant a tree if the world was going to hell in a hand basket? Why would you seek after justice and mercy if injustice and mercilessness will win out at the end of the day? Why in the world would you ever consider bringing life to this world if this world is just simply rotting away, going nowhere, hell bent upon its own destruction?
Keep awake. Hang some Christmas lights. Decorate a tree. Roast a turkey and mail some Christmas cards. Remember the poor and come to the Christmas pageant. Thieves will try to rob you of our joy that God has come and that God will come again. Cynics will deprive you of a vision of a world made new. Mary waits patiently this Advent and so too must we. The world, this world, is full of the glory of God for those with eyes to see. This world is pregnant with possibilities and during this season of Advent my hope is that we will see this world as God sees God’s world – lovingly made, cherished beyond measure and never to be forgotten or left behind.
Sunday, December 1, 2013 Romans 13: 11 – 14
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 24: 36 - 44
Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.
Matthew 24: 44
The countdown has begun in earnest. Today is December 1, and twenty four shopping days remain before Christmas. Black Friday has come and gone but you can still take advantage of Cyber Monday. Unfortunately, Thanksgiving was late this year and as a result, we now have just a little over three weeks to clean up after Thanksgiving, buy gifts, wrap gifts, decorate, plan another turkey dinner, send Christmas cards, prepare to entertain friends, and, of course, show up for the Christmas pageant and Christmas Eve and maybe Christmas Day. This time of year is always busy; this year, though, the pace picked up.
But today for us is the first Sunday of Advent. Advent is a strange season because Advent is so radically out of tune with the secular culture within which we live. Advent is a season of waiting, not hustling; a season in which we are expecting but are not frantic; a season of reflection, not busy-ness. Advent is a time when we are invited to sit still and prepare for the coming of the Lord in the midst of a culture that wants us to get up from the dinner table on Thanksgiving and go stand in line at Wal Mart to get a deal. Advent is very counter cultural.
But then, so too is Christmas, which does not begin until December 25, but which then lasts for twelve days. Come December 26, Christmas is over for the secular world and all that is left are the after Christmas sales. Both the season of Advent and the season of Christmas are out of tune in the world in which we live.
The deep rhythm of Advent has classically been offered to the Church by Mary and her impending birth. Throughout this season of Advent, we are waiting with Mary, expecting the birth of a king, a Messiah, a savior. This child will take the world by surprise and like the flood in the days of Noah, not everyone will be prepared to receive this king. God is about to do a new thing, and our evangelist Matthew this morning, likens the coming of the Son of Man to the rising waters that covered the earth save for those in the ark.
Advent, this season of waiting, always begins with a reading concerning the “Second Coming,” that time when God will finally and fully create a new heaven and a new earth, bringing to an end all the pain and bitterness of life as we know life in this world. What we are waiting for during Advent is a world made new, a world such as the world we glimpsed in the ministry of Jesus, a world in which lepers were cleansed, the blind received their sight and prodigal sons forgiven.
What we are not waiting for is a moment in time when some folk will be plucked out of this world, leaving their cars “unmanned,” and handed a pair of angel wings. We are not waiting for a day when we can leave this world behind but rather anticipating that day when God will make this world new, a world filled with glory of God. Mary is not waiting for a child who will bring her and Joseph comfort and consolation in their old age; Mary is waiting to give birth to the Son of God, the redeemer of the world.
So, during Advent we are waiting. And we are waiting with the folk in the Philippines devastated by a typhoon that blasted the island away on November 8, and those in Ocean City, Maryland, after a man walked into a parish church this week, setting himself on fire, destroying the church, causing the death of the priest and leaving another person with life threatening injuries. We are waiting with all people who in this season are yearning for a world no longer haunted by death and tragedy and grief.
This past Friday, I did what I have never done before – I strung a few Christmas lights the day after Thanksgiving. I confess I am too much of a purist to put the Christmas tree up over Thanksgiving but hanging lights out seemed a better way to spend the day than shopping at Wal Mart. As I rooted through boxes in the garage for extension cords, strings of lights and replacement bulbs, I was aware how disruptive moving house can be. What was easy to find just a few weeks ago, is now hidden and may be forever! I had not been at my task for long before I thought to myself: “Why am I doing this?”
“Because,” I reminded myself, “You are looking forward to a merry Christmas.” True, this Christmas will not be the same as Christmas last year. Locating the Christmas tree for the first time takes a bit more effort than putting the tree up in the same place as the year before. But I, unlike many others in this world, have a place to put up a Christmas tree and it would be a shame to waste that space. And just maybe, some lonely traveler passing by on 301, will be gladdened by my lights.
Waiting on the kingdom of God to come can be wearisome. And we can grow tired, tired of chasing after justice and peace, tired of forgiving others for the same hurts over and over again, tired of loving our enemies and tired of sharing our gifts with others. And every now and again, we are tempted to believe that the kingdom of God will never come and that the world in which we live will never be put to rights. And if that be true, then hoping to escape this world of doom and gloom, to be taken out of this world of misery and transported into some heavenly dimension, may be our best hope.
That is the hope of those who interpret our text this morning to mean that when the Son Man comes again, some folk will get “beamed up” while others will be “left behind.” “Then two will be in the field;” we hear today, “one will be taken and one will be left. Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left.” What is emphasized in this theology of the “rapture” is our individual accountability and not our collective responsibility for the well-being of the world. “Saving yourself” becomes more important than bringing light to the world. When the Lord comes again, this world will be made new and not left to rot. God did not create a world and all of us to simply walk away when we made a mess of things. Indeed, God said to Noah after the great flood,
Then God said to Noah and to his sons with him, ‘As for me, I am establishing my covenant with you and your descendants after you, and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the domestic animals, and every animal of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark. I establish my covenant with you, that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.’ God said, ‘This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: I have set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth.
Remember the rainbow.
We can anticipate the day of the Lord’s coming now and keep striving toward a vision of a world made new. Or we can despair and hope on that day we are not “left behind.” That hope is countered by the hope of the great Protestant Reformer Martin Luther. “If I knew the world were going to end tomorrow I would plant a tree,” Luther wrote. Why would you plant a tree if the world was going to hell in a hand basket? Why would you seek after justice and mercy if injustice and mercilessness will win out at the end of the day? Why in the world would you ever consider bringing life to this world if this world is just simply rotting away, going nowhere, hell bent upon its own destruction?
Keep awake. Hang some Christmas lights. Decorate a tree. Roast a turkey and mail some Christmas cards. Remember the poor and come to the Christmas pageant. Thieves will try to rob you of our joy that God has come and that God will come again. Cynics will deprive you of a vision of a world made new. Mary waits patiently this Advent and so too must we. The world, this world, is full of the glory of God for those with eyes to see. This world is pregnant with possibilities and during this season of Advent my hope is that we will see this world as God sees God’s world – lovingly made, cherished beyond measure and never to be forgotten or left behind.
The Second Sunday of Advent Isaiah 11: 1 – 10
Sunday, December 8, 2013 Romans 15: 4 – 13
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 3: 1 - 12
In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.’
Matthew 3: 1 - 2
Every second Sunday of Advent, we hear John the Baptist proclaiming: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” In the midst of the hustle and bustle of what many refer to as “the holiday season,” John the Baptist, dressed in camel’s hair and eating locusts, comes crashing in, sounding like he wants the party to stop, getting our attention with his words and his appearance, which is not anything we would expect at a holiday gathering. “Repent,” John admonishes those who come to the Jordan River to be baptized, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”
Repent? Did John miss the memo this was the season to be jolly? “You brood of vipers,” John rants, “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?” I daresay that greeting would never appear on a Hallmark Christmas card! John the Baptist never seems very jolly and is decidedly not merry. John the Baptist acts and sounds like an Old Testament prophet, full of evangelical fervor, pressing upon the faithful their need to repent. The Lord is coming and you better watch out! Being naughty or nice is not quite what John the Baptist has in mind, but John the Baptist is convicted that we need to prepare for the coming of the Lord. And that preparation will mean changing the way we are going.
John the Baptist quotes the prophet Isaiah: “‘The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’” When Isaiah wrote those words, the Israelites were living as captives in Babylon, having been exiled there following the conquest of Jerusalem by the Babylonian Empire in 587 B.C. Fifty years later, King Cyrus of Persia conquers Babylon and allows the Israelites to return home. Isaiah is writing a message of encouragement as his people prepare to leave Babylon to follow their God out of exile and back to Jerusalem.
But Jerusalem lay five hundred miles to the west of Babylon and, after fifty years, not all of the Israelites wanted to leave. The journey would be arduous and the city of Jerusalem lay in ruins. Turning away from Babylon and toward Jerusalem was not for the faint of heart. For Isaiah, though, God was leading the Israelites back home, much the way God had led the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt centuries before.
God was bringing the exile of the Israelites to an end. The Israelites could now go home to Jerusalem. But they had to leave Babylon and turn toward Jerusalem. And now when John the Baptist calls the people of Judea and Jerusalem “to repent,” John is using a word that literally means to “turn around,” “to change direction,” “to go a different way.” Preparing for the one who is to come will require a change in direction, much like the change in direction required to leave Babylon and journey towards Jerusalem following the exile.
And changing directions means leaving some things behind. Historian John Bright notes, that “although we should not belittle the hardships and humiliation that these exiles endured, their lot does not seem to have been unduly severe.” Bright speculates that “life in Babylon must have opened up for many of them opportunities that would never have been available in Palestine.” “In the course of time,” the historical record shows, he argues, that “many Jews entered trade, and some grew rich.” Changing directions, leaving Babylon for Jerusalem, was not without a cost.
Repentance often sounds harsh to our ears, reminding us only of our sinfulness and our need to change our ways. What we often forget is that the purpose of repentance is discovering our true home within the kingdom of God. John the Baptist this morning is not berating the Jews for a few bad habits but rather calling them to leave behind whatever is keeping them in exile. The kingdom of heaven is coming near and it is time to leave Babylon. Apparently, some of the Pharisees and the Sadducees did not want to leave. The Pharisees and the Sadducees were the religious leaders and John was challenging their authority, a challenge that would ultimately get John killed.
You and I are not living as exiles in Babylon but that does not mean we are “at home” spiritually. To be “at home” means to be at peace with ourselves, with one another and with the God who is coming to lead us home. On this Second Sunday of Advent, John the Baptist is literally inviting us “home for the holidays.” But we must be willing to leave Babylon.
Most of I daresay are not political captives but we all are subject to any number of spiritual captivities. Our spirits can be held captive by fear, the desire for power and control, our creature comforts, the avoidance of pain, the expectations of others, our past hurts and even our desire to keep punishing ourselves for past hurts we have inflicted upon others. So long as we are in spiritual captivity, we are unable to begin the journey home. John the Baptist is calling the Israelites back into the water, water much like that of the Red Sea through which God led the Israelites out of slavery into freedom.
Nelson Mandela, who died on Thursday, left behind a life of security as he sought justice and peace for all people in South Africa. Mandela also gave up his freedom, spending twenty-seven years behind bars for his actions. Nelson Mandela knew apartheid was more than just an unjust political practice; Mandela knew that until all people are free, none of us are free. Apartheid was not just keeping the blacks in bondage; apartheid was keeping the whites in bondage as well, captive to their fear.
Which brings us back round to our Advent journey. Too often in the Church we presume that what we do or fail to do is simply between us and God. Calls “to repent” are heard as personal calls to leave behind our bad habits and self-destructive behaviors. Rarely do we appreciate that when we are held captive by our fears and anxieties, those around us are also held captive.
Last Sunday I said that the deep rhythm of Advent is Mary’s impending birth. Pregnancies are visible events and when a pregnancy terminates before a woman begins to show, sometimes no one knows she was pregnant and very often no one grieves her loss. The visibility of pregnancy makes pregnancy a communal event; repentance is much the same. Your Advent journey is not all about you. When we recognize our fears and spiritual captivities, the whole world changes.
After Mother Teresa died in 1997, her spiritual companions published a book of her letters called Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light. In those letters, we learn that Mother Teresa suffered an agonizing sense of God’s absence even as she ministered to the poorest of the poor in Calcutta, India. "If I ever become a Saint—I will surely be one of 'darkness,'" she wrote, according to one website, "I will continually be absent from Heaven—to (light) the light of those in darkness on earth." Mother Teresa was brave to write those words and her spiritual companions were brave to publish them. Her confessions, like those of Saint Augustine, give voice to the reality that life in this world is life lived in exile, a restless life yearning for peace and the presence of God. Most of us would prefer not to speak of our spiritual exile and long to leap into Christmas hoping all will be well without acknowledging all that is wrong.
John the Baptist is wishing us a Merry Christmas this day but with an honesty that has no patience with glib greetings, reindeer on rooftops and winter wonderlands. John the Baptist wants us to take stock of our lives, recognize all that keeps us in bondage and then and only then, anticipate what we would like to find under the tree on Christmas morning. If you have everything you need, if your world is perfect and you are at peace, you do not need Christmas. If, on the other hand, you are not at peace, long to find a way back home, and yearn for the kingdom of heaven to come, Christmas is coming.
As we continue to wait with Mary this Advent, we are waiting with a story that tells us that Mary was pregnant but not married. Mary, graced by God to bear the Son of God into the world, was clearly in exile from a community that frowned upon such circumstances. Later, King Herod wants to kill this new born king and Jesus’ family flees in exile to Egypt. Our story, according to our evangelist Matthew, begins in exile until John the Baptist appears upon the scene announcing the time has come to go home. Pack your bags and pack them lightly, going easy on the fear, the guilt, the desire for comfort and control, and all the past hurts and pains. Traveling is much easier if you are not dragging along a lot of baggage.
Sunday, December 8, 2013 Romans 15: 4 – 13
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 3: 1 - 12
In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.’
Matthew 3: 1 - 2
Every second Sunday of Advent, we hear John the Baptist proclaiming: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” In the midst of the hustle and bustle of what many refer to as “the holiday season,” John the Baptist, dressed in camel’s hair and eating locusts, comes crashing in, sounding like he wants the party to stop, getting our attention with his words and his appearance, which is not anything we would expect at a holiday gathering. “Repent,” John admonishes those who come to the Jordan River to be baptized, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”
Repent? Did John miss the memo this was the season to be jolly? “You brood of vipers,” John rants, “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?” I daresay that greeting would never appear on a Hallmark Christmas card! John the Baptist never seems very jolly and is decidedly not merry. John the Baptist acts and sounds like an Old Testament prophet, full of evangelical fervor, pressing upon the faithful their need to repent. The Lord is coming and you better watch out! Being naughty or nice is not quite what John the Baptist has in mind, but John the Baptist is convicted that we need to prepare for the coming of the Lord. And that preparation will mean changing the way we are going.
John the Baptist quotes the prophet Isaiah: “‘The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’” When Isaiah wrote those words, the Israelites were living as captives in Babylon, having been exiled there following the conquest of Jerusalem by the Babylonian Empire in 587 B.C. Fifty years later, King Cyrus of Persia conquers Babylon and allows the Israelites to return home. Isaiah is writing a message of encouragement as his people prepare to leave Babylon to follow their God out of exile and back to Jerusalem.
But Jerusalem lay five hundred miles to the west of Babylon and, after fifty years, not all of the Israelites wanted to leave. The journey would be arduous and the city of Jerusalem lay in ruins. Turning away from Babylon and toward Jerusalem was not for the faint of heart. For Isaiah, though, God was leading the Israelites back home, much the way God had led the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt centuries before.
God was bringing the exile of the Israelites to an end. The Israelites could now go home to Jerusalem. But they had to leave Babylon and turn toward Jerusalem. And now when John the Baptist calls the people of Judea and Jerusalem “to repent,” John is using a word that literally means to “turn around,” “to change direction,” “to go a different way.” Preparing for the one who is to come will require a change in direction, much like the change in direction required to leave Babylon and journey towards Jerusalem following the exile.
And changing directions means leaving some things behind. Historian John Bright notes, that “although we should not belittle the hardships and humiliation that these exiles endured, their lot does not seem to have been unduly severe.” Bright speculates that “life in Babylon must have opened up for many of them opportunities that would never have been available in Palestine.” “In the course of time,” the historical record shows, he argues, that “many Jews entered trade, and some grew rich.” Changing directions, leaving Babylon for Jerusalem, was not without a cost.
Repentance often sounds harsh to our ears, reminding us only of our sinfulness and our need to change our ways. What we often forget is that the purpose of repentance is discovering our true home within the kingdom of God. John the Baptist this morning is not berating the Jews for a few bad habits but rather calling them to leave behind whatever is keeping them in exile. The kingdom of heaven is coming near and it is time to leave Babylon. Apparently, some of the Pharisees and the Sadducees did not want to leave. The Pharisees and the Sadducees were the religious leaders and John was challenging their authority, a challenge that would ultimately get John killed.
You and I are not living as exiles in Babylon but that does not mean we are “at home” spiritually. To be “at home” means to be at peace with ourselves, with one another and with the God who is coming to lead us home. On this Second Sunday of Advent, John the Baptist is literally inviting us “home for the holidays.” But we must be willing to leave Babylon.
Most of I daresay are not political captives but we all are subject to any number of spiritual captivities. Our spirits can be held captive by fear, the desire for power and control, our creature comforts, the avoidance of pain, the expectations of others, our past hurts and even our desire to keep punishing ourselves for past hurts we have inflicted upon others. So long as we are in spiritual captivity, we are unable to begin the journey home. John the Baptist is calling the Israelites back into the water, water much like that of the Red Sea through which God led the Israelites out of slavery into freedom.
Nelson Mandela, who died on Thursday, left behind a life of security as he sought justice and peace for all people in South Africa. Mandela also gave up his freedom, spending twenty-seven years behind bars for his actions. Nelson Mandela knew apartheid was more than just an unjust political practice; Mandela knew that until all people are free, none of us are free. Apartheid was not just keeping the blacks in bondage; apartheid was keeping the whites in bondage as well, captive to their fear.
Which brings us back round to our Advent journey. Too often in the Church we presume that what we do or fail to do is simply between us and God. Calls “to repent” are heard as personal calls to leave behind our bad habits and self-destructive behaviors. Rarely do we appreciate that when we are held captive by our fears and anxieties, those around us are also held captive.
Last Sunday I said that the deep rhythm of Advent is Mary’s impending birth. Pregnancies are visible events and when a pregnancy terminates before a woman begins to show, sometimes no one knows she was pregnant and very often no one grieves her loss. The visibility of pregnancy makes pregnancy a communal event; repentance is much the same. Your Advent journey is not all about you. When we recognize our fears and spiritual captivities, the whole world changes.
After Mother Teresa died in 1997, her spiritual companions published a book of her letters called Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light. In those letters, we learn that Mother Teresa suffered an agonizing sense of God’s absence even as she ministered to the poorest of the poor in Calcutta, India. "If I ever become a Saint—I will surely be one of 'darkness,'" she wrote, according to one website, "I will continually be absent from Heaven—to (light) the light of those in darkness on earth." Mother Teresa was brave to write those words and her spiritual companions were brave to publish them. Her confessions, like those of Saint Augustine, give voice to the reality that life in this world is life lived in exile, a restless life yearning for peace and the presence of God. Most of us would prefer not to speak of our spiritual exile and long to leap into Christmas hoping all will be well without acknowledging all that is wrong.
John the Baptist is wishing us a Merry Christmas this day but with an honesty that has no patience with glib greetings, reindeer on rooftops and winter wonderlands. John the Baptist wants us to take stock of our lives, recognize all that keeps us in bondage and then and only then, anticipate what we would like to find under the tree on Christmas morning. If you have everything you need, if your world is perfect and you are at peace, you do not need Christmas. If, on the other hand, you are not at peace, long to find a way back home, and yearn for the kingdom of heaven to come, Christmas is coming.
As we continue to wait with Mary this Advent, we are waiting with a story that tells us that Mary was pregnant but not married. Mary, graced by God to bear the Son of God into the world, was clearly in exile from a community that frowned upon such circumstances. Later, King Herod wants to kill this new born king and Jesus’ family flees in exile to Egypt. Our story, according to our evangelist Matthew, begins in exile until John the Baptist appears upon the scene announcing the time has come to go home. Pack your bags and pack them lightly, going easy on the fear, the guilt, the desire for comfort and control, and all the past hurts and pains. Traveling is much easier if you are not dragging along a lot of baggage.
The Third Sunday of Advent Isaiah 35: 1 – 10
Sunday, December 15, 2013 James 5: 7 – 10
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 11: 2 – 11
When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’
Matthew 11: 2 - 3
John the Baptist is in prison this morning and wondering if Jesus is the Messiah. John has been hearing about what Jesus is doing – healing the sick, giving sight to the blind, making the lame to walk and raising the dead. And John, who is in prison, wants to know if Jesus is the Messiah or if John needs to wait for another.
Is John wondering, perhaps, why Jesus is doing all these amazing things while John languishes behind bars? If Jesus can raise the dead, could not Jesus get John out of prison? Last Sunday, we met John at the River Jordan calling Israel to repent and prepare for the one who was to come with a baptism of fire and the Holy Spirit. This Sunday, John is in prison, soon to be beheaded by King Herod and wondering if Jesus is really the Messiah.
And Jesus tells the crowds that John is the greatest of those born of women and the least of those in the kingdom of heaven. John’s witness to Jesus has earned John a great accolade and John’s endurance will assure him a place in God’s kingdom, but not at the head of the table. John will not be spared from the same fate Jesus suffered. Jesus is not going to “save” John from the condemnation of King Herod.
And that is a problem.
This time of year is often described as “magical” and for many folk, the lights, the Christmas tree, the gifts, and spending time with family and friends, is “magical.” The rest of the year, folk are busy with work and school, time is not taken to nurture our relationships, and delighting in the beauty of this world is deferred while we do seemingly more important things, like paying the bills. But on Christmas, many folk “magically” transform their lives, taking time off from work, entertaining family and friends, and enjoying the twinkle of lights on a tree. This time of year, many folk experience a world as the world “ought” to be – beautiful, festive, aglow with light and surrounded by those we love and who love us. The “magic” of Christmas is that Christmas gives us an excuse to decorate, to string lights and to visit with friends and family. We could do all of that at any time but for reasons known only to God, we wait until Christmas.
The first Christmas was not celebrated until 336 A.D. For the first three centuries of the Church, Christmas just was not on the radar. We have no idea when Christ was born. But then a Roman bishop in the fourth century pronounced December 25, to be the day our Lord was born and the rest is history. No magic, just the pronouncement of a bishop. But now, December 25, with all of its trimmings looms large and magical and just happens to be a retailer’s dream come true. Nothing about Christmas is “magical;” everything about Christmas is mysterious. Like, why did Jesus not get John out of prison?
Or, take himself down from the cross. “He saved others;” they mocked at the foot of the cross, “he cannot save himself.” “He is the king of Israel; let him come down from the cross now, and we will believe in him.” But Jesus did not come down; Jesus did not save himself. The savior of the world did not save himself.
This time of year is often billed as a season “when dreams come true.” And typically, we hear stories of folk being graced in unimaginable ways – single mothers receiving unexpected help to make a Christmas for their children, service men and women suddenly appearing on doorsteps to celebrate Christmas with their families, news that a long awaited organ transplant was performed on Christmas Day. The media look for ways to highlight the magic of this season and we, who listen to their hype, can come away believing this season is truly magical.
This season is not magical but this season is mysterious. We are anticipating the birth of the Messiah, the savior and redeemer of the world in the midst of a world that continues to be awash in grief, in violence, heartache and often despair. Our celebration of Christmas will not magically transform this world on December 26, into a new and life-giving place. Our celebration of Christmas will give us, though, a vision of a world made new – a place where “the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them,” as we hear in our gospel reading this morning. Christmas offers us an opportunity to live in a world ablaze with light, surrounded by love and overwhelmed with beauty.
Such a world for many is just too good to be true. What is true for many is that this world in which we live will never be much more than a rather dreary and drab place where only the strong survive. King Herod will kill John the Baptist just as King Herod slaughtered innocent children in Bethlehem hoping to be rid of King Jesus. The world has not changed much since Jesus was born. Many with good reason scoff at the claim the Messiah has come.
Yet, often the scoffers hang out lights and decorate a Christmas tree. Even those who would never dare to darken the doors of a church give and receive gifts. Christmas somehow transcends the boundaries between believers and unbelievers. Christmas seems to incarnate the way we want the world to be, even if some of us doubt the world could ever be made new.
My Dad loved Christmas and as a result I was rarely disappointed. Dad was not much of a church goer but on Christmas, he loved to play Santa Claus. Seems like Christmas brought out all the best that was within him and Christmas, as I was growing up, was always fun. With a fire roaring in the fireplace, a turkey roasting in the oven and my grandmother extolling the virtue of a fresh turkey which she always thought my mother was cooking but which was always previously frozen, Christmas was “magical.”
But life is not a perpetual Christmas Day. I remember my eldest son Andrew at age three or so, coming down the stairs the day after Christmas, seeing his empty stocking hanging by the hearth and bursting into tears. Andrew presumed every day would be like Christmas. I never thought to tell him that his Christmas stocking only got filled once a year!
But Andrew’s sentiment was right on the money. What we want is a perpetual Christmas. What we want is a world filled with all good things. And what we know is that this world is not always filled with good things and glad tidings.
Yet, every Sunday we proclaim: Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might, heaven and earth are full of your glory. Such glory is the same glory John the Baptist expected when he called the people of Judea out to the River Jordan to prepare for the coming of the Lord. That glory is the same glory John anticipates even now from his prison cell. And that glory, Jesus tells him, has been revealed as good news to the poor, the sick, the lame, the blind, the deaf and the dead.
“Go and tell John what you hear and see,” Jesus tells his disciples in our gospel reading this morning. “Go and tell,” Jesus will say to the women who discover the empty tomb on Easter morning. Go and tell of the glory of God that you see at work in the world. Go and tell of the wonder and glory of God revealed to you this Christmastide. God’s glory may be in the Christmas lights or around the Christmas dinner table or perhaps in the laughter of a child or even in your tears as you wish for things that will never show up under the Christmas tree.
Go and tell of the glory of God. The glory of God is not magical; the glory of God is mysterious, taking us by surprise, confounding our expectations, bringing life out of death and making the whole world new. Perhaps the greatest mystery of all is that we all can “taste and see” that glory, even if we do not always know what to name it. We all have a sense when the Holy Spirit has blown past, when we are standing on holy ground, when the mystery of God’s glory blinds us to our concerns and pre-occupations and catapults us into another place and time. Those moments are fleeting for sure but nonetheless real.
In the kingdom of God, we will freely give to and receive one from another. There is no magic in the exchange of gifts; we were created to give and receive one from another. In the kingdom of God, the light of God will be everywhere. There is no magic in Christmas lights; we were created to live in the light. In the kingdom of God, all will be beautiful. There is no magic in Christmas decorations; we were created to live in a beautiful world. In the kingdom of God, all shall be well, and may your Christmas be a foretaste of that kingdom.
Sunday, December 15, 2013 James 5: 7 – 10
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 11: 2 – 11
When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’
Matthew 11: 2 - 3
John the Baptist is in prison this morning and wondering if Jesus is the Messiah. John has been hearing about what Jesus is doing – healing the sick, giving sight to the blind, making the lame to walk and raising the dead. And John, who is in prison, wants to know if Jesus is the Messiah or if John needs to wait for another.
Is John wondering, perhaps, why Jesus is doing all these amazing things while John languishes behind bars? If Jesus can raise the dead, could not Jesus get John out of prison? Last Sunday, we met John at the River Jordan calling Israel to repent and prepare for the one who was to come with a baptism of fire and the Holy Spirit. This Sunday, John is in prison, soon to be beheaded by King Herod and wondering if Jesus is really the Messiah.
And Jesus tells the crowds that John is the greatest of those born of women and the least of those in the kingdom of heaven. John’s witness to Jesus has earned John a great accolade and John’s endurance will assure him a place in God’s kingdom, but not at the head of the table. John will not be spared from the same fate Jesus suffered. Jesus is not going to “save” John from the condemnation of King Herod.
And that is a problem.
This time of year is often described as “magical” and for many folk, the lights, the Christmas tree, the gifts, and spending time with family and friends, is “magical.” The rest of the year, folk are busy with work and school, time is not taken to nurture our relationships, and delighting in the beauty of this world is deferred while we do seemingly more important things, like paying the bills. But on Christmas, many folk “magically” transform their lives, taking time off from work, entertaining family and friends, and enjoying the twinkle of lights on a tree. This time of year, many folk experience a world as the world “ought” to be – beautiful, festive, aglow with light and surrounded by those we love and who love us. The “magic” of Christmas is that Christmas gives us an excuse to decorate, to string lights and to visit with friends and family. We could do all of that at any time but for reasons known only to God, we wait until Christmas.
The first Christmas was not celebrated until 336 A.D. For the first three centuries of the Church, Christmas just was not on the radar. We have no idea when Christ was born. But then a Roman bishop in the fourth century pronounced December 25, to be the day our Lord was born and the rest is history. No magic, just the pronouncement of a bishop. But now, December 25, with all of its trimmings looms large and magical and just happens to be a retailer’s dream come true. Nothing about Christmas is “magical;” everything about Christmas is mysterious. Like, why did Jesus not get John out of prison?
Or, take himself down from the cross. “He saved others;” they mocked at the foot of the cross, “he cannot save himself.” “He is the king of Israel; let him come down from the cross now, and we will believe in him.” But Jesus did not come down; Jesus did not save himself. The savior of the world did not save himself.
This time of year is often billed as a season “when dreams come true.” And typically, we hear stories of folk being graced in unimaginable ways – single mothers receiving unexpected help to make a Christmas for their children, service men and women suddenly appearing on doorsteps to celebrate Christmas with their families, news that a long awaited organ transplant was performed on Christmas Day. The media look for ways to highlight the magic of this season and we, who listen to their hype, can come away believing this season is truly magical.
This season is not magical but this season is mysterious. We are anticipating the birth of the Messiah, the savior and redeemer of the world in the midst of a world that continues to be awash in grief, in violence, heartache and often despair. Our celebration of Christmas will not magically transform this world on December 26, into a new and life-giving place. Our celebration of Christmas will give us, though, a vision of a world made new – a place where “the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them,” as we hear in our gospel reading this morning. Christmas offers us an opportunity to live in a world ablaze with light, surrounded by love and overwhelmed with beauty.
Such a world for many is just too good to be true. What is true for many is that this world in which we live will never be much more than a rather dreary and drab place where only the strong survive. King Herod will kill John the Baptist just as King Herod slaughtered innocent children in Bethlehem hoping to be rid of King Jesus. The world has not changed much since Jesus was born. Many with good reason scoff at the claim the Messiah has come.
Yet, often the scoffers hang out lights and decorate a Christmas tree. Even those who would never dare to darken the doors of a church give and receive gifts. Christmas somehow transcends the boundaries between believers and unbelievers. Christmas seems to incarnate the way we want the world to be, even if some of us doubt the world could ever be made new.
My Dad loved Christmas and as a result I was rarely disappointed. Dad was not much of a church goer but on Christmas, he loved to play Santa Claus. Seems like Christmas brought out all the best that was within him and Christmas, as I was growing up, was always fun. With a fire roaring in the fireplace, a turkey roasting in the oven and my grandmother extolling the virtue of a fresh turkey which she always thought my mother was cooking but which was always previously frozen, Christmas was “magical.”
But life is not a perpetual Christmas Day. I remember my eldest son Andrew at age three or so, coming down the stairs the day after Christmas, seeing his empty stocking hanging by the hearth and bursting into tears. Andrew presumed every day would be like Christmas. I never thought to tell him that his Christmas stocking only got filled once a year!
But Andrew’s sentiment was right on the money. What we want is a perpetual Christmas. What we want is a world filled with all good things. And what we know is that this world is not always filled with good things and glad tidings.
Yet, every Sunday we proclaim: Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might, heaven and earth are full of your glory. Such glory is the same glory John the Baptist expected when he called the people of Judea out to the River Jordan to prepare for the coming of the Lord. That glory is the same glory John anticipates even now from his prison cell. And that glory, Jesus tells him, has been revealed as good news to the poor, the sick, the lame, the blind, the deaf and the dead.
“Go and tell John what you hear and see,” Jesus tells his disciples in our gospel reading this morning. “Go and tell,” Jesus will say to the women who discover the empty tomb on Easter morning. Go and tell of the glory of God that you see at work in the world. Go and tell of the wonder and glory of God revealed to you this Christmastide. God’s glory may be in the Christmas lights or around the Christmas dinner table or perhaps in the laughter of a child or even in your tears as you wish for things that will never show up under the Christmas tree.
Go and tell of the glory of God. The glory of God is not magical; the glory of God is mysterious, taking us by surprise, confounding our expectations, bringing life out of death and making the whole world new. Perhaps the greatest mystery of all is that we all can “taste and see” that glory, even if we do not always know what to name it. We all have a sense when the Holy Spirit has blown past, when we are standing on holy ground, when the mystery of God’s glory blinds us to our concerns and pre-occupations and catapults us into another place and time. Those moments are fleeting for sure but nonetheless real.
In the kingdom of God, we will freely give to and receive one from another. There is no magic in the exchange of gifts; we were created to give and receive one from another. In the kingdom of God, the light of God will be everywhere. There is no magic in Christmas lights; we were created to live in the light. In the kingdom of God, all will be beautiful. There is no magic in Christmas decorations; we were created to live in a beautiful world. In the kingdom of God, all shall be well, and may your Christmas be a foretaste of that kingdom.
The Fourth Sunday of Advent Isaiah 7: 10 – 16
Sunday, December 22, 2013 Romans 1: 1 – 7
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 1: 18 – 25
Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way.
Matthew 1: 18 a
Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. What follows this verse is the beginning of the familiar story of Jesus’ birth according to Matthew. Two days from now, on Christmas Eve, we will hear a similar story from the gospel of Luke. The story of Jesus’ birth, which our young people dramatized last Sunday during our Christmas pageant, is somewhat different in the gospels of Matthew and Luke but is, in both gospels, the story of a young woman named Mary who was engaged to a man named Joseph and who conceived and bore a son named Jesus without Joseph’s help.
In both the gospel of Luke and the gospel of Matthew, an angel comes before Jesus’ birth to announce what is about to take place. In the gospel of Luke, the angel is named Gabriel and comes to Mary, announcing to Mary that she has been favored by God and will conceive and bear a son named Jesus. In the gospel of Matthew, an unnamed “angel of the Lord” comes to Joseph in a dream to announce that the child in Mary’s womb has been conceived by the Holy Spirit and will be named Jesus. In the gospel of Luke, the angelic announcement is made to Mary; in the gospel of Matthew the angelic announcement is made to Joseph.
What we learn this morning from the gospel of Matthew is that Mary is pregnant but not yet married. Such circumstances exposed Mary not just to “public disgrace” as our text reads, but to death by stoning. And Joseph, “being a righteous man,” was unwilling to let that happen and so decided “to dismiss her quietly.” None of the story up to this point takes us by surprise, as a woman who is found to be pregnant but not by the man she intends to marry is the stuff of drama to this day.
Joseph decides to “dismiss her quietly.” In a day when the man held all the power, Joseph could bring Mary to trial to determine the reasons for her pregnancy or simply “dismiss her” - in effect divorcing her “for no fault.” Joseph chose the most compassionate option given the circumstances. Mary was at the mercy of Joseph and Joseph was, in effect, setting her free, free with a child that was not his. Had Mary been found to have willingly been with another man, Mary would have been stoned to death.
Joseph has done the right thing. And then the angel comes. And Joseph changes his mind.
Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. A perfectly natural story of an unexpected pregnancy perceived by human minds is upended and turned inside out. A righteous man trying to act compassionately within his code of conduct has a sudden change of heart. Joseph is a good man and has made a good decision and then suddenly, in a dream, turns a different way and takes Mary for his wife. Joseph is not a bad man who made a bad decision and then suddenly changes his mind. Joseph is a just man who God grabbed and said: “Go a different way.”
And to whom God said: “Do not be afraid.” Going a different way and taking Mary for his wife meant Joseph probably had a good bit to fear – afraid of being disgraced himself, perhaps, or perhaps afraid that Mary really wanted to be with someone else or might not be faithful in the future. Mary, for sure had her own fears, and in the gospel of Luke the angel Gabriel also tells Mary not to be afraid. Both Mary and Joseph are approached by God in the Christmas story and both are afraid.
Neither Mary nor Joseph were prepared for what God was asking of them. Both Mary and Joseph were afraid. And as we come to the end of this season of Advent, a season of preparation for the birth of Christ, we too, are reminded that we are never fully prepared to receive God into our midst. Receiving God into our midst is not quite the same as watching a Christmas pageant replete with sweet angels, charming shepherds, and an adorable baby Jesus. Receiving God into our midst can leave us in fear and trembling.
Today, we hear that Mary has conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is God at work in the world, and for Alan Jones, former Dean of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, “falling in love is the work of the Spirit.” Mary was overwhelmed by the Holy Spirit, and moved to love this child in spite of her fears. And so too was Joseph, loving a child that was not his own. Falling in love is risky and both Mary and Joseph were understandably afraid.
Neither Mary nor Joseph had any idea of what the future held for either one of them nor for Jesus. The Christmas story in the gospel of Matthew continues with the visit of the Wise Men and then a late night flight into Egypt, as Joseph seeks to protect the life of this child who King Herod wants to kill. Joseph, who disappears from the gospel of Matthew after the first two chapters, becomes little more than a foot note in the Christmas story, starring in Christmas pageants and remembered as the patron saint of “the universal Church, fathers, carpenters, and social justice,” according to Catholics On-Line. Joseph, like Mary, fell in love with a child that was not his, but unlike Mary never garnered much attention.
Which is regrettable because falling in love with that which is not like us is exactly what God has commanded us to do. “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other gods before me.” Our ancestors in the faith always knew they worshipped a God unlike all other gods and a God who could never be captured in images made by human hands. Their God and our God was always something “other” than anything we could imagine. Our ancestors in the faith were commanded to love and to serve a God who was always free to be God and would never be under the control of the people God loved. The people belonged to God; God did not belong to the people.
The world, God said, is mine and all that is within it. I have made you human beings in such a way that you can care for my world. But the world is mine and not yours. And we human beings quickly forgot. We pretty quickly looked upon this world as ours, and ordered our common lives to preserve our comfort, demonstrate our prowess and orchestrate our affairs in such a way that, now, two thousand and thirteen years after the birth of Christ, Christmas is little more than a retailer’s dream and an excuse for a vacation. Joseph was asked to fall in a love with a child that was not his and God pretty much asked all of us human beings to do the same a long time before Joseph came along.
Joseph did what we are all called to do – to love others as we love ourselves. We are pretty good at loving those who are like us and not always very good at loving those who are not like us. Joseph loved a child who was most definitely not going to be like him.
Saints tend to morph and Joseph is no exception. From the protector of the Holy Family, statues of Joseph are now on sale to be buried in the yards of homes for sale. A.G. and I perhaps missed an opportunity to invoke Joseph’s blessings but chose not to bury Saint Joseph in our old front yard. We did so not wishing to disc Joseph but rather believing Joseph is an example of love and not a miracle cure to the bane of selling a house.
No one knows what happened to Saint Joseph. Because Joseph is not mentioned when Jesus dies on the cross some believe Joseph died before, leaving Mary to stand at the foot of the cross. And from that, in the belief that Joseph died surrounded by Mary and Jesus, Joseph is invoked as the patron saint of a good death. We simply do know a lot about Joseph except to say Joseph fell in love with a child who was not his and took a woman as his wife who had conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit. That is enough to say that Joseph was asked to love what was outside of his box. We are asked to do the same – to love what is outside of our boxes be it persons or ideas or whatever seems alien to us. That is not to say that we need to go along with every crazy idea that crosses our path; that is to say that God works in ways we will never fully understand and every now and again, we will be tasked to open ourselves to something wholly new.
Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. God came among us in a very human way and did not simply drop down out of heaven. And God chose to come among us in a way such that folk like Joseph might, with good reason, turn aside. Joseph did not turn aside because Joseph fell in love. May we each fall in love anew this Christmastide.
Sunday, December 22, 2013 Romans 1: 1 – 7
The Rev. Bambi Willis Matthew 1: 18 – 25
Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way.
Matthew 1: 18 a
Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. What follows this verse is the beginning of the familiar story of Jesus’ birth according to Matthew. Two days from now, on Christmas Eve, we will hear a similar story from the gospel of Luke. The story of Jesus’ birth, which our young people dramatized last Sunday during our Christmas pageant, is somewhat different in the gospels of Matthew and Luke but is, in both gospels, the story of a young woman named Mary who was engaged to a man named Joseph and who conceived and bore a son named Jesus without Joseph’s help.
In both the gospel of Luke and the gospel of Matthew, an angel comes before Jesus’ birth to announce what is about to take place. In the gospel of Luke, the angel is named Gabriel and comes to Mary, announcing to Mary that she has been favored by God and will conceive and bear a son named Jesus. In the gospel of Matthew, an unnamed “angel of the Lord” comes to Joseph in a dream to announce that the child in Mary’s womb has been conceived by the Holy Spirit and will be named Jesus. In the gospel of Luke, the angelic announcement is made to Mary; in the gospel of Matthew the angelic announcement is made to Joseph.
What we learn this morning from the gospel of Matthew is that Mary is pregnant but not yet married. Such circumstances exposed Mary not just to “public disgrace” as our text reads, but to death by stoning. And Joseph, “being a righteous man,” was unwilling to let that happen and so decided “to dismiss her quietly.” None of the story up to this point takes us by surprise, as a woman who is found to be pregnant but not by the man she intends to marry is the stuff of drama to this day.
Joseph decides to “dismiss her quietly.” In a day when the man held all the power, Joseph could bring Mary to trial to determine the reasons for her pregnancy or simply “dismiss her” - in effect divorcing her “for no fault.” Joseph chose the most compassionate option given the circumstances. Mary was at the mercy of Joseph and Joseph was, in effect, setting her free, free with a child that was not his. Had Mary been found to have willingly been with another man, Mary would have been stoned to death.
Joseph has done the right thing. And then the angel comes. And Joseph changes his mind.
Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. A perfectly natural story of an unexpected pregnancy perceived by human minds is upended and turned inside out. A righteous man trying to act compassionately within his code of conduct has a sudden change of heart. Joseph is a good man and has made a good decision and then suddenly, in a dream, turns a different way and takes Mary for his wife. Joseph is not a bad man who made a bad decision and then suddenly changes his mind. Joseph is a just man who God grabbed and said: “Go a different way.”
And to whom God said: “Do not be afraid.” Going a different way and taking Mary for his wife meant Joseph probably had a good bit to fear – afraid of being disgraced himself, perhaps, or perhaps afraid that Mary really wanted to be with someone else or might not be faithful in the future. Mary, for sure had her own fears, and in the gospel of Luke the angel Gabriel also tells Mary not to be afraid. Both Mary and Joseph are approached by God in the Christmas story and both are afraid.
Neither Mary nor Joseph were prepared for what God was asking of them. Both Mary and Joseph were afraid. And as we come to the end of this season of Advent, a season of preparation for the birth of Christ, we too, are reminded that we are never fully prepared to receive God into our midst. Receiving God into our midst is not quite the same as watching a Christmas pageant replete with sweet angels, charming shepherds, and an adorable baby Jesus. Receiving God into our midst can leave us in fear and trembling.
Today, we hear that Mary has conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is God at work in the world, and for Alan Jones, former Dean of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, “falling in love is the work of the Spirit.” Mary was overwhelmed by the Holy Spirit, and moved to love this child in spite of her fears. And so too was Joseph, loving a child that was not his own. Falling in love is risky and both Mary and Joseph were understandably afraid.
Neither Mary nor Joseph had any idea of what the future held for either one of them nor for Jesus. The Christmas story in the gospel of Matthew continues with the visit of the Wise Men and then a late night flight into Egypt, as Joseph seeks to protect the life of this child who King Herod wants to kill. Joseph, who disappears from the gospel of Matthew after the first two chapters, becomes little more than a foot note in the Christmas story, starring in Christmas pageants and remembered as the patron saint of “the universal Church, fathers, carpenters, and social justice,” according to Catholics On-Line. Joseph, like Mary, fell in love with a child that was not his, but unlike Mary never garnered much attention.
Which is regrettable because falling in love with that which is not like us is exactly what God has commanded us to do. “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other gods before me.” Our ancestors in the faith always knew they worshipped a God unlike all other gods and a God who could never be captured in images made by human hands. Their God and our God was always something “other” than anything we could imagine. Our ancestors in the faith were commanded to love and to serve a God who was always free to be God and would never be under the control of the people God loved. The people belonged to God; God did not belong to the people.
The world, God said, is mine and all that is within it. I have made you human beings in such a way that you can care for my world. But the world is mine and not yours. And we human beings quickly forgot. We pretty quickly looked upon this world as ours, and ordered our common lives to preserve our comfort, demonstrate our prowess and orchestrate our affairs in such a way that, now, two thousand and thirteen years after the birth of Christ, Christmas is little more than a retailer’s dream and an excuse for a vacation. Joseph was asked to fall in a love with a child that was not his and God pretty much asked all of us human beings to do the same a long time before Joseph came along.
Joseph did what we are all called to do – to love others as we love ourselves. We are pretty good at loving those who are like us and not always very good at loving those who are not like us. Joseph loved a child who was most definitely not going to be like him.
Saints tend to morph and Joseph is no exception. From the protector of the Holy Family, statues of Joseph are now on sale to be buried in the yards of homes for sale. A.G. and I perhaps missed an opportunity to invoke Joseph’s blessings but chose not to bury Saint Joseph in our old front yard. We did so not wishing to disc Joseph but rather believing Joseph is an example of love and not a miracle cure to the bane of selling a house.
No one knows what happened to Saint Joseph. Because Joseph is not mentioned when Jesus dies on the cross some believe Joseph died before, leaving Mary to stand at the foot of the cross. And from that, in the belief that Joseph died surrounded by Mary and Jesus, Joseph is invoked as the patron saint of a good death. We simply do know a lot about Joseph except to say Joseph fell in love with a child who was not his and took a woman as his wife who had conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit. That is enough to say that Joseph was asked to love what was outside of his box. We are asked to do the same – to love what is outside of our boxes be it persons or ideas or whatever seems alien to us. That is not to say that we need to go along with every crazy idea that crosses our path; that is to say that God works in ways we will never fully understand and every now and again, we will be tasked to open ourselves to something wholly new.
Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. God came among us in a very human way and did not simply drop down out of heaven. And God chose to come among us in a way such that folk like Joseph might, with good reason, turn aside. Joseph did not turn aside because Joseph fell in love. May we each fall in love anew this Christmastide.
The Nativity of Our Lord: Christmas Day I Isaiah 9: 2 – 7
Tuesday, December 24, 2013 Titus 2: 11- 14
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 2: 1 – 20
But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”
Luke 2: 10
Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. All over the world this night folk are hearing the Christmas story and the words of an angel who comes to shepherds keeping watch over their flocks by night proclaiming good news of great joy for all the people. This good news is being heard in great cathedrals, country churches, in homes, hospitals, prisons and refugee camps. All over the world this night, people are hearing and remembering that this is the night the savior of the world was born.
This good news of great joy is given first to shepherds in the gospel of Luke. These shepherds were watching over their flocks by night, a time of darkness when wolves could threaten the sheep. Intruders were less visible at night and I suspect, shepherds slept lightly as they guarded their sheep. On this night, though, an angel appears before them, bearing good news of great joy. The shepherds were alert to threats, not angelic pronouncements, and are taken by surprise and understandably afraid.
The rest of the known world, meanwhile, is obeying the edict of the Roman Emperor Caesar Augustus who needs a census of his people in order to levy taxes for the Empire. Mary and Joseph are making their way from Nazareth to Bethlehem, Joseph’s hometown. The journey was most inconvenient as Mary was with child. But emperors generally do not care much about how their edicts will affect the common folk.
And so the Christmas story begins, in the gospel of Luke, with Mary and Joseph honoring their obligations to the Roman Emperor and with shepherds trying to protect their flocks from predators. And then an angel comes bringing good news of great joy and the shepherds leave their fields for Bethlehem, becoming the first to welcome their Lord.
That shepherds receive the good news first and are the first to welcome the baby Jesus, is odd. Shepherds in the first century were often deemed untrustworthy and lived a harsh and poor life in the fields among their sheep. Shepherds lived on the margins of society and few folk would have welcomed a visit by a shepherd, especially during those intimate first moments when a new baby comes into the world. Yet, God chose shepherds to be the first witnesses to the Incarnation and Mary and Joseph welcomed them.
The Christmas story which we hear this night is odd as God comes into the world without majesty and invites the poorest of the poor to be the first to see Jesus. This good news of great joy is given first to shepherds, those who others would readily dismiss. The first to worship this newborn King are neither wealthy nor educated and have none of the power of Caesar Augustus who could order the world to do his bidding. God chose an unlikely lot to be the first to hear the good news. God chose those others would reject to welcome a king who himself would be rejected.
We all have heard the Christmas story many times and find comfort in the words we hear this night and the hymns we sing. But that first Christmas night was disturbing, disturbing to those terrified shepherds and amazing to Mary and Joseph. Mary is left “pondering” the words of those shepherds, we hear. I wonder how many folk this night will be amazed, much less, disturbed by Christmas.
“To you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” When those words were first spoken, Caesar Augustus was “Lord.” To claim allegiance to another Lord was political treason. Mary and Joseph learn this night that the child they have just brought into the world will be a rival to the Roman Emperor and that could not have been good news. Moreover, although all Jews were eagerly awaiting the day when the Messiah would come to rescue God’s people, this Messiah is born in obscurity and heralded only by untrustworthy shepherds. Was this child The Messiah or yet one more false messiah?
The news we hear this night is good news of great joy but news that is almost too good to be true. God has come and God is with us but many in this world find that news impossible to believe. From the beginning, the Christian claim that God came into this world of flesh and blood, living and dying as one of us was contrary to reason; contrary to the reality that suffering continues even though a Savior has been born for us; and an oftentimes uncomfortable claim in the pluralistic world in which we find ourselves. The story we hear this night is disturbing and amazing.
Which is why this night is “holy,” a night set apart in which we gather late at night in deep darkness in a sanctuary lit with candles and decorated with flowers, to sing hymns, to pray, to be nourished with bread and wine, and to ponder anew the mystery of our faith. In the midst of a world that no longer has room for much mystery, we come together to celebrate a story we will never fully understand and which left those who first heard it “amazed.”
Amazement came easily to me when I was a child. Waking up on Christmas morning to find my stocking filled and the cookies gone which I had left for Santa the night before, was thrilling. I was utterly convinced that while I was asleep a sleigh with reindeer was flying all over the world, delighting every single child. And it was a sad day when I learned otherwise.
So I turned my attention as the years went by to my own children, hoping to encourage their sense of wonder and amazement in a world that we do not always understand and which continues to be filled with mystery and miracle. They, like me, for a time, were always amazed and bewildered that Santa had come, enjoying their gift of cookies and milk just as he had done for me.
Along the way, though, I also learned that not everyone in the world ate dinner every night nor had a bicycle to ride. Later, the safety and security I had always enjoyed as a child was rocked by the violence of the Viet Nam War, the riots in Newark, New Jersey, and the growing mistrust over any kind of authority. The secular world was rejoicing that we each were our own lords and masters, calling us to do our own thing, whatever that may be. I was growing up, as we all must do, and the world was no longer as lovely as the world had been when I was child.
On this most holy night, we hear once more the message of an angel, an angel who brings us good news of great joy. To us is born this day, in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. God does not need us to understand this unbelievably good news. Rather God asks us to trust this good news, to trust that God is with us and is even now, at work in this world.
Every now and again, we, like those shepherds, can be blinded by the glory of God. We can be overwhelmed by the power of the Holy Spirit, lifted for a moment out of this world of science and fact and drawn into a world of glorious beauty, an utterly gracious and wonderfully mysterious place we call the kingdom of God. And one day, God who has come will come again, making the whole world new. Then we will no longer be living “in these last days,” as I will say in our Eucharistic prayer tonight, but rather fully and completely in the presence of God and God’s love.
For now, I pray that our celebration this night will bring you joy and wonder as you ponder the mystery that the God who created you and loves you beyond measure was born into this world, our world, an often drab and dreary world to bring us good news of great joy for all people. Do not fear that we are alone in a world which so often seems to be spinning out of control, left to survive as best as we can for as long as we can. God brought this world and all of us into being out of love and is at work in this world even now making all things new. Allow the mystery of this most holy night to bring you peace, the peace of God which passes all understanding.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013 Titus 2: 11- 14
The Rev. Bambi Willis Luke 2: 1 – 20
But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.”
Luke 2: 10
Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. All over the world this night folk are hearing the Christmas story and the words of an angel who comes to shepherds keeping watch over their flocks by night proclaiming good news of great joy for all the people. This good news is being heard in great cathedrals, country churches, in homes, hospitals, prisons and refugee camps. All over the world this night, people are hearing and remembering that this is the night the savior of the world was born.
This good news of great joy is given first to shepherds in the gospel of Luke. These shepherds were watching over their flocks by night, a time of darkness when wolves could threaten the sheep. Intruders were less visible at night and I suspect, shepherds slept lightly as they guarded their sheep. On this night, though, an angel appears before them, bearing good news of great joy. The shepherds were alert to threats, not angelic pronouncements, and are taken by surprise and understandably afraid.
The rest of the known world, meanwhile, is obeying the edict of the Roman Emperor Caesar Augustus who needs a census of his people in order to levy taxes for the Empire. Mary and Joseph are making their way from Nazareth to Bethlehem, Joseph’s hometown. The journey was most inconvenient as Mary was with child. But emperors generally do not care much about how their edicts will affect the common folk.
And so the Christmas story begins, in the gospel of Luke, with Mary and Joseph honoring their obligations to the Roman Emperor and with shepherds trying to protect their flocks from predators. And then an angel comes bringing good news of great joy and the shepherds leave their fields for Bethlehem, becoming the first to welcome their Lord.
That shepherds receive the good news first and are the first to welcome the baby Jesus, is odd. Shepherds in the first century were often deemed untrustworthy and lived a harsh and poor life in the fields among their sheep. Shepherds lived on the margins of society and few folk would have welcomed a visit by a shepherd, especially during those intimate first moments when a new baby comes into the world. Yet, God chose shepherds to be the first witnesses to the Incarnation and Mary and Joseph welcomed them.
The Christmas story which we hear this night is odd as God comes into the world without majesty and invites the poorest of the poor to be the first to see Jesus. This good news of great joy is given first to shepherds, those who others would readily dismiss. The first to worship this newborn King are neither wealthy nor educated and have none of the power of Caesar Augustus who could order the world to do his bidding. God chose an unlikely lot to be the first to hear the good news. God chose those others would reject to welcome a king who himself would be rejected.
We all have heard the Christmas story many times and find comfort in the words we hear this night and the hymns we sing. But that first Christmas night was disturbing, disturbing to those terrified shepherds and amazing to Mary and Joseph. Mary is left “pondering” the words of those shepherds, we hear. I wonder how many folk this night will be amazed, much less, disturbed by Christmas.
“To you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” When those words were first spoken, Caesar Augustus was “Lord.” To claim allegiance to another Lord was political treason. Mary and Joseph learn this night that the child they have just brought into the world will be a rival to the Roman Emperor and that could not have been good news. Moreover, although all Jews were eagerly awaiting the day when the Messiah would come to rescue God’s people, this Messiah is born in obscurity and heralded only by untrustworthy shepherds. Was this child The Messiah or yet one more false messiah?
The news we hear this night is good news of great joy but news that is almost too good to be true. God has come and God is with us but many in this world find that news impossible to believe. From the beginning, the Christian claim that God came into this world of flesh and blood, living and dying as one of us was contrary to reason; contrary to the reality that suffering continues even though a Savior has been born for us; and an oftentimes uncomfortable claim in the pluralistic world in which we find ourselves. The story we hear this night is disturbing and amazing.
Which is why this night is “holy,” a night set apart in which we gather late at night in deep darkness in a sanctuary lit with candles and decorated with flowers, to sing hymns, to pray, to be nourished with bread and wine, and to ponder anew the mystery of our faith. In the midst of a world that no longer has room for much mystery, we come together to celebrate a story we will never fully understand and which left those who first heard it “amazed.”
Amazement came easily to me when I was a child. Waking up on Christmas morning to find my stocking filled and the cookies gone which I had left for Santa the night before, was thrilling. I was utterly convinced that while I was asleep a sleigh with reindeer was flying all over the world, delighting every single child. And it was a sad day when I learned otherwise.
So I turned my attention as the years went by to my own children, hoping to encourage their sense of wonder and amazement in a world that we do not always understand and which continues to be filled with mystery and miracle. They, like me, for a time, were always amazed and bewildered that Santa had come, enjoying their gift of cookies and milk just as he had done for me.
Along the way, though, I also learned that not everyone in the world ate dinner every night nor had a bicycle to ride. Later, the safety and security I had always enjoyed as a child was rocked by the violence of the Viet Nam War, the riots in Newark, New Jersey, and the growing mistrust over any kind of authority. The secular world was rejoicing that we each were our own lords and masters, calling us to do our own thing, whatever that may be. I was growing up, as we all must do, and the world was no longer as lovely as the world had been when I was child.
On this most holy night, we hear once more the message of an angel, an angel who brings us good news of great joy. To us is born this day, in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. God does not need us to understand this unbelievably good news. Rather God asks us to trust this good news, to trust that God is with us and is even now, at work in this world.
Every now and again, we, like those shepherds, can be blinded by the glory of God. We can be overwhelmed by the power of the Holy Spirit, lifted for a moment out of this world of science and fact and drawn into a world of glorious beauty, an utterly gracious and wonderfully mysterious place we call the kingdom of God. And one day, God who has come will come again, making the whole world new. Then we will no longer be living “in these last days,” as I will say in our Eucharistic prayer tonight, but rather fully and completely in the presence of God and God’s love.
For now, I pray that our celebration this night will bring you joy and wonder as you ponder the mystery that the God who created you and loves you beyond measure was born into this world, our world, an often drab and dreary world to bring us good news of great joy for all people. Do not fear that we are alone in a world which so often seems to be spinning out of control, left to survive as best as we can for as long as we can. God brought this world and all of us into being out of love and is at work in this world even now making all things new. Allow the mystery of this most holy night to bring you peace, the peace of God which passes all understanding.
