Category Archives: Sermons

Church Seasons & Holy Days, Current Events, Sermons

Homily, May 22

A pretty common question around here, from new members and sometimes not-so-new members, is: Who was Saint Dunstan? Dunstan was a 10th-century English monk and bishop, who was deeply involved in the religious, civic, and cultural rebirth of England after some dark and violent decades. He was born around 910 to an upper-class family in the western town of Glastonbury. Dunstan became a monk as a young man, and was named Abbot of the monastery at Glastonbury in 943 (that’s when we like to say he really started irking the Devil). During a year-long political exile, after one of many disagreements with one king or another, he encountered the revival of Benedictine monasticism that was underway on the Continent at that time. King Edgar called Dunstan back to England in 957, and eventually appointed him Archbishop of Canterbury, head of the English church. In that capacity he spent the rest of his long life striving to renew and develop monasticism in England, based on the Benedictine rule and including both monks and nuns. This work had an impact far beyond the church, which was Dunstan’s intention. He was an immensely important figure in the process of cultural and political stabilization and centralization in tenth-century England. He is said to have been an artist and craftsman, and known to have been a writer of manuscripts. The image of St. Dunstan that dwells with our crowd of saints around the baptismal font is from the Glastonbury Classbook, an Anglo-Saxon religious text that may well have been written (and drawn) in part by Dunstan himself. It is possible that the monk kneeling at the feet of Christ in that image is a self-portrait by Dunstan’s own hand.

For the past couple of years we’ve done a really delightful little poem-pantomime about Dunstan’s legendary encounter with the devil. It’s good fun, but it’s basically fiction. What I love about Jane Maher’s play, that we are doing this year, is that it actually gives you some history and a little sense of Dunstan’s significance.

I think Dunstan’s life and witness are especially instructive to us in the seasons when politics are on our minds. He lived his life and vocation at the intersection of faith and politics. That’s why I chose this Gospel for our celebration of his feast day. The recommended Gospel for Dunstan’s feast is a text from Matthew, about the faithful steward who keeps watch while the master is away, and that’s nice too. But in the “Render unto Caesar” story, Jesus calls our attention to the distinction between what is Caesar’s and what is God’s; between human political agendas and God’s agenda. And that is the core of Dunstan’s life. Let me offer two brief points for reflection, on this feast of St. Dunstan.

First and most fundamentally, the witness of Dunstan’s life points us towards faithful engagement with the public issues of our time and place. Dunstan’s commitment to monasticism wasn’t a retreat from the world; far from it. In Dunstan’s time the common people were uneducated, poor, harassed by bandits, cheated by merchants, oppressed by the landed aristocracy. Rule of law and civil society were almost nonexistent. Dunstan and the other great bishops of his time believed deeply that the flourishing of the English people would be best served by the cultivation of monastic centers, whose prayers, teaching, and care for the common folk would be a stabilizing and improving force.

Dunstan lived in a very different time than ours, but maybe it’s not as different as we think it is. And despite all the talk about the decline of religion in America, churches – and nonprofits and volunteer agencies full of church folks – play a huge role in support and advocacy for the most vulnerable folks of our era. Dunstan’s insight – that effective, well-ordered, engaged religious communities can be the foundation and watchdog of a just society – is just as true today as it was in the tenth century. Organized religion still has a huge role to play in American civic life, if we step up to it.

Second, the witness of Dunstan’s life calls us to reflect on just how much God’s agenda can be pursued through human politics – and how much God’s agenda has to be pursued by faithful people regardless of the ups and downs, the rights and lefts of our political processes and institutions. Dunstan was a consummate pragmatist. He pursued his vision and calling with the help of friendly kings, and against the opposition of unfriendly ones. He had to find ways to advance his agenda under all circumstances. He had to work with the system as it was as in order to inch it closer to the system he hoped it could be.

Civic engagement doesn’t mean we forget the difference between God and Caesar. We’re most likely to forget that difference when someone we really like is on the ballot. But no human election will ever usher in God’s kingdom of justice, mercy, and peace. Human political agendas and God’s agenda can overlap, for sure; but those overlaps are always temporary and partial. If we can keep that in mind, and keep our eyes on God’s purposes for the world, then maybe our civic and political engagement can be as clear-sighted and stubborn as Dunstan’s was.

May the spirit of Dunstan, that wise and pugnacious bishop, guide and inspire us in this season and in all highly-charged political seasons. May his life remind us to be mindful of the difference between God and Caesar, and yet, to work and pray faithfully for the good of the city, the nation, and the world where we dwell. Amen.

Church Seasons & Holy Days, Sermons

Sermon, May 15

Today the Church celebrates the Feast of Pentecost. The lesson from the Acts of the Apostles, which we read together earlier, is the story of this holy feast: it’s the day when Jesus’ first disciples, his friends and followers, received the Holy Spirit of God in a new way, inspiring and empowering them to preach the good news of God in Christ. On Pentecost we share that Scripture and we reflect on the ways the Holy Spirit is at work in us, in our church, in the world around us.

Our church teaches the doctrine of the Trinity, the understanding that our God is one, yet also somehow three: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer; the One who Creates, the One who Befriends, the One who Inspires. That understanding took shape in the first decades of the Church’s life – but there are Scriptures in the Old Testament that talk about the Spirit of God as a sort of going-forth of God’s power, with its own nature and being. Starting in Genesis 1, when the Spirit of God moves over the face of the waters before Creation, right up to the Spirit’s appearance at Jesus’ baptism, immediately after which the Spirit drives Jesus into the wilderness to fast for forty days. So it’s not that the Holy Spirit suddenly appears in the story of God’s people, in the second chapter of Acts. It’s more that the newborn Church is called to recognize, receive, and call on her, as a gift and tool for the work before them.

Our portion of John’s Gospel today names some of the ways the Spirit acts within and among the believers: teaching them; reminding them of what they’ve already been taught – I know I often need such reminders! – and bringing peace and calm, Christ’s peace blessing us through the power and presence of the Spirit.

The Greek word that John uses here is interesting: Parakletos, translated Advocate or sometimes Comforter, or sometimes left as the odd word Paraclete. It literally means one who is called to the side of another person. And in New Testament Greek it had legal overtones, as “advocate” can in English: one who stands with and speaks for a person accused or in trouble. There’s rich ground for theological reflection in that word, Paraclete. There’s also, of course, a fair share of parakeet jokes.

The parakeet, however, is not the bird we usually see used to represent the Holy Spirit. What bird do you usually see?…. The dove, right? It’s an image used by the first Gospel writer, Mark, who says that the Spirit “descended upon Jesus like a dove” as he rose from the water, having been baptized by John. Matthew and John follow Mark’s wording; Luke does too though he gets a little more concrete, saying that the Holy Spirit descended upon Jesus “in bodily form like a dove.” Not just a metaphor but a manifestation.

So the Church adopted the dove as one symbol of the Spirit, and has read that in various ways – as a sign of peace, gentleness, purity, innocence. But… wait a minute. Let’s turn for just one moment to the Gospel of Luke, chapter 2, verse 24. Jesus’ parents are bringing an offering to Temple to celebrate the birth of their firstborn son. And they bring “a pair of turtledoves and two young pigeons.” Just about every translation says it that way, back to the King James Version. Only the word translated here as “pigeons” – peristeron – is the same word used at Jesus’ baptism. In fact, it’s the same word used EVERYWHERE it says “dove” in the New Testament. Why translate it as “pigeon” in one place and “dove” elsewhere? It’s almost like it’s totally arbitrary. It’s almost like there’s no difference between pigeons and doves. But of course there is! Doves are pretty and pure and sweet. Pigeons are gross and ugly and obnoxious. Right? ….

I heard something a couple of weeks ago that really tickled my imagination about that familiar image of the Holy Spirit as dove. And in honor of baby M’s mother, who is a wildlife biologist, I thought I’d go ahead and follow that thread today.  The thing I heard was an episode of a wonderful podcast called 99% Invisible. It’s a podcast about the interesting stories of things we rarely notice or think about. And this episode was an interview with Nathanael Johnson, author of a new book called Unseen City: The Majesty of Pigeons, the Discreet Charm of Snails & Other Wonders of the Urban Wilderness.

Johnson shares the history of the pigeon. Keeping and breeding pigeons used to be, not something your quirky uncle does in his free time, but a hobby of the aristocracy. The pigeon – or dove; they’re basically the same bird – was first domesticated in the Middle East, then spread around the ancient world by the Romans. Johnson points out that “a common element of a traditional Tuscan Villa was a… lookout tower and pigeon house.” Kings and nobles, governors and dignitaries would keep and breed pigeons in their fine homes, and exchange them as gifts and tokens of honor. In the 1600s pigeons were brought to North America, and their fall from grace came as they became feral and propagated themselves in this new environment, becoming, well, common, in every sense of the word.

Johnson says that for many centuries, in English, the words “pigeon” and “dove” were essentially synonyms and were used interchangeably. “But over time,” he says, “the two diverged – dove was increasingly associated with positive things and pigeon became associated with the negative.” Consider, Johnson suggests, Pigeon soap beauty bars. Silky smooth Pigeon Chocolate. Or… the Holy Spirit descending in the form of a pigeon.

Then Johnson goes on to share some fun pigeon facts. So, just as the Church has taken liberties with the dove image, and read in ideas about peace and purity, I’m going to offer some thoughts about what imagining the Holy Spirit as a pigeon might do for us.

First, pigeons are everywhere. Madison isn’t hugely overrun, but we’ve experienced or seen images of the hordes of pigeons that reside in our great cities. And that tends to gross us out. We see them as dirty, diseased vermin. We ignore or resent them. We call them flying rats. (I also have a lot respect for rats, but that’s another sermon…!) Buildings are equipped with spikes and nets to try and keep pigeons from calling them home. But pigeons, undeterred, just fly on to the next building. We disdain pigeons because they are so common, but maybe we should respect them for the same reason. Pigeons are a very successful species, and co-exist well with human beings, in the in-between spaces we leave, in our cities and our lives.

Reflecting on the Holy Spirit as pigeon, I ask: Where is the Holy Spirit lurking around the edge of your life, hanging out on a windowsill while you brush your teeth, perching on a statue you walk past every day, even dropping a little gift on you on your way to work? Ignored or even kicked away, when there’s something here that really deserves our attention?

Second, pigeons are nurturing. We know that most birds care for their young and bring them food, but everybody knows that only mammals give milk and actually feed their young from their own bodies. But everybody knows wrong. Pigeon parents – female and male alike – actually produce a milky substance to feed their young. It’s secreted in a pouch inside their throats, and baby pigeons get the milk by sticking their beaks down their parents’ throats. So pigeons, like ourselves, give of their own bodies to nurture their young.

Reflecting on the Holy Spirit as pigeon, I ask: Where might there be something unexpected that wants to feed and nurture you? That’s offering you what you need to grow and flourish, in a place you’ve never thought to look?

Third, pigeons are beautiful. Seriously. Try, try to wipe your mind clean of all the associations and assumptions you carry, and do a Google image search, or go to your favorite pigeon-y location and just look. They have the same graceful shape as the dove, their more popular cousin, with that lovely fanned tail in flight. Their colors range from soft grays to warm taupes to pinks, with that sheen of iridescent green on the breast, and striking bars of black and gray on their wings. They have finely-traced eyes and delicate beaks. They are beautiful birds, rendered ugly only by overfamiliarity and inattention.

Johnson, the author of Unseen City, shared the story of how he stumbled into this project. He would walk his infant daughter to daycare every day – and there were all those elements of the urban landscape that he had long ago learned to ignore, but that she was very interested in. What’s that? Tree. What’s that? Tree. In fact, the same tree. Faced with a choice between saying “tree” a hundred times, or refusing to answer and earning her frustrated screams, he decided to make a shared game of noticing. Tree; bark; twig; leaf; flower; petal; stamen; seed pod… And the noticing went on to lead Johnson to discover, and share with us, a whole amazing world of plants and animals that live alongside us, even in, especially in, our densest human environments.

Reflecting on the Holy Spirit as pigeon, I ask: Where are we missing the beauty that the Holy Spirit has for us, because we’re not even looking? Because our preconceptions and preoccupations have closed our eyes to the wonder, the complexity, and, yes, the beauty of the world around us, and the ways that beauty might bless us?

Let us turn now to the baptismal liturgy, as we invite the Holy Spirit, the divine Pigeon, to descend among us and bless baby M as the newest member of God’s worldwide family of faith.

Sermons

Sermon, May 8

Preached by guest preacher and friend of St. Dunstan’s, Fred-Allen Self.

Gospel of John, chapter 17, verses 20-26: “I ask not only on behalf of these, but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one. As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me. The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me. Father, I desire that those also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory, which you have given me because you loved me before the foundation of the world. Righteous Father, the world does not know you, but I know you; and these know that you have sent me. I made your name known to them, and I will make it known, so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.”

In our Gospel text from the Gospel of John this morning there are some fantastic statements there and a continual repetition and variation of one phrase “that they may all be one.” It also ends with the prayer of Jesus with the words, “…so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.”

Several weeks ago Miranda reached out to me and asked if I would like to preach here. I immediately agreed. She asked me to look at the upcoming scriptures in the lectionary and see if there was anything that jumped at me. I have to admit, this was one of the first that jumped out to me. You see: when I look at St. Dunstan’s, this is what I see. I see this love. An all-encompassing, welcoming, embracing love. That kind of love that has the potential to change the world.

Over the last several years, St. Dunstan’s Church has become a very important place for myself and my family. This community has come together and helped me through some of the darkest times of my life, and has helped me to heal in ways that I can’t even begin to describe. This happened through nothing other than that willingness to just love. To love, to embrace, to recognize the ugliness of life, and just keep loving and supporting through it all.

If I may, I would like to back up and share a bit of my personal history and how St. Dunstan’s came to be a part of my life:

I grew up in a radically different religious world. It was a Christian world, but it was one in which love, even God’s love, was incredibly conditional. You are loved if… you are loved when… you are loved because…

At no point was there just the simple statement of “you are loved, period.”

In this world there was a very narrow mold into which you had to fit in order to be worthy of real love. Until you fit that mold you were “loved into” the mold, which to be quite honest never felt very good. That form of love felt more like judgement and condemnation.

The biggest problem with all of this is that I had something in my life, something in the core of my being, that kept me from ever fitting into this mold that was worthy of love: I am gay.

For years I lived with this secret truth. I made decisions that wrecked my own life and the lives of others until finally, I came to a point where I was broken. I felt truly worthless. I honestly believed that God didn’t want me, God didn’t love me or even like me, so therefore, why should I love myself? Why should anyone else love me? At the age of 25 my marriage was over. I lived in Wisconsin and my entire family was a world away in Arkansas. I felt utterly alone, lost and helpless. It was at the point that I hit rock bottom that I reached out for help. I went online and I looked up “safe churches for LGBT people.” I saw several church names that I didn’t recognize, but one jumped out. Yes, it was St. Dunstans. I knew the Episcopal Church from high school. My high school choir director had been an Episcopalian and she was one of the great mentors of my life. So, I took a chance and sent an email. I didn’t know who I was reaching out to, the site I had found only had the email “rector@stdunstans.” In retrospect I guess I could have done a bit more digging to figure out to whom I was writing, but at the time it just didn’t seem that important. I sent the email explaining my life story and that I needed help. I honestly didn’t expect to get a response.

Nearly immediately I received a response from a Rev. Miranda Hassett inviting me to come to the church and talk. To say I was nervous would be an understatement. However, that fateful conversation would go on to change my life. In our brief conversation, the first of MANY, Miranda invited me to worship that coming Sunday, an invitation which I tentatively accepted.

It was a Sunday in September of 2011 that I first walked through the doors of St. Dunstan’s to attend worship here. Walking through the door that Sunday took a great deal of courage. You see, just about a month before then I had come out to my family and friends. Though my immediate family, my parents and my sister, were very supportive, the same couldn’t be said for much of the rest.  The ensuing weeks resulted in me being beaten nearly black and blue with the Bible and with the brand of “love” I had grown accustomed to from the church. That Sunday, though, so much changed.

I sat quietly in worship that day, no one really knew who I was, I didn’t know who anyone was, but there was a love in this place that was palpable, a welcome that was real. I’m not sure I’ve ever been as welcomed as I was that day. From that point I began to become more involved with the St. Dunstan’s community. As I became involved many people began to learn my story and my history. At first, this really scared me, you see, I had found a place I loved. The last thing I wanted was for my story and my history to become known and I have to leave yet another place that I loved… but a wondrous thing happened: the more people learned my story, the more love I felt given in return.

I’ll be entirely transparent: before I came to St. Dunstan’s and experienced this community my life was falling apart. I was lost, I was in a spiritual crisis, and I was in very real danger of harming myself. The love and nurturing that I found here truly saved my life in so many ways, and for that I am so incredibly grateful.

The Gospel lesson from this morning ends with the beautiful prayer from Jesus, “Righteous Father, the world does not know you, but I know you; and these know that you have sent me. I made your name known to them, and I will make it known, so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.” This is what I found here, and this is why this scripture jumped at me so much.

That love, that radical love that doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t have conditions, that’s what it’s all about.

Through the help of the community at St. Dunstan’s I found a new form of faith. This form of faith wasn’t built on fitting the right mold. It wasn’t built on “loving” someone into a correct way of being. I was a form of faith built on loving everyone, not matter who you are, no matter where you are, no matter how we may agree or disagree. It also taught me that sometimes love is a challenge. It’s a choice, something that we have to choose regularly. Yet, while it can be a challenge, it is a challenge that is always worth it. The most important lesson I think that I learned during that time was this: we are all beautifully and wonderfully created. At some point someone here told me, “God created and said, ‘it is good.’ Who are we to declare otherwise?” Who indeed?

In time I became a fairly fierce advocate for inclusion in the church for all people, regardless of orientation, gender identity or expression, or any other factor. It was this that lead me to answer a call to ministry. At the time I had no idea what that looked like. At first I thought I was going to be an Episcopal Priest, then a United Methodist Elder… yet neither of those were meant to be it seems. In the end I found an organization called the Progressive Christian Alliance. About three years ago I began a process of discernment and a year ago became a PCA Pastor. What drew me to them was that, much like the community of St. Dunstan’s, their focus was on love, radical love that looked nothing like the world had to offer. Their mission was to get the church outside of the walls and into the world. That definitely sounded like something I needed to do.

At this point I’ve talked a good deal about my story and how St. Dunstan’s community and love changed my world and my life. One of the biggest reasons I wanted to talk about this today is this: rarely in this life do we get to see what kind of impact our words or actions have on another person. Rarely do we get that chance to see how we have impacted, whether negatively or positively, the lives of others.

In my own story there were people that drove me to the point of wanting to end my life. Many of them never laid a hand on me, but their words left scars that are still there today. Their action, and in many more cases inaction, left indelible marks on my life. In that same way, there were many people who helped me to come to the place of self-acceptance and self-love and who have supported me in my ministries and who have continually built me up, through both words and actions, that have left just as indelible marks.

My point in all of this is that, whether we intend to or not, we leave marks everywhere we go. Each one of us, in our daily lives, have the chance to impact many people. In each human interaction we have a chance to leave a mark. Many times we leave a mark whether we have intended to or not. This is something I’ve started to become increasingly aware of in my own life. During my time of pain and hurt I lashed out. I lashed out a lot… I was angry, I was hurt, and in my anger and hurt I caused more anger and hurt. I left marks, some of which I’m still learning about. I’ve been fortunate enough to learn of some of the positive marks I’ve left as well. Sometimes through small things that were so insignificant to me that I didn’t even think of them, until someone pointed out to me how huge these things were to them.

In each human interaction we have a chance to show love, to show that type of love Jesus talks about. Each time we step out our door, no matter what we are going to do, we have a chance to share the Gospel, not through preaching, but through our lives. In the words of St. Francis of Assisi, “Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary use words.”

This community preached the Gospel to me. St. Dunstan’s made the Gospel come alive in a way that I had never witnessed before. Suddenly, for the very first time in my life the Gospel was Good News. It meant that I was loved, it meant that I was valued, it meant that I WAS good enough, it mean that God did value me, and it mean that I should value myself. St. Dunstan’s didn’t preach to me or lecture me or anything like that. The people, the community of St. Dunstan’s preached the Gospel through their actions, through their deeds, through their love.

This is a challenge, and this community has risen to this challenge time and time again. On my life, at least, you have left a lasting mark, one that has helped me to become a person I could never have been without this community.

When you leave these doors today I want to challenge you: what mark are you leaving on the people around you? Do you know? Remember that in each human interaction we have a chance to share the wonderful and radical Good News of the Gospel, without ever saying a word. We have a chance to show love. Sometimes that may be the only love a person sees in a day.

God is good. God is love. Praise be to God that this love can indeed move mountains and change the face of the earth.

Amen.

Big Questions, Outreach, Sermons, Spiritual Practices

Sermon, May 1

Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being? I will, with God’s help! It’s the fifth question of our baptismal covenant, the set of questions we ask one another every time we baptize a new member into the church. These questions ask us, and remind us, how we intend to live as God’s people. And our answer to each one is, I will, with God’s help. Affirming both our commitment … and our need for divine assistance.

Today’s Gospel comes from John’s account of the life of Jesus. Unlike the other Gospels, in John’s version, Jesus visits Jerusalem several times. He’s walking near one of the great gates of the city, past a place where people go seeking healing. Scholars of the ancient world think this was probably a temple to the Greek god Asclepius, the god of medicine and healing. Asclepius was adopted by the Romans and honored all around the ancient world. His temples were, essentially, some of the world’s first hospitals. They often included a pool, for rituals of cleansing and healing. If this pool in the Gospel were part of a temple of healing, it explains why there were many sick and disabled people around, waiting, hoping, praying that Asclepius and his priests would favor them with restoration and health.

There were stories that this was an especially powerful pool – that from time to time, the waters of the pool would be mysteriously stirred up, perhaps by an unseen angel, and the first person to get into the pool after that magical stirring was practically guaranteed to be healed. Jesus is walking past this place, this pagan temple full of human agony and desperate hope. And his eye falls on one of the people lying there, a man who has been ill for thirty-eight years. Why this man? Who knows? Maybe Jesus just saw in him the potential for health, for faith.

So Jesus speaks to him. He asks, Do you want to be made well? The sick man’s response is interesting. He doesn’t say, Yes, of course I do! Please help me! Instead he explains why the approach he’s already trying hasn’t worked for him yet. “Sir, I don’t have anyone to help me into the pool when it is stirred up, and by the time I can get to it, somebody else has already jumped in and stolen the miracle.” Jesus brushes aside the explanations and excuses. He says, Stand up, take your mat and walk. And the man stands up, and walks.

This man’s illness is an individual situation. Something particular to his body and his life story. But this is also more than just an individual situation. Just like the homeless veteran whose PTSD leaves him muttering in a doorway downtown. Just like the single mom dependent on public assistance who calls to see if I can resolve her delinquent utility bill. Just like the former drug dealer who can’t find honest work because of his record. There are layers and layers of larger systems that have contributed to this individual’s need and misery.

Maybe this man’s illness or disability is just a fact of life. Even today, with all the tools of modern medicine, bodies break. Bodies fail. But there’s more to his situation than illness. He is alone. No one is tending or helping him. He is poor. If he weren’t poor, he wouldn’t be alone. And he is looking for help in the wrong place. This temple to an empty god, which has no power to help him or change his life. But it’s the only place he knows to go, so he goes there. Quite possibly he’s been going there for thirty-eight years.

Jesus, because he is Jesus, just stops by and heals him. Most of the time it’s not that simple for us. I can’t just command health back into somebody like this man. But I, or you, could address the fact that he’s alone. That he’s poor. That he doesn’t have a place to go that would welcome and care for him. It is within our reach, within our power, as citizens of goodwill in a democratic society, to address things like that.

And this brings us to the point where Baptismal Question #5 opens out from Baptismal Question #4. The fourth question, remember, is: Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself? Our faithful response to that question calls us to reach out in kindness to the individual who is suffering, since we know that God can look a whole lot like a human in pain. But the fifth question, today’s question – it asks us, Will you strive for justice and peace among all peoples, and respect the dignity of every human being? That is a big ask, folks. Justice and peace among ALL PEOPLES. Dignity for EVERY human being. Phew.

If the fourth question demands our response to suffering, the fifth question demands our curiosity about suffering. It asks us to look at the big picture. The world-system that Jesus came to transform and redeem. Where does it come from? How is it created and perpetuated? Why are things like this? Why can’t they be different? Could we shift our society and systems, in ways that would lower the quota of human suffering, and add to the world’s measure of hope, wholeness, and delight? Where would we start?

Some of you are thinking, right now, There she goes again, telling us to fix the world. Doesn’t she know I already try to help all I can? Doesn’t she know how overwhelming it is? Doesn’t she know that sometimes I just need to watch Seinfeld reruns and forget it all for a while? I do, actually. I really do. Because: me too.

Sometimes – when we’re overwhelmed, weary, ashamed, angry – we struggle with whether our neighbor’s wellbeing is really our responsibility. It would be so great if that person’s misfortune were really their own fault, full stop. No layers of shared social and economic and political systems to muddy the picture. Just one person’s successes or failures. Because then we could still help if we wanted to, but when we don’t, there’s no guilt. He brought it on himself. It’s not my problem.

But as Christians, and as thoughtful people, even though those thoughts and feelings touch us sometimes, we can’t really stay there. We know better. We are all in this together. There is no such thing as other people’s children. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” may be a quotation from the Bible, but the person who says it has just, in fact, murdered his brother, and is not a model for our moral behavior.

We would all very much like it if all the ills of the world were someone else’s fault and responsibility. The sick man’s response to Jesus, that little speech about why he can never get to the pool in time, sounds familiar to me because I hear something a lot like it from nearly everyone who calls the church looking for help. Everyone has their reasons why their life has fallen short of their hopes. I lost my job and my jerk landlord won’t cut me any slack. My daughter is in prison and I’m trying to care for my grandbaby. My food stamps cover one adult and one child, and my son eats like an adult now, so we’re hungry all the time. My mother died out of state and we used our grocery money to go see her, and next month’s rent money for funeral expenses. Our apartment complex has bedbugs and we had to throw away everything we own. The employers in this town are racist and won’t give me work. Everyone has a whole list of reasons and circumstances that explain why they just can’t catch a break. Why they haven’t yet managed to stand up and walk.

Here’s the thing: regardless of whether the details of those particular stories are entirely true, the big story they add up to IS true. It IS true. Like Jesus and his contemporaries, we live in a society of deep, entrenched inequality, that does the bare minimum to care for the poor and vulnerable. If you’re not convinced of that, I invite you to do some research comparing our public systems, our safety net for the poor and sick, and our incarceration rates with those of other developed countries. That’s why even when I’m tired and jaded and skeptical, my capacity to respond clouded by compassion fatigue, I try to help, at least a little. I try at least to offer prayers.

Our texts from the book of Revelation describe John’s vision of the redeemed City, at the end of history, when God has fully restored and renewed our world. That City is clean and bright, shining with the light of God, undimmed by human tears, unmarred by pain or grief. The river of Life flows through it, and the Tree of Life grows in its heart, the tree whose leaves are for the healing of the nations.

It is, truly, a beautiful vision – and sometimes the gulf between that holy someday City and the cities of this world feels… paralyzing. It’s enough to make us start to recite our own list of reasons why our lives have fallen short of our hopes. I have to work long hours to pay the mortgage and child care; I just don’t have time to volunteer. My family is going through a rough time and I’m the one holding things together; maybe later I’ll be able to do more for others. There’s so much money in politics, it’s impossible for ordinary people like me to make a difference. I help people all day at work; by the weekend I’m drained, with nothing more to give.

We would all very much like it if the brokenness of the world were someone else’s responsibility. Here’s my good word to you, my sisters and brothers in weariness and perplexity: It is. It is somebody else’s responsibility. The redeemed City is God’s city. We are not going to get there by human efforts. It’s not up to us. The image of that City is not supposed to be like a Pinterest Fail that shames our best endeavors. It’s a vision of God’s intentions for humanity, meant to give us hope and reassurance as we struggle and strive in this world.

It’s not up to us. It’s up to God, and God is already on it. Now, that doesn’t let us off the hook entirely. The Jewish tradition gives us the phrase Tikkun Olam, which means, mending the world – very much what we mean when we talk about reconciling as a core Christian practice. And a great rabbi, Rabbi Tarfon, said this about Tikkun Olam, about the work of mending the world: It is not your obligation to finish the task. But neither are you free to stop the work entirely.

It is not your obligation to finish the task. But neither are you free to stop the work entirely.

Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being – That question can feel as overwhelming as the morning headlines. Like it’s asking us to finish the task. To fix the world. To bring about the redeemed City.

Here’s what I want for you, for us, when we hear that question – I want us to feel our feet on the ground, our community standing shoulder to shoulder, the landscape of our lives stretching out around us. I want this big question to stir up another question inside us: Yes, there’s a lot of brokenness, disorder, injustice and pain. Where can I reach out and touch it? Without even trying? Without leaving the path of my everyday life, without even stretching my arm out all the way? I guarantee you that every single one of us has someplace where we can easily lay hands to the world’s brokenness.

I want this baptismal question to invite us in to the practice of reconciling, to noticing where God is at work in our city, neighborhood, school, workplace, church, family, and joining in what God is doing, wherever the lost are being found, the oppressed are finding justice, the broken are being healed, those in need are finding mercy, those in bondage are finding freedom, and enemies are making peace.

I got about this far in writing my sermon, Thursday morning, and then I went to a forum over at Fountain of Life Church on steps towards greater racial equity in Dane County. The event was a collaboration between three big local anti-racism organizations, Justified Anger, the YWCA, and Race to Equity. And what was striking for me was that those leaders said something a lot like what I just said: Racial disparities and their impact on people of color, and on our community as a whole, are a huge, hard, messy problem. And there’s no master plan to fix it all. There’s no one organization or leader that’s going to give us the perfect 5-step plan to transform Madison into the Redeemed City. Instead, they said, look around your life, your landscape. Get together with your people – your friends, your coworkers, your church folks. Have your own conversations about where you can see and touch the patterns of poverty and inequality in our community. And figure out your role, your call, your work, in common purpose and hope with the work of others across our communities. With the work of God in our communities.

Systemic racism is just one of the shadows that mars Madison, that makes us look less like the redeemed City of John’s vision. It’s just one of the evil powers of this world that corrupts and destroys the creatures of God, to borrow words from another part of our baptismal rite. The powers that sicken, impoverish, and isolate people, like that man on the ground in our Gospel story; and that demand our courageous and compassionate response.

I want this great big bold baptismal question to stir up in you the intention and hope that you, YOU, just as you are, can find a way to program or plant or knit or paint or counsel or heal or make music or care for children or report news or call politicians or visit friends or dance or learn or run a business or manage employees or teach or act or administrate or clean or sew or serve on a board or feed people or visit the sick or sell houses or keep cows healthy or solve crimes or go to rallies or write poetry or care for elders or comfort the grieving or catch babies or run a household or take care of animals or write grant proposals or do research or sell insurance or design products in the direction of justice, peace, and human dignity. AMEN.

Big Questions, Kid-friendly, Sermons, Worship

Sermon, April 24

A homily for our All-Ages service on April 24, 2016.

Who remembers a baptism? What do we do?…

Another part of what we do is that we say some things together. We say some things that remind us of who we are, and what we believe, and how we try to live, as God’s people. It’s called the Baptismal Covenant.  A covenant is kind of like a promise. It has five questions in it that all start “Will you?” They ask if we will keep being faithful to our church family, if we’ll turn back to God when we go wrong, if we’ll share God’s good news in our lives, if we’ll love other people and try to help them, and if we’ll work to build a better world. And what we say when we answer all those questions is, I WILL, WITH GOD’S HELP! Because those are all important and also hard; so we say, Yes, we will do it, but we need your help, God.

Today I want to talk a little bit about the fourth question. Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?

Who’s your neighbor? … Jesus means, anybody whose life crosses paths with your life. Friends, family, strangers, enemies, all are our neighbors. Even people who live around the world from us are our neighbors in God’s eyes. So we’re talking about, how we treat other people.

At your school, do they talk about the Golden Rule? What’s the Golden Rule? … Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Treat other people the way you want to be treated. Do your parents or teachers sometimes ask you, “How would you feel if somebody did that to you?” Like if you don’t feel like sharing, or you get upset and hit somebody. You have to think about how it feels when somebody doesn’t share with you, or when somebody gets mad and hits you.

The Golden Rule is a good way to think about how to treat people, because it helps us think about how things feel for somebody else.  But Jesus says something different here, in today’s Gospel story. He says something more. He says, Love each other the way I love you. Love each other the way Jesus loves you. The way God loves you.

Let’s try out an example to explain this… What do you like to eat for breakfast?… Okay. So, if you’re in charge of breakfast, if you get to choose, you’ll have waffles. Now, what if you had a guest and you were making breakfast for them too? And you made them waffles, because it’s your favorite? You are trying to be kind and loving. You are making them the thing that you really like. You are loving your neighbor as yourself.

But what if your guest doesn’t like waffles? It’s just not their favorite. Maybe it even tastes bad to them. Or maybe they’re even allergic to it, (or they’re vegetarian). Then even you were trying to be kind, the breakfast you made for them isn’t meeting their needs. So what could you do differently? …

Yeah! If you really wanted to make your guest happy, make them feel welcome and loved, you would ask them what they like best for breakfast, and then, if you can, that’s what you would make for them.

Jesus says, Love each other the way I love you. Jesus didn’t treat everybody the same. He looked into people and saw who they were and what they needed, and that’s how he responded to them. That’s the kind of love Jesus and God show us, the kind of love that sees that our neighbors are sometimes different from us. What they need and want and hope for might be different too.

We had a little story about that earlier today, in the story about Peter the apostle. Peter and Midamos had a way of following Jesus, that included keeping the practices of Judaism. And they thought that was the right way for everybody who follows Jesus. But God showed Peter that he was wrong. God showed Peter that Gentiles, people who didn’t follow Jewish practices, were called to follow Jesus and become Christians, too.

For Peter, to love those new Christians the way he loved himself, would be to say, Here are the rules for being a Christian. Instead, God helped Peter to love these new Christians the way God loved them, so he was able to just say, Welcome to God’s family! I am glad you’re here!

Our Baptismal Covenant asks us to love our neighbors as ourselves. But let’s remember that that’s just the beginning, and that, with God’s help, we can try to love our neighbors with God’s love, which is bigger and broader and brighter than our love.

I’m going to ask the question now, and I want to hear a nice loud answer: I will, with God’s help!

Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself? …

Sermons, Spiritual Practices

Sermon, April 17

Will you proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ? Two Sundays ago I began a sermon series of sorts, based on the Baptismal Covenant, the five questions about how we intend to live out our faith that are part of our baptismal liturgy. This question, the third one, is really the shortest and simplest – at least grammatically speaking. Conceptually, perhaps, it’s not quite so simple…

Will you proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ? In today’s Gospel, Jesus is surrounded by a crowd that has heard about him, and wants to know, Are you the real deal? The Messiah, the Savior sent by God? And Jesus says, I’ve already told you that, and what’s more, everything I do in the name of God bears witness to my closeness to God. “The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me.” John’s Jesus talks about works a lot. It’s interesting that he doesn’t use a word like “miracles” or “wonders”. Some of the things Jesus does are wondrous – healings, exorcisms, feeding vast multitudes.

But many of the things Jesus did, that we remember and reflect on and learn from, were more human and mundane. Not wonders but works. Acts. Deeds. He told stories. He gave people his full attention and responded to them with compassion and truth. He sought out the company of those most people avoided. He raised his voice about injustice and hypocrisy. He spoke out even in the face of oppressive violence. None of those are easy, but they’re not superhumanly impossible, either. All those works and deeds were Jesus proclaiming by example the urgent love, the thwarted tenderness of God.

And then we have Tabitha. I love this little story, from the book of Acts. Tabitha – her Hebrew name – or Dorcas in Greek – was an early convert to the way of Christ, and perhaps a leader in this tiny Christian community in Joppa. Tabitha gets sick and dies. But Tabitha’s community knows that the apostle Peter, friend of Jesus, is just one town over, and they think, Maybe, just maybe, there’s enough of our Lord Jesus’ power left in Peter that he can help. Peter comes, and Peter is able, by the power of God, to restore Tabitha to life.

But the detail I really love comes earlier in the story: “All the widows stood beside him, weeping and showing tunics and other clothing that Dorcas had made while she was with them.” Now, the widows weren’t necessarily really widows; in the early church that was what they called women who devoted themselves to serving God, their community, and the poor. And the widows of the little church in Joppa, grieving Tabitha, do what we do when we’re grieving our dead – they show and share what that person meant to them. The gifts and graces of that life. And for Tabitha, it was all these garments, pieces of clothing, lovingly and skillfully sewn. It sounds like she kept the whole community dressed, and probably gave away clothes to the poor as well. Doesn’t that make Tabitha real for you? Maybe in your mind now she’s wearing the face of somebody you know or knew, who had Tabitha’s skill and Tabitha’s heart, overflowing with capability and generosity. I know people like that; some of them are in this room. I bet you know some too. Tabitha, Dorcas, a disciple of Jesus, proclaiming by her acts, her works, her example, the boundless generosity of God’s love.

Will you proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ? Word and example. Example and word. Episcopalians tend to be more comfortable with “example.” In our focus groups last month I asked you, Tell me a time when you acted as you did because of your faith. Maybe you even consciously thought, “I HAVE to do this, because Jesus.” And you paused for a few minutes to think about it, but then you had answers. Ranging from the impulse of a moment, to reach out to a stranger, to speak a needed word to a friend – to decisions with life-altering consequences. Leaving or taking a job. Following a dream. Beginning recovery.

We might have to think about it for a minute, but we can name the times and ways in which our actions, our works, reflect our faith, testify to our love for God and our striving to follow Jesus’ example. We are, in fact, tolerably good at living by our faith.

And by and large we would much rather do it than talk about it. Proclaiming our faith in word, not just example, requires us to be able to put it into words. We live in *Madison.* Home of the Freedom From Religion foundation. Being “out” as a Christian feels like a big deal for some of us, depending on our circle of friends and acquaintances. Anne Lamott has a wonderful moment, in her book Traveling Mercies. She invokes an old joke about Judaism – about some guy who isn’t really a serious Jew, he’s just Jew-ish. And she says that her non-church friends prefer to see her as “Christian-ish” – just a “vaguely Jesusy bon vivant.” But it’s not true, she says. I just love Jesus. I really love the guy. I love that passage… because I do too.

Proclaim the good news of God in Christ… What if I misconstrued my role and overstepped my authority and administered a pop quiz, right now? Handed out slips of paper and number 2 pencils and asked you: Define the good news of God in Christ, in your own words?

I think a lot of our reluctance, our hesitation, is that we don’t feel like we have those words. The language of our liturgy, our prayers and hymns, has its pros and cons. It is beautiful, artful, powerful. We love its poetry, its grandeur, its unapologetic premodernism. But it is a step or several steps removed from the language we speak in everyday life. We have to build our own bridges between the language and symbols of our liturgy, and our own experiences of and thoughts about God and faith. We may – and I hope we do – deeply internalize the words of liturgy and Scripture, so they become part of the language of our spirits. But you can’t tell your co-worker, “Well, my church believes that Jesus, rising from the grave, destroyed death, and made the whole creation new; and that we might live no longer for ourselves, sent the Holy Spirit, his own first gift for those who believe, to bring to fulfillment the sanctification of all.” Beg pardon?

We don’t feel like we have the words to testify to the faith that is in us. To proclaim the good news of God in Christ. But I think maybe we do, really. Working on this sermon, I gave myself that pop quiz: How would you summarize the Gospel, which just means, Good News? What’s the Good News of God in Christ as you understand it, Mrs. Priest Lady? And actually, lots of things came to mind. The idea, the hope, that we are never abandoned. Love, you are not alone, in the words of a current pop song. The idea, the hope, that God loves us just the way we are, but isn’t going to leave us that way. Snippets from Francis Spufford’s Unapologetic: The human propensity to mess things up does not define us. Don’t be careful. Risk love’s consquences. Much more can be mended than you know.

Favorite snippets of Scripture, the ones that lodge in my heart – An alternate translation of John 3:16-17: “For God so loved the system, that God sent God’s son into the system – not to condemn the system, but that the system through him might be transformed.” That passage from Ephesians – So then you are no longer strangers and outsiders, but fellow citizens with the saints, and members of the household of God.

Bits of songs – There is more love somewhere; I’m gonna keep on till I find it. For the love of God is greater than the measure of the mind. ‘Twas grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home. God will delight when we are creators of justice and joy.

We’ve been working together, here at St. Dunstan’s, to find our own words for how we live as disciples of Jesus, a list of core practices by which we live out our faith. One of them happens to be Proclaiming; Rob Chappell will talk about that in a few minutes! I hope that list, itself, will become a tool for speaking about faith, both within and beyond our community – a way to begin to answer the question, spoken or unspoken: So you’re a Christian. So what? What difference does it make, for you, in you, beyond you?  And of course our proclamation is most powerful and profound when we’re able to find words not just for what we believe, but for how it’s active in our lives, how God in Christ shapes, comforts, leads, challenges, saves us. You. Me.

Will you proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ? I think you do, friends; and I think you can. We’re finding the words together. Practicing sharing our stories with each other. Talking about what it looks and feels like to proclaim God’s love by our actions, large and small. With God’s help, we are keeping this promise, and learning to live into it ever more fully. I’m going to say it once more, and this time you can answer, I will, with God’s help!

Sisters and brothers, will you proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ? …

Church Seasons & Holy Days, Sermons, Worship

Sermon, April 3

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

It is Easter, the season in the church’s year in which we celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus. This Easter season, I’m going to attempt two things you don’t get from me very often. First, I’m going to try to keep my sermons short – to make time for some words from somebody else. Because the conversations we’ve been having about discipleship, about how we as the people of St. Dunstan’s follow Jesus, are beginning to bear fruit. And starting today and over the next few weeks, some members of the congregation are going to speak about some of the core practices of faith that we are starting to identify, and how they experience or live out or struggle with those practices in their own lives.

The second thing I’m going to do is undertake a sermon series. As a preacher I usually take each week, each set of lessons, on its own terms. But I got inspired by the Confirmation class that’s been gathering this Lent, from all the Episcopal parishes in Madison. The class was structured around the Baptismal Covenant, the five promises that are part of our rite of holy baptism. And I got to thinking, You know, those vows really are great stuff to think and talk about. They’re a pithy and powerful map of the Christian life as our church understands it. And though we say them pretty often, when we have a baptism or renew our baptismal vows, we haven’t looked at them and unpacked them together. If you’d like to look at the Baptismal Covenant, these 5 questions, as we go along, you can open a little red prayer book to pages 304 and 305.

Today we’ll start with the first two. I plan to take the rest one by one, but next week we have a guest preacher and I didn’t want to saddle her with this project; and anyway these first two are related. They both have to do with belonging to a worshipping community, and the ways that blesses and challenges us. Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers? The apostles’ teaching and fellowship is… this. Gathering regularly to read and reflect on Scripture together, and to support, encourage, and care for one another. Sharing the Eucharist, the sacramental meal that Jesus gave us, and offering our joys and struggles to God in prayer. All of that is what church is and does, since the first Christian communities established by the apostles, the earliest church leaders. This baptismal vow simply asks us, Will you keep doing church?

Now, in the conversations we’ve been having, over the past year, about how church and faith intersect in people’s lives, one thing several people have said is, The church’s faith carried me when my faith was lost. When I was going through a dark or dry time and God felt far away. When I was too angry at God to pray. When I was brand-new to all this and didn’t know what I thought or believed, but knew something had drawn me here. The church’s faith carried me through until my own conversation with God began again.

When people come to me with questions about the Nicene Creed, the statement of the church’s historic faith that’s part of our Sunday worship, one thing I point out is that the Creed begins, “We believe.” This is something we believe all together, even when particular people have trouble with particular bits.

In today’s Gospel story, we can see Christian community operating in just this way. When the disciples tell Thomas, “We have seen the Lord!”, he says, Okay, fine, how nice for you. Maybe that’s true, maybe it isn’t. All I know is, I haven’t seen him. As far as I know, he’s still dead, and everything I believed and hoped for is in the grave with him. I suspect Thomas felt pretty alone with his doubts, in the midst of a community of disciples that was on fire with hope and excitement about this miracle.

But … he doesn’t just bail out. The next time they gather, he’s there. “A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them.” Even though he didn’t share their convictions, their sense that God was alive and active among them, he still cared enough about the people, the community, to show up. And the community cared enough about him, even in his grumpy skepticism, to invite and welcome and include him. Nobody said, “Don’t invite Thomas; didn’t you hear what he said about all of us seeing Jesus??” His church invited Thomas, and Thomas showed up. And because he showed up, because he put himself into that holy space, surrounded by people of God who loved him, God was able to show Godself to Thomas and restore his faith. Begin the conversation again.

I believe in church, friends. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am a much better Christian, that I am able to follow Jesus much more faithfully, because I belong to a Christian community that knows me and loves me and supports me and challenges me and reminds me what it’s all about. I am what I am, and I do what I do, because I believe that’s true for most of us. I believe in church. So when the baptismal covenant asks me, Will you keep doing church?, I’m able to say with a full heart, I will, with God’s help.

The second baptismal question asks us, Will you persevere in resisting evil, and whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord? This is another way that belonging to a community of faith, and doing church with some regularity, can bless you: by helping you be honest and clear-sighted and strong enough to resist the habits and temptations in your life that limit your capacity to love God, neighbor, and self; and by reminding you who and whose you are. Who, and whose, you have chosen to be.

In reflecting on this theme of sin, repentance, and restoration, I want to turn to one element of today’s Gospel story: the fact that the risen Jesus is still wounded. Still has nail holes in his hands and feet. Still has the mark of a spear in his side. This is the resurrected Jesus, here among the disciples. He is alive in a new way – not a ghost but also no longer simply human in his physical being. He can enter locked rooms, for example. He looks both like and unlike himself, so that his friends don’t recognize him, then, suddenly, do.

The risen Jesus is alive in a new way. And presumably as part of raising him to new life, God could have tided up all those ugly, painful wounds. But God didn’t. The risen Jesus is still wounded. Broken. Imperfect. I have heard from folks who have suffered deeply that they find a lot of hope and comfort in that. That the risen Jesus, the Lord in whom we trust, has not forgotten what it was like to be beaten, kicked, spat upon. The risen Jesus has not transcended, but somehow integrated, the reality of pain.

A few weeks ago we spent an afternoon and evening here at St. Dunstan’s making crosses. Using all kinds of interesting and miscellaneous objects that many of you contributed. We followed a process laid out by Ellen Morris Prewitt, who developed cross-making as a kind of hands-on theological reflection. At one point in her book on the subject, she talks about what to do if, in the process of making or decorating your cross, you do something that you don’t like so much. Something that doesn’t look right. That makes the object in your hand different from the ideal, the goal, in your head.

She says, when that happens – and it will happen – resist the temptation to undo it. To take off the offending object. To backtrack, press Rewind. Prewitt says, instead, consider whatever it is that is bothering you, that doesn’t look or feel right, and strive to accept it for what it is, and add to it to get closer to where God wants you to be. Fix or resolve whatever is wrong by keeping going, instead of by backtracking.

She writes, “Once you adopt this attitude, you let go of undoing. Nothing on the cross gets taken apart and put together in a different way…. Always remember: God wants our attention, not our perfection. I try to keep this principal in mind in other parts of my life as well, because I hate doing something that I later regret. Whether it’s losing my temper, saying something ugly, or looking the other way when someone needs my help, I fall short more often than not. And no matter how much I want to undo my actions, I can’t. But I can add to them; I can fill out the picture and make it better.” She concludes, “God’s motto is, Don’t worry; everything can be salvaged.”

We are like those crosses, as Prewitt says. Our lives build up, piece by piece. And some of the pieces don’t sit quite right, don’t look good, don’t feel good. Some of the pieces mar the beauty of the whole. But we don’t take them off; we can’t. Our lives don’t have the option to Rewind or Undo. We just have to keep on living, keep on adding other pieces, that lend beauty and meaning and balance and integrity. We have to keep building the whole and not let the less-great pieces define us.

I think that’s the grace, the gift, of the image of the risen Christ, still wounded, spreading his pierced hands for Thomas to see, to touch: We are like those crosses, and so is Jesus. His resurrection doesn’t undo his death. It adds to the picture, instead of erasing everything that went before.

There’s so much to say about sin, forgiveness, struggle and redemption. But this year, that process of forming crosses, and letting the ugly parts and the failures be part of the work, that’s what’s in my mind and heart as I come to this question the church asks us: Will we persevere in resisting evil, and whenever we fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord? Will you allow God to keep adding to the work of art that is your life, trusting that the not so great pieces can become part of something true, holy, and complete? Will we trust each other enough, within this community of faith, to show each other the pieces of our lives that we aren’t so proud of, and to help each other see the pattern, the shape, the beauty of each of our lives? That’s what I hear the Baptismal Covenant asking me, this year, and I am able to answer, I will, with God’s help.

Church Seasons & Holy Days, Kid-friendly, Sermons

Sermon, Easter Day

(With the children in the congregation) Let’s open our wooden tomb…  Where is Jesus?…. (Wait for them to find the resurrected Christ figure)  Where else is he? He’s in US. WE are the resurrected Christ. Jesus is alive in the world today because Jesus is in us, and WE are alive in the world today! It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?…Do you know who else thought it was amazing? Tiberius Caesar, the Emperor of Rome. He was the ruler of the whole wide world,  back in Jesus’ time. And he heard the story about how Jesus rose from the dead from a woman named Mary – Mary Magdalene.

Mary Magdalene had been a friend and follower of Jesus. She came from a wealthy and important family, so after Jesus was killed by his enemies and then rose from the dead, she went to Rome, to complain to the Emperor, Tiberius Caesar, that the Roman governor in Judea, Pontius Pilate, had allowed himself to be tricked into executing Jesus,who was innocent and good. Now, because the Emperor was so important, everyone who came before him was supposed to bring a gift. Mary Magdalene brought – an egg. Not a very fancy gift, is it?

She told the Emperor all about Jesus, the amazing things he did and said, and that even death couldn’t stop him.The Emperor listened, but he listened with this kind of look on his face…and then he said, A dead person can’t come back to life! That’s impossible! Just like it’s impossible for that white egg in your hand to turn red!….

And then, do you know what happened? The egg in her hand TURNED RED. We use all different colored eggs at Easter, but Orthodox Christians use red eggs, to remember Mary speaking the Gospel to the Emperor, and the holy sign that was given to her. Here are some eggs for you to color! Use markers or crayons or colored pencils or stickers. (Send kids back to their places) 

What do we know about Mary Magdalene? Less than we think, perhaps. There’s been a long tradition in Christianity of glomming all the women in the Gospels together, so that Mary Magdalene is ALSO Mary the sister of Lazarus and ALSO the woman who was forgiven her sinful life, and so on. In fact, Jesus probably just had a lot of women followers and friends, just like he had a lot of men followers and friends. And Mary was a common name, so there were quite a few Marys, including his mother. That’s why the Gospels call this particular person Mary Magdalene – to set her apart, like your first grade class might have had Jason D. and Jason R. Magdalene was probably a place name, meaning that she was the Mary who came from the city of Magdala – though it’s also possible that the name means that she was a hairdresser by profession!

Here’s what we do know. She was part of a group of women who traveled with Jesus, just like the (male) disciples, though they are barely mentioned until the Crucifixion. Here’s the Gospel of Mark, chapter 15: “There were also women looking on from a distance [as Jesus was crucified]; among them were Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James the younger…, and Salome. These [women] used to follow him and provided for him when he was in Galilee; and there were many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem.”

The fact that Mary and the other women are named as providing for Jesus may mean that she was wealthy, as the later story about her visit to Caesar assumes. Or she may have just been stubborn enough to leave home and family and follow Jesus, and resourceful enough to help make sure he and his group of friends always had somewhere to sleep and something to eat.

So, Magdalene is one of this group of faithful female followers of Jesus. But she stands out even among that group. ALL FOUR GOSPELS name Mary Magdalene as one of the first witnesses to Jesus’ resurrection. Now, our four Gospels – the four books of the Biblethat tell the story of Jesus’ life, ministry, death, and resurrection – they agree in the general shape of the story, and they complement each other in many ways.They agree on the big stuff, the central truth they’re telling. But they differ on details a lot. So it’s actually really something that they all agree on this detail: that Mary Magdalene was one of the first to discover that Jesus had risen from the dead.

John’s Gospel, the Gospel we heard a few moments ago,tells of that discovery so beautifully. Jesus’ body was buried in a hurry, before the Sabbath,when it was not acceptable to touch dead bodies. So it hadn’t been washed and anointed and cared for in all the ways that those who love him would have wanted. So as soon as the Sabbath is over, early in the morning, Mary goes to the tomb where Jesus was buried. In the other Gospels she’s with several other women; in John’s account she’s alone.

She finds that the great stone that covered the opening to the tomb has been removed – and she immediately assumes that Jesus’ body has been taken by his enemies. She runs to find the Simon Peter and John, leaders among the disciples, and they all run back to the tomb together. They look inside and see that the linen cloths are still there,the ones that were used to wrap Jesus’ body, but Jesus himself is gone.They’re not sure what to think – verses 8 and 9 say that they believed, but did not yet understand. Then Peter and John go home. Nothing else to see here.

But Mary stays. She stands weeping outside the tomb. And she looks into the tomb once more, the way you do, the way you confirm terrible or amazing news one more time. And this time there are angels there, who ask why she is weeping. She tells them what she told Peter and John: “They have taken away my Lord,and I do not know where they have laid him.” Hear her longing and grief – she had wanted to embrace her friend and teacher once more, to clean and anoint and care for his body, to honor him in death as she did in life. She turns away from the tomb, blinded by tears, and there’s someone standing nearby, maybe a gardener, and she asks her desperate question, “Sir, please, if you have taken him somewhere, tell me where,” and he says her name – Mary! – and she recognizes the voice and cries out Rabboni! My teacher!

John doesn’t tell us what she does in that moment but I imagine a desperate, fierce embrace,the way you hug a loved one lost and found. And I think I must be right about that because the next thing Jesus says is, Don’t cling to me, Mary. I still have to leave you. I can’t stay. I must go to be with my Father in Heaven. But tell the others what you have seen and heard. And Mary Magdalene went and told the disciples, I have seen the Lord!

Listen. Christianity was born in a patriarchal culture, in which men made the decisions, owned the property, ran the world. Christianity has matured and diversified and spread around the world as a patriarchal culture among patriarchal cultures. Many Christian churches still don’t admit women to leadership. Many Christian churches that do admit women to leadership are still burdened and blinded by structural sexism that means that few women are actually invited onto the higher rungs of the ladder. Far too often, and for far too long, in institutional Christianity, we have followed the script of the Gospel of Mark: telling and living a story that centers on men, and then, four-fifths of the way along, suddenly remembering to mention, Oh, there are some women here too. They’ve actually been here all along.They’ve actually made the whole thing possible.

But. This story, of Mary Magdalene, whom Eastern Christians call the Apostle to the Apostles for her role as first witness to the Resurrection – This story of Mary Magdaleneis not feminist fan-fiction. It’s not something somebody wrote last year to correct the lack of women in the Gospels. It’s in the Gospels. All four of them. Which I think allows us to say two things: One, it’s true. She really was the first to receive the good news of Easterand tell it to others. That fact was so well-known among early Christians that all four Gospel writers acknowledge it. And two, these guys, these four men, Mark, Matthew, Luke, John, formed as they were by the male-dominated cultures of Judaism and Rome, these four men were also formed by their faith in Jesus Christ in a way that led them to write Mary into the story where she belongs.

That’s the thing about Christianity. For all its flaws, its crimes, its failures. At its best, at its heart, what it’s all about is people gathering to help each other and ourselves to follow Jesus. Jesus who carried forward the vision of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and the other prophets of God who went before him,in holding the social and political order accountable to God’s vision of justice and mercy.  Jesus whose words and actions taught his followers to look beyond the rules of respectable morality and social status and view each person as a beloved child of God. Jesus who called and sent forth a people to live and proclaim a Gospel of love that transcends the labels that divide us – We are no longer Jew nor Greek, male nor female, slave nor free, for we are all one in Christ Jesus.

At its best, at its heart, our Christian faith equips and empowers us to reflect critically on our world, our culture, in the light of God’s vision of justice and mercy. Ours is a way of faith that always contains the seeds of its own renewal, and of the renewal of the society around us. Ours is a way of faith that casts a vision so radical that there is ALWAYS farther for us to go, in living into it. A Way that stands against our human tendency to stigmatize and exclude, and tells us we are not whole until we learn to welcome, hear, and love the stranger and outsider. A Way that stands against our human tendency to laud the rich and powerful, and calls us to honor the poor and the marginalized, and to strive for a more just and sustaining common life. A Way that stands against our human tendency to value each other differently on the basis of race, gender, age, and more, and gives us a Gospel in which – against the grain of their culture, and, still, against the grain of ours – women and children and foreigners and disabled people and criminals are treated with respect and compassion, as if they were fully worthy of understanding and love…!

No wonder Mary wept at his tomb, thinking him dead. To hear that voice silenced, to see that vision crushed. To believe that it was over. No wonder she wept. And no wonder she cried even harder when she heard his voice, saw his beloved face, and knew that not only was it not over, it was only just beginning.

That’s what matters about the Resurrection. About Jesus’ rising from the dead, the joyful mystery we celebrate today. What matters about the Resurrection is that it validates everything Jesus did and said to teach everyone who would listen about the heart of God and the worth of humanity. The meaning of Easter isn’t, Hey, some guy was dead and came back to life! He must be God! Let’s worship him and have a party! As our Presiding Bishop said in his Easter message, This is not a fairy tale.

The meaning of Easter is that the guy who said all THAT stuff, about justice and kindness and redemption and God’s fierce relentless love for each and all of us, THAT guy came back to life. THAT guy is God with us. His message, his inexhaustibly radical message of a world turned upside down by God’s love and God’s priorities, his message is ratified by the empty tomb.

Take heart, Mary. Take heart, children. Love wins. Alleluia!

Church Seasons & Holy Days, Sermons, Worship

Easter Vigil Homily

This is the night. So says the Exsultet, the ancient hymn chanted at the beginning of the Easter Vigil, after we have kindled the New Fire. The Exsultet is at least 1200 years old; for a dozen centuries Christians have gathered to keep vigil the night of Jesus Christ’s passing over from death into new life, and marked it with these solemn holy joyful words.

This is the night! The Exsultet’s theological poetry builds upon the testimony of the Gospels, that Jesus’ last meal with his friends was a Passover meal, commemorating the last night of the people Israel as slaves in Egypt, before they set out for freedom as God’s people. The Exsultet says, If the Last Supper was Passover, then this night, the night of Resurrection, this is the same night, the very same night, when, millennia earlier, Moses led God’s people across the Red Sea on dry land. This is the night when bondage gives way to freedom, when wickedness is put to flight, and sin is washed away. This is the night.  This is the night when we gather in the firelight to hear the ancient stories of God’s saving work, God’s fierce relentless love for humanity.

Through our stories, songs, and prayers, this becomes the night when God completes the work of Creation, gazing with joy and satisfaction upon our world. This becomes the night when Noah and his family sleep restlessly aboard the ark, waiting and wondering: will the dove return this time? This becomes one of the nights that Jonah spends in the belly of the great fish, reconsidering his decision to run away from God’s call to proclaim repentance and hope.

The Exsultet, at twelve hundred years old, is one of the younger parts of our Easter Vigil. Our liturgy tonight includes the Easter sermon of the fifth-century Saint Euthymius. We Western Christians tend to think that Jesus spent three days just being dead, lying quietly in the tomb. Eastern Christians believe that Jesus spent that same time tearing Hell apart, breaking doors and locks and chains, freeing all those who had been bound by death, starting with Adam and Eve, our first parents. Euthymius’ sermon invites us into that moment – the moment when Jesus breaks down the doors of Hell and calls the dead back into life. Arise, work of my hands! This is the night!

Our liturgy tonight includes, too, the words of the fourth-century saint John Chrysostom, who playfully and joyfully invites us into the great feast of God’s saving grace. You that have been faithful long, you that are new to God’s grace, you that have fasted faithfully, and you that have… not, celebrate this day! Join in this banquet of grace! For Death is conquered and Christ is arisen! This is the night!

And then our Eucharistic prayer does what it always does – it makes us God’s people, once and always. We are one with our ancestors in faith as the prayer recounts, again, God’s work in human history and human lives: “When our disobedience took us far from you, you did not abandon us to the power of death… In your mercy you came to our help, so that in seeking you we might find you. Again and again you called us into covenant with you… and in the fullness of time you sent us your only Son to be our Savior.”

This is the night. Time and space collapse to one moment, one place, one people. We are one with the communion of saints, all God’s people past, present, and yet to come; we are one with all those who celebrate this feast tonight, near and far. The light in your hand isn’t just a candle – it’s the light of Christ returning to the world. The affirmation of our baptismal vows becomes our opportunity to say YES. YES to the story, the light, the mystery, the hope.

We are God’s people, once and always. We will be God’s people, saved and saving, loved and loving.  This is the night, the fulcrum of history. The story – all the stories, the whole story – is about us. It’s ours. It’s true. It’s beautiful. And most of all, it’s now.

Church Seasons & Holy Days, Sermons

Sermon, March 20

Imagine the scene, as Luke tells it in his Gospel. Jesus is seated on a young donkey – maybe his feet nearly scrape the ground. A few cloaks tossed over its back offer a makeshift saddle. His friends and followers are crowded around him, a ragtag bunch,men and women and kids, people of all ages and all stations in life. They’re just outside one of the gates of Jerusalem, the city of David with its ancient walls of golden stone. A crowd has gathered to greet him – the poor, the desperate, the hopeful, the angry. They’ve heard so much about Jesus, this preacher and wonder-worker from Galilee.They hope he may be the promised Messiah, who will throw out the Romans and bring them the fulness of God’s saving power. In excitement and hope, they’re casting their cloaks down on the road. The other three Gospels say they cast down branches, too. Think of the red carpet for royalty or movie stars,the ancient symbolism of creating a special pathway for an honored person.

The donkey stumbles unwillingly forward, crushing leaves under its hooves, grinding cloaks into the dirt, while the gathered crowd cries out, Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven! (That last bit is only in Luke’s account of this scene; he is intentionally inviting his readers to remember the words of the angels announcing Jesus’ birth, way back in chapter 2 – ‘Glory to God in the highest heaven,   and on earth peace among those whom he favours!’)

So: is that scene in your mind? The dusty road strewn with clothes and branches?The chaotic eager shouting crowd? The solemn man seated awkwardly on the too-small donkey?…

Now, place that scene, that little cluster, on a stage. A big stage. Big enough to dwarf this little gathering. And behind our cluster of the humble and hopeful, there is a huge, brightly-colored backdrop,showing another scene happening that very day, elsewhere in Jerusalem, outside another city gate. The Roman governor of the province of Judea,the territory of the Jews, is arriving in Jerusalem. Leaving his luxurious seaside villa up north to put in an appearance at the capital. No donkeys here; big, fine horses for the Governor and his generals, while the soldiers march on foot – that disciplined, steady, united march that carries Roman troops and Roman rule inexorably into Israel, Egypt, Syria, France, Germany, Britain, and beyond.

Today the Great Empire arrives in Jerusalem – to make sure the presence of Rome is felt as the Jews celebrate their feast of Passover. Keep your little customs, says Rome, they do no harm; but as you celebrate this feast of freedom from bondage,as you remember thwarting Pharaoh and escaping Egypt, just remember who’s your master now. The God-Emperor on his throne in Rome recalls the God-King Pharaoh, and his hardness of heart; but Rome will not make Egypt’s mistakes. Rome is stronger than Egypt ever was.

Today the Great Empire arrives in Jerusalem – embodied in Pontius Pilate, the Governor, seated high on his horse,dressed in clean bright colors. Hard-eyed and unimpressed. Embodied in the golden letters SPQR on tall standards carried among the troops, the letters that proclaim Rome the capital of the world, the center of civilization and power. Embodied in the pounding rhythm of the soldier’s feet, the creak of leather armor, the clank of helmets and weapons, the blinding flash of bright impassive sunlight on shields and swords and spears.

There is a crowd here too, to witness the panoply, the power. I don’t think they’re shouting words of welcome or praise – or maybe only a few, those currying favor with the power that rules the world, those who believe their own people don’t deserve independence and appreciate the Romans’ strong law and order approach. Most stand silent, unwilling to praise this “heresy on horseback,”  the god of Roman imperial might, that dares to stand against the God of the Jews, who is the God of everything, all places, all peoples. Most stand silent, children held close lest they dart out in front of that remorseless force, and be trampled underfoot. The people watch the Governor arrive. Awed. Curious. Resentful. Afraid.

See how humble, how tawdry, Jesus’ parade and welcome seem, against that backdrop of color, power, and pomp. But see, too, with both Triumphal Entries on the stage – see the light that Pilate’s arrival casts on Jesus’s. See the irony of the plainly-dressed dusty man on the donkey. See the dark and risky joke that Jesus is telling.

Placing the backdrop of Pilate’s ceremonial arrival behind Jesus on his borrowed donkey is the work of New Testament scholars Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan. They remind us – as Palm Sunday and Good Friday should always remind us – that Jesus’ teaching, his actions, the witness of his life,was both spiritual and political. That Jesus, God among us, was deeply concerned with both the ordering of human hearts and the ordering of human societies.

Debie Thomas wrote about Borg and Crossan’s vision of the day in a 2015 essay called “The Clown King.” She writes that Jesus’ little parade was “an act of political theater, an anti-imperial demonstration designed to mock the obscene pomp and circumstance of Rome…a procession of the ridiculous, the powerless,[and] the explicitly vulnerable.”

Did word of Jesus’ little joke reach Pilate, once he’d settled in at the Governor’s palace in Jerusalem? Did spitting in the face of Rome help ensure that Rome would say Yes to Jesus’ execution, when the chief priests appealed to Pilate for help? Maybe.

I wonder, looking at the smaller scene, the dustier, livelier scene: Did the crowd get the joke? I’m sure many of them did – maybe all of them. You could hardly be unaware of the power of Rome and its symbolic enactment in events like the Governor’s arrival in the city. Everyone would have known Pilate was on his way. These are the people who chose to come meet Jesus, instead.

I find that changes how I imagine the mood, the faces of the crowd. It turns their enthusiasm from tent-revival innocence to a fierce bitter hopefulness not unlike what you hear and see and feel in the the crowds that gather in downtown Madison from time to time.These are people who understood that Jesus was holding up a mirror to the soulless and heartless power of Rome, the power of all human kingdoms. That with his toes dragging the ground on that poor little donkey, he was showing them the emptiness, the absurdity, of all that nonsense.

I think that crowd got the joke. Do we? Two processions, two crowds, welcoming two leaders, representing two very different kingdoms. Thomas writes, “Stallion or donkey? Armor or humor? Emperor or clown? Which will I choose?”

Remember how much Jesus’ choice cost him. Which will we choose?

You can read Debie Thomas’ essay in full here:  http://www.journeywithjesus.net/Essays/20150323JJ.shtml