FB Reflection: Holy anger

Good Sunday morning, comrades in the struggle to stay on The Way. It's a lovely morning here but it is only 43 degrees. My mood, however, is a closer match to the cold than the bright sunshine that Mother Nature is providing.

I know. It's Sunday. I'm headed off to church. I should really get my act together. But, I'm frustrated. I feel like Jesus in this morning's gospel. The disciples are busy oohing and aahing over the large stones and Jesus is trying to get them to focus on what is and what is to come.

My heart is breaking after yet another conversation with another gay or trans friend who is planning to leave the country because they are so afraid of what will happen. This is especially so for my trans friends who fear that they will not be able to get their medication, but are more afraid of the violence that will soon increase, putting their very lives in danger.

I am angry about those friends of mine who caution me about my anger, who are made uncomfortable by it, who want me to "calm down" and "spend some time in quiet".

As if I haven't.

I think I'm most upset by the very noble posts on FB, made mostly by white men and some women of privilege, who post memes about being kind and having empathy or write lofty prayers about having our will bent to the will of God.

I always get a bit nudgy when the language of "my will bending to God's will" gets trotted out. In my experience, it's never about God's will but the writer's understanding or expectation about what God's will is which he seems to know precisely what that is for me, which is pretty much that I "behave" in a way that stops making him nudgy.

So, in my morning meditation, I searched for a few minutes to find Audre Lorde's book. I always find great comfort and affirmation and inspiration in "Sister Outsider". I've posted three of my favorite quotes, but I think the one that speaks most clearly to me this morning is:

"I can not hide my anger to spare your guilt, nor hurt feelings, nor answering anger; for to do so trivializes all our efforts."

An image keeps returning to me of an old woman I met in the Cardiac Unit at Mass General Hospital when I was doing my second unit of CPE in seminary.

She was Roman Catholic and, in Boston, we were not allowed by hospital policy, to see any Roman Catholic patients. So, I was talking to the patient in the bed next to her when her priest came in. He was a fairly corpulent cleric, all full of cheer and "joy in the Lord."

"Hey, Mary," he called. "How are we doing?"

"Well, Father," she said, "I'm going to have open heart surgery. They tell me they are going to crack my chest and that I'll be in a fair amount of pain after. So, you know, I'm pretty scared."

"Scared?" the good Father roared, "no need to be scared. Have a little faith, Mary! God will be with you. Here, now I'll say a prayer and give you communion."

And, he did and then left in the same swirl of "joy in the Lord" in which he arrived.

The woman sat in her bed, weeping softly. My patient looked at me and said, "Go to her."

I knew I was breaking the rule. I knew I could have been "written up" for my "behavior". I knew the incident could be reported to my bishop and the Commission on Ministry.

My head knew all that but my heart informed my feet to move and I found myself over at Mary's bedside. "Well, that was quite something, wasn't it?" I asked qently. "You okay?"

She smiled and looked deep into my eyes and said, "Well, the good news is that, as afraid as I am, I'm not half as afraid as him."

"Ah," said I, "let's talk about being afraid."

And, for the next half hour, we did, my Protestant patient joining in the conversation with Mary and me so I wouldn't be in so much trouble.

Mary's words give me a bit of an insight into my siblings’ intense need to tell us about "quiet" and "calm" and "bending our will to God's will" and "empathy".

They're talking to themselves. They're saying what they need to hear for themselves. Understanding that, I can find empathy. For them. Not for those who delight in oppressing me, or sticking their finger in my wound, or shrug their shoulders about the obscenity of the incoming administration's cabinet because, well, you know, "the economy will be better".

I have empathy for the oppressors because I know, as James Baldwin taught, that prejudice, bigotry and race hatred may harm the body of its targets, it also rots the soul of the oppressor.

So, I'm just going to take my pissed-off self to church this morning and ask God to bless my anger and help me to find a channel for it to "make some noise" and "make some good trouble, some necessary trouble".

I'm going to pray for the wisdom and courage to follow The Way of Jesus, especially as I see him respond to the disciples' "Idolatry of the Stones" by not backing down and not giving up on his vision of what is and what will be.

He stays focused. God help me stay focused and not be deterred, even by my own anger and frustration.

Help me to discern and listen more closely to your voice rather than the well-intentioned voices that ask me to listen to them.

Help me to know that my anger is a holy gift.

It is the divine spark to challenge evil.

It is the energy to bring about change.

It is the vehicle to find hope.

In other words, I'm going to take care of myself in the best way I know how: To bring my whole self before the altar of God and ask God to bless me and my integrity and my authenticity and help me be more of myself and more of the person God created me to be.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

Good trouble, necessary trouble

Good Saturday morning, dear companions in the long, ongoing struggle for truth, justice, and the will and the courage to stay on The Way.

I've been looking at the lectionary lessons for tomorrow, Sunday, the 26th Sunday after Pentecost. The Sunday before the Sunday of The Sovereignty of Christ. Two Sundays before the first Sunday of Advent. (Can you believe it????)

Here's what I'm looking at:

Track 1
1 Samuel 1:4-20
1 Samuel 2:1-10
Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18) 19-25
Mark 13:1-8

They're all here https://www.lectionarypage.net/YearB_RCL/Pentecost/BProp28_RCL.html

G'won over and peruse them. It'll help you understand what it is I'm talking about. I'll wait. Promise.

Hi, welcome back. So, I don't know what popped out at you but after about the third time through, my eyes were opened to see four very different models of spiritual leadership, four different ways of being a priest, ordained or baptized member of the Priesthood of All Believers.

The first is Eli. To be fair and honest, a man of his time: A real misogynist. He uses his power and authority in arrogance and judgment. He can't hear Hannah's fervent prayer. He thinks Hannah is drunk. He's wrong. To his credit, his heart does soften to her the perils of her state and offers her hope and assurance.

The second is Hannah. Oh, just listen to the power of her song! She has suffered and been relieved. She has dared to hope and dream and her hopes and dreams have been fulfilled. And from that place of deep gratitude, she invites everyone into the song. She asks everyone to pick up their timbrel, clap their hands, and rejoice in the small and large victories of life.

A thought: You know that Mary had learned the songs of Miriam, Deborah, and Hannah which shaped and formed her own song of praise. And, you just know that, from the earliest times of his hearing, Jesus listened to all of these songs. It shaped and formed him, too. His "Lord's Prayer" echoes the notes of the songs of all of these women.

Anyway, onto the author of Hebrews - whoever he was or she who influenced his writing. What a great model of priesthood. Listen to some of the words of pastoral encouragement:

+ hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering
+ consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds
+ not neglecting to meet together
+ encouraging one another

I don't know about you, but in these very dark days of uncertainty and the intentional provocation of fear, I need to hear these words.

I hear the words of John Lewes, who also asked us not to be afraid but to provoke each other into "good trouble, necessary trouble." I'm feeling that call very deeply right now. I don't know about you, but even as I grieve, I feel I am being "provoked" to tough love and hope and community and encouragement of myself and others.

I also hear the words of Blessed George Regas, one-time rector of All Saints, Pasadena, and Giant of Justice, who encouraged us by saying, "The way we get where we're going is to set audacious goals and celebrate incremental victories."

And then, of course, there's Jesus, our great high priest, who is out with his disciples who are dazzled by the Very Big Stones in the Very Big Buildings. It's what one commentator called "The Idolatry of The Stones." (PS He wasn't talking about The Rolling Stones. Or, the other stones, either.)

Jesus is telling his disciples not to be distracted but to stay focused. Stay the course. He says,

"Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birthpangs.”

The disciples can't see it. They won't be able to see it for a long time. We can't see it either. Not with tears in our eyes and anxiety in our hearts. We won't be able to see it for a long time. But we will. We will.

The leadership we see of Jesus in this passage is that of the Prophet - the ability to see ahead and offer hope and consolation and teaching and guidance NOW.

Four different ways of leadership in tough times.

One way is that of reexamining your assumptions, softening your heart, changing your mind, and offering comfort and hope.

One way is subverting the dominant paradigm of power and walking through suffering and oppression with your head held high, not taking on anyone else's definition of who you are. Indeed, inviting others into gratitude and celebration.

One way is being a provocateur of love and good trouble; to be part of a community of love and encouragement, even if it's you who has to call that community together.

And finally, the way of being prophetic, calling people away from the idolatry of the now and the big and the shiny, and guiding them to remember who they are and whose they are and to hold fast to their values and beliefs.

One way or all four ways. Choose one. Or, two. Or, all. Whatever your choice, whether you are ordained or laity, know that you have ancient models of how to be baptized members of The Priesthood of All Believers.

I'm going to leave you with some words from someone I thing embodies all four models of Priestly, Prophetic Leadership. Bishop Steve Charleston wrote these words in 2018. Listen:

"No task is too great when you have the Spirit beside you, no call to leadership beyond what you can do. No challenge is too difficult, no goal too distant, no hope too much of a long shot. You have the sacred up your sleeve. You have the wisdom, patience, and vision you need to gather others to support the work at hand. Even time can be bent for you. Plans can be changed. Do not wring your hands before the demands of your situation, but raise them in prayer. Get the holy alliance of hope and determination going and see for yourself what is possible when faith leads the way."

I hope something good happens to you today. (How could it not? Remember, "You have the sacred up your sleeve," and "Even time can be bent for you.")

Bom dia!

A Lament

This reflection is about lament. It's a little long, so if your tolerance is short, best to scroll on by right now.

Before I begin, I want to tell you briefly about my understanding of a biblical lament. A lament is understood as a form of prayer that involves expressing sorrow, regret, or unhappiness, and then calling out to God. It's a way to process pain and find hope.

Far from being a 'pity party' or a time of self-indulgence, a lament is a way to reconstruct meaning in the very midst of suffering. It is a way to shape faith after it has been shattered.

A lament is a transformative way to understand God's character and actions. It is decidedly NOT passive but its power lies in its raw authenticity and deep integrity.

Classic biblical laments, like Psalm 13 and the Book of Job end with a decision to trust in God, which allows the psalmist to even sing God's praise.

This is a lament. These days, I am feeling a little like Hannah on the steps of the Temple. We're going to read a wee bit of her story this Sunday. (1 Samuel 1:4-20) Well, if you follow Track I in the lectionary.

Hannah had a good husband, one who loved and cherished
her, but she was unable to bear a child - a son - which was a woman's only insurance in antiquity.

So she went to the Temple and, in her despair, cried out to God, begging to deliver her from her fragile and vulnerable situation, promising God that the male child she would have would be dedicated solely to God.

In her despair, she was praying but not aloud. Her lips were moving but she made no sound. She didn't need to. Her lament was addressed directly to God.

Eli, the Temple priest, saw her there, on the Temple steps. He couldn't hear what she was saying so, of course, thought the worst. He thought she was drunk.

So, he yelled at her. Chastized her. Shamed her. Told her she was disgracing herself and to put away the wine.

Sound familiar? Anyone? I'm betting lots of women know similar stories and have been in similar places and spaces like Hannah.

We know about this kind of misogyny as well as the everyday, run-of-the-mill "micro-oppression." The side-glances. The dismissive tone they are unable to hear as such because they are really, seriously, honestly, being sincere. Bless their hearts.

I am so tired - so sick and bloody tired of being sick and bloody tired - of being told to be still, be quiet and listen - especially "listen to/for" The Spirit.

Here's the thing: I HAVE been listening. The problem is that Episcopalians have been carefully taught - lulled into believing - that The Spirit sounds "like the murmur of the dove's song." And, don't we just love to clap our hands and sway to "The Sweet, Sweet, Spirit in this place"?

Of course, we do, and this is not to deny that the Holy Spirit can sound like both of those things. But, if you've not met Shekinah Spirit, let me introduce you.

Shekinah is a Hebrew word that refers to the divine presence of God, or the visible manifestation of God's presence among Her people. The word is a transliteration of a Hebrew word that means "the one who dwells" or "that which dwells".

Shekinah is known as "the divine feminine spirit," but don't ever confuse her for a lady with an apron, pearls, and proper pumps who serves tea from a silver tea set.

Shekinah is a badass woman. You do not want to mess with her.

Ah, think I've lost it? Think I've gone over the edge? Think my anger has driven me a bit mad? Well, I have sisters who know better. Sisters - mostly of color - who have taught me about her.

Kristen Johnson Ingram describes her this way: "Shekinah takes other names. She is Shabbat, she is Presence and she is Spirit, the Hebrew Ruach.

In the beginning, Breath or Spirit or Wind rippled over the face of the womb of creation, brooded over and within the womb, stirred the waters to break and gush out and let God give birth to everything."

"She has come as Wind, a passionate intuition, as a blinding light, and a breath-sucking presence. This ain't no handmaiden but a queen, not whispering but crying out like a hoyden in the streets, bringing no consolation but urgency of motion."

I've been listening to her, Shekinah. Hers is no dove murmuring a song. She is howling like a wounded animal for all of her children who have been and will be harmed and injured. She is roaring like a lion because Her pride is threatened by predators, frauds, and thieves who are now in the highest positions of power.

This is my lament to her, as I sit outside the Temple, on the steps. It is based on Psalm 13 and the writings of Kristen Johnson Ingram and inspired by our sister Hannah.

How long, O Presence of God, will you hide your face?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts?
How long will I be mocked and derided?
How long will all that I abhor triumph over me?

Help me not to run from the fire of Divine Love
Let me not settle for warmth but to burn with passion.
Help me live up to your demand to be w/holy as you are.
Consume me - swallow me alive - so I can be more of myself
than I ever dreamed I could be

Help me to eat, yes, a little of this bread,
Help me to drink, yes, a little of this wine.
just to wash it down so I'll grow strong.
Breathe on me until I am filled with your Holy Spirit
Make me fit for the Realm of God.

I sing your praise because you are badass.
You will not let your daughters suffer
nor your sons commit abominations.
I will sing your praise as a song for the journey
As I turn my passion into compassion
and work to bring your justice, your peace
into a world that is broken and dark and
in need of your Light.

This is my lament. Amen.


NOTE: "Hannah on the Temple Steps." Image by Carrie Kleinberger, an "imaginative realist" from Minnesota, she retired from a 21-year career as a public defender for Juvenile and Family Court in Ramsey and Washington Counties in 2001 and works in oil on canvas and on wood panels.

Job and Marcellus Williams

A Saturday morning Reflection on Facebook.

Good Saturday morning good friends of the Autumnal Season. It was a difficult night of sleep last night so we're moving slowly around here this morning. Even our sweet puppies, Eliot and Olivia, are taking long naps.

By the grace and mercy of God or St. Michael or St. Gabriel or Peter Pan or Tinkerbell, or whoever is in charge of these sorts of things in the cosmos this weekend, I am not preaching on Sunday or have any liturgical duties or responsibilities.

Even so, I find that the story of Job - the first lesson in Track I of the lectionary - has been with me all week. It's the story in scripture - though not of real characters - of the epic battle between good and evil, God and Satan.

The richness of the story which lends its durability comes from its many layers of human behavior and deistic thought. It's a story about the problems of monotheism in a pluralistic culture, and the role of community - Job's "friends" - in the midst of great unmerited, inexplicable, and monstrous suffering.

The story raises more questions than provides answers:

Why do bad things happen to good people? How could a loving God be so casually cruel and use such unjustifiable tyranny? What is required of faith in the presence of Evil when we believe the source to be a 'test' from God?

What is to be done about the problem of Evil? Does it come about because God can be so easily seduced by Lucifer? Is it a real entity or a spirit that blows into the soul of a human being, wreaking havoc and mayhem, leading them to make impossible choices for good or ill?

I've been thinking back to when I was newly ordained and hearing the story of a man who had been ordained a deacon with the apostolate of prison ministry and was studying for the priesthood.

Here's the thing: the aspirant for holy orders was serving a life sentence for the murder of his wife and the attempted murder of his infant son.

In 1967, Vaughn Brooks, a 25-year old Black man and member of the historically Black Church, St. Thomas' Church in West Philadelphia, came home at 4 AM after a night of card playing and beer drinking "with the boys," and observed a man leaving his apartment.

When he confronted his wife, Annabelle, she told him that the man had been her lover and that the 15-month old male child asleep in the nursery - Vaughn, Jr. - was not his son but the child she had conceived with her lover.

Mr. Brooks left the room, retrieved his bow and arrow, returned to the bedroom, and let five arrows fly - two to her neck and two to her chest. They entered her body with such force that she was pinned to the mattress.

He said, "I think what was going through my mind was that I was going to kill my whole family."

He then went to the nursery and started to strangle the infant he had thought was his son but then "something made him stop" and he revived the child.

He claims no memory of the confession he scribbled on the kitchen wall -- a few short sentences distinguished by the fact that he corrected his spelling.

Crossing the street, he knocked on the door of his parents' home, told them what had happened, and telephoned the police.

He confessed to murder and was sentenced to life in prison at the Pennsylvania State Correctional Institution outside of Philadelphia. While there, Vaughn came to the attention of the Rev. Frederick F. Powers, an institutional chaplain with Episcopal Community Services of the Pennsylvania Diocese.

Chaplain Powers detected in Booker what the Bishop described as a “serious interest” in the church. The chaplain gave the prisoner some basic studies in the Bible and theology and endorsed him as a lay reader to assist in services at the prison.

At Chaplain Powers's urging, the Right Rev. Robert L. DeWitt, bishop of PA, visited the inmate in prison and reported that he had been impressed by Booker's “earnestness and intelligence.”

After the advice and counsel of the Commission on Ministry and with the approval of the Standing Committee, Bishop DeWitt approved Booker for postulancy.

After a two-year course of study supervised by four priests, he was ordained deacon and then priest.

Eventually, Booker was paroled and released from prison and was called to serve as rector of Meade Memorial Church in Alexandria, VA.

Booker - then 50 years old, three months ordained, nine years removed from the Pennsylvania penal system, a convicted murderer and a priest of God - preached his first sermon.

He offered no further details but disclosed his crime indirectly, preaching of Moses, who murdered an Egyptian and buried his body; David, who lusted for Bathsheba and gave the orders that led to her husband's slaughter; and Paul, who minded the cloaks at Stephen's stoning and "was consenting unto his death."

Each of these biblical heroes, Booker said, was stained by the gravest of sins. Each was redeemed through the extravagant forgiveness of God.

"Scripture tells us that there is great cheering and great celebration in heavenly skies when the sinner who was lost is found," he said.

Meade Memorial Church- which had not had a pastor for 18 years or a Black pastor for 25 years - erupted in cheers.

How does it happen? How does the man who pulled the bowstring rise to become an Episcopal priest, entrusted with the souls of an entire community? And why does his wife's ghastly murder endure, for some, as the first act in a parable of divine mercy rather than the last act in a parable of divine indifference?

I have those questions written down in the chapter of Job in the copy of the Bible I used for study while I was in seminary.

All these many years later, I still have the same answer:

I don't know.

I do know that, all these many years later, I still need to learn lessons about my vulnerability and weakness and the strength of the divine spark within me to claim those two human qualities as companions who know the pathway to God.

I still need to learn what the story of Job has to teach me about mutual interdependency, compromise, and what constitutes "help" before I take my leave.

I think there is a key to these lessons in what Jesus has to say in Mark's Gospel for Sunday:

"Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.”

And then, and THEN, scripture tells us, Jesus "took them (the little children) up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them."

I think the mystery of THAT love, the love that is a reflection of "love divine, all loves excelling" may well be the only answer we ever receive to Job's questions.

On this side of the veil, anyway.

Off I go into this day. My heart is filled with gratitude for the love of family and friends and all the lessons life brings us in all its peculiar and unexpected ways.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

PS:

Marcellus Williams, recently put to death in a Missouri State Prison who was, even by the prosecutor's tell, an innocent man, wrote this poem which was read by Helen Mirren. His final words before his death were "All Praise Be to Allah in Every Situation!!!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgBkYPWZ0xY

For a time such as this

 

Queen Esther (אֶסְתֵּר Hadassah) by Edwin Long

"For Such A Time As This"
St. John the Evangelist Episcopal Church, Milton, DE
Pentecost XIV - Proper 21 B
September 29, 2024

Esther 7:1-6, 9-10; 9:20-22
Psalm 124
James 5:13-20
Mark 9:38-50

Of course, I could be wrong, but I think it was Walter Brueggemann who said, “I take the bible too seriously to take it literally.” There is lots of humor in the bible but we miss it because we take it too literally. Take, for example, this morning’s Gospel. Granted, you have to embroider the story a little bit to find the humor, but stay with me and let’s find it together.

Jesus and his disciples have been walking together through Galilee and the Villages of Caesarea Philippi (which sounds to me like one of the many new suburban developments somewhere in Sussex County), through Capernaum. Along the way, the disciples have been talking amongst themselves about “who is the greatest”.  

Jesus says, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” He tells them that the Realm of God must be entered “as vulnerable as a little child.”

This morning, we hear John say to Jesus, “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” Did you catch that? John did not say, “He was not following YOU.” No, John said, “Not following US.”

Again, with the inflated ego. Follow US, not Jesus. Now, in my religious imagination, I think Mark left out a verse. Or, maybe someone coming after him decided that, since it was such a short verse, it could be dropped. But, I think that in between what John said and how Jesus answers could have probably been one of the most powerful short sentences in scripture since the verse, “And, Jesus wept.”

I think that before Jesus goes into the obvious hyperbole about tying millstones around the necks of people, and cutting off feet and hands and plucking out eyes, is probably the verse: “And, Jesus did a facepalm.”

I mean, seriously! How dense are these apostles? Well, probably about as dense as those of us who take the bible so literally that there have been those who have actually tied millstones around necks of people and watched them drown, or literally cut off body parts, comforted by their self-righteousness that they were only following the words of Jesus.  

The Bible has many funny moments—though you might not know it from the history of Christian interpretation. Nietzsche’s biggest complaint about Christians is that we are a joyless people. Theologian Paul Tillich said he almost left Christianity for the same reason.

One of the best examples of humor in the bible, not as well-known as the story of Jonah and the Whale, is the story of Esther. That reading was one of the options we have for today’s lesson from Hebrew Scripture, but since it was not chosen, allow me a few minutes to summarize the book for you, with the encouragement that you take a few moments out of your afternoon Sabbath, find your bible, dust it off, and read the Book of Esther. You won’t be disappointed. I promise.

I want to use the story of Esther because I think Jesus knew it and understood the tool of hyperbole as a way of making a point. And it certainly seems that the disciples need a verbal hit upside the head to understand something about leadership and ministry.

Fair warning: You may miss the humor in the book if you are reading it with your Victorian scruples intact. The great Protestant theologian Calvin didn’t include Esther in his biblical commentaries. And, the great theologian of the Reformation, Martin Luther, felt it had “too much pagan naughtiness.”

So, admit it. Now you want to run home and read it, right?

So, here's a brief summary: The Book of Esther tells the story celebrated at The Jewish Festival of Purim. It’s the story of how Queen Esther and her cousin Mordecai saved the Jewish people from the plot of the wicked Haman, who was advisor to the Persian King Ahasuerus and who tried to have the Jews destroyed.

Understand: they are Jews living in the Persian diaspora. They are there because they were under threat of genocide, living in a place where the religion at the time was a sort of dualism. Persians worshipped one Supreme God with occasional rare mentions of other Gods. Their Satan was elevated to a much higher power and position, a near equal and opposite to God.
 
Esther is not your typical saint. She doesn’t conduct herself like someone who is zealous about the law, yet she becomes a Jewish heroine. She doesn’t rise up from unsavory circumstances ringed with white blossoms of purity like St. Agnes, who was thrown into a brothel but remained, miraculously, immaculate. Esther is decidedly not a heroine of the nunnish type.

She becomes a heroine because she takes a bold risk of faith. Queen Esther decides to speak to the King about Haman’s plan to kill all the Jews even though an appearance at the King’s Court, without an invitation, is punishable by death. It’s the words of her uncle Mordecai that inspire her:

“For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:14)

Who knows but that you have come to your position for such a time as this? I don’t know about you, but I hear an echo of Mordecai’s words in the admonition of Jesus to the apostles:

“Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us.” (Mark 9:38-41)

We also hear an echo of this position in the words of James, the brother of Jesus, which we heard this morning:

“My brothers and sisters, if anyone among you wanders from the truth and is brought back by another, you should know that whoever brings back a sinner from wandering will save the sinner's soul from death and will cover a multitude of sins.” (James 5:13-19)

Whoever brings back a sinner from wandering.

Whoever is not against us is for us.

And, who knows that you have come to your position for such a time as this?

My friends, hear me: I know you are grieving this morning. I am keenly aware that last Sunday was your farewell to your beloved Pastor Tom. Your Senior Warden and I discussed this when we talked about my being with you this morning. As a Hospice Chaplain, I am well acquainted with the workings of grief. I know that the hearts of many of you are probably feeling a bit tender and sore. You are grieving and anxious and that is to be understood.

I know Tom came to you when you were not feeling loved or loveable. I know his love for you built up this congregation from a mere 15 to, at times, 75 – more at High Holy Days. I know some of you are afraid that you will never find another priest and pastor to love you the way Pastor Tom did. It’s going to be hard to trust anyone – me, other supply clergy, your interim priest, or even your new rector when she or he comes.

That’s a reasonable anxiety because here’s the hard truth: There will never be another Pastor Tom. But, here’s another truth: That does not mean that you are not loveable or that you will never find someone to love you again.

Here's another truth: In the midst of the pain of grief and anxiety of the unknown, sometimes we confuse taking things literally with taking things seriously. They are not the same. Taking things literally can cost you one of the strongest medicines known to the entire human enterprise: Laughter.

It’s so important not to take things literally but not so seriously that you lose the ability to laugh at yourself. Don’t be afraid to do a facepalm at yourself every now and again. I have no doubt that Jesus did. Because Jesus knew what it was to be human.

Voltaire said it best: "God is a comedian playing to an audience that is too afraid to laugh.”

Now, even now, God has already prepared people who will be raised up “for such a time as this”. There are those among you who learned the lessons of love of the past decade and are willing to take the risks of faith to trust others. Now, even now, God is already preparing leaders, laity and ordained, “for such a time as this” who will walk with you into the future.
 
In the midst of your grief and sorrow – which is good and right and proper for you to experience because you have had a great loss – know that we are people of the Eucharist and Resurrection. We are people of Thanksgiving and Life Eternal. God will never leave us comfortless. Be assured by the words of our Eucharistic liturgy during a funeral:

“. . . . for we know that life is changed, not ended.”

Life is changed, not ended. That includes our congregational life.

Know that there are Esthers and Mordecais, Eldads and Medads, and Joshua son of Nun, and yes, Hamans and unruly Kings among us. There are also wise teachers like James and Moses, and those who understand the hyperbole in the words of Jesus teaching who can help us laugh at ourselves and do a facepalm when that’s exactly the medicine we need to take.

Open your heart to it all, my friends. Nobody ever looked back and said, “I could have loved less.” Open your heart even though it makes you as vulnerable as a child.

For such is the Realm of God.

For such a time as this.

Amen.

Like a child

 

St. Mark's Episcopal Church - Millsboro, DE
Pentecost XVIII - Proper XX - September 22, 2024

Track 1
Proverbs 31:10-31 Psalm 1 James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a Mark 9:30-37

Some of you may already know – and, if you don’t, you will soon discover – that Ted, your new Priest in Charge, is a big fan of Amy Jill Levine. Huge. I don’t know what he has in store for your Advent Christian Education Series, but I am willing to bet solid money that it – and/or a few of his sermons – will at least include some of Amy Jill Levine’s work.

There is good reason for this. Amy Jill Levine rocks. Hard. AJ (as she prefers to be called) is Professor of New Testament and Jewish Studies at Hartford International University for Religion and Peace. Yes, I said, New Testament AND Jewish Studies. If you stop and think about that for a minute, you’ll see that it isn’t so strange.

The Gospels are all about the teachings of a Rabbi from Nazareth and the Epistles were written by Jewish men. Who better to help us understand the teachings of the Rabbi we follow than a good Rabbinical scholar?

I’ve heard AJ lecture several times. She’s really good: smart and funny and edgy and provocative. She’s a lot like Jesus. During one of her lectures, Levine told us about her son. He was a little boy at the time. He had curly hair, she said. Altogether adorable. Imagine that little boy is sitting in the front row every time you preach, she said. Right there in front of you. Never say anything that will harm that little Jewish boy.

I remember that statement so vividly because I remember preaching in front of my own kids when they were little. I remember thinking that I never wanted to preach a sermon that they would be ashamed of – or that would shame any one of them. Or, that wouldn’t be the truth spoken from my heart. Never say anything that will harm a little child.

In this morning’s gospel, Jesus takes a little child by the hand and says to the disciples, See this child? This child right here? This is what the reign of God looks like. THIS, not some old man or old woman with a crown sitting on a throne.

I know what you’re thinking. Children don’t have any status. They are little more than chattel, which can be bought and sold like the women who are their mothers – despite what we read this morning from the Book of Wisdom about wives.
And yet, this is what the reign of God looks like. This is who the reign of God belongs to. So, says Jesus, wise up and welcome them.

But, the disciples, it seems were pretty clueless. There are 16 chapters in Mark’s Gospel. We’re at chapter 9 – more than half way through. Jesus has said and done lots of things. Amazing things. Astounding things. Miraculous things. And yet, the disciples don’t get it.

After Jesus explains to them – albeit in the third person – about what is going to happen to him, Mark tells us that they had been arguing among themselves about who was the greatest. Seriously! Apparently, the boxer Muhammed Ali was not the first to concern himself with the status of the greatest. Apparently, he isn’t the last. Probably won’t be, either.

I imagine the disciples look at themselves rather sheepishly. I mean, who started that conversation anyway? Was it Peter? Nah, he really hadn’t been the same since Jesus changed his name from Simon. It had to be the Sons of Thunder, James and John. They might have been thinking, “Why did we allow ourselves to get caught up in that discussion in the first place?”

That’s when Jesus, rather than rebuke them, takes a little child by the hand. Maybe the little boy or girl was standing nearby. Maybe playing with a toy. Maybe minding her own business. Maybe paying close attention to the energy in the room. Jesus takes that little one and puts her center stage. I imagine the room goes silent.

Taking the child in his arms, Jesus says to the disciples, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

You see this child? This face? These curls? Keep them in front of you, Jesus says. Let them be your guide to my reign. Don’t do anything that will hinder or harm them. Look to them first, before you speak or offer admission or try to describe what I came here to do. This little one is all you need to know about that. Keep her safe. Keep him safe. And know that whenever you welcome one of these little ones, you welcome me and the One who sent me.

Not a lot of churches I help out in these days have a child – much less children – sitting in the pew. Sometimes, when I look out at you, sitting there in the congregation, I try to imagine your faces when you were little children. If you see me looking at you while the Hebrew Scripture or Epistle is being read, that’s probably what I’m doing.

I imagine some of you were probably as mild mannered as you are today. But, there are others of you . . . . well . . . . I’ll just say this:  You didn’t develop that devilish smile or that mischievous twinkle in your eye just yesterday. And I suspect some of you were born with one hand on your hip and no one had to slip a nickel or a dime into your hand to persuade you to be bossy.

I see the child in you. The playful child. The mischievous child. I also see the child who was bullied. The child who was shamed. The child who never thought she was good enough. The child who thought he’d maybe make the team but he’d never be accepted.

I never want to hurt that child.

When I preach to you, I know that I am not only preaching to the person you are today – the person you have become – I am also preaching to the child you once were. That happy child and that hurt child are also here in this church this morning, maybe minding their own business or toying with my words, paying close attention to the energy in the church right now, trying to determine what “Mother” will say or do next.

As I prepare to preach the Gospel – the Good News – to you, I remember all of your faces and I hear Jesus whisper in my ear: This – THIS – is the realm of God. This – THIS – is what God’s reign looks like. Do everything you can to challenge them to take risks for the Gospel, but keep their souls safe. Protect them even as you encourage them to stretch themselves in their faith.

 

And, if they fall – when they fall – do everything you can to make sure someone – maybe not you, probably not you, probably not even a deacon or a priest or a bishop – but someone in the community is there to pick them up and dust them off and help them back on their way.

For that is what the realm of God looks like, too: The people of God helping the people of God to be better people of God. And that takes the vulnerability and openness of a little child. It also takes the resilience of a faith tested by time.

So, take a minute now to look around this church. Look into the faces of your neighbor sitting next to you or in front of you or behind you. Go ahead, I invite you to do that now. I invite you to say to each other, “You are an image of God.”

And now say, “This is the Reign of God.”

You know, it helps to listen to good Rabbis, those who are Jewish, those who are Christian, those who come to teach us the word of God not as one who is the greatest, but from a place of truth and love in their hearts.

Amen.

Being and Becoming

A Sermon preached at St Mark's, Millsboro

Pentecost XVII - Proper 19 B

September 15, 2024

Track 1
Proverbs1:20-33 Psalm 19 James 3:1-12 Mark 8:27-38

In this morning’s gospel, Jesus is traveling through the villages of Caesarea Philippi when he asks his disciples, "Who do you say I am?"

It’s important to listen to his answer. After he waits for his disciples to respond, Jesus doesn’t so much tell them who he is, as what he was about to become.

Let me say that again: Not who he is, but who he is to become and what he must do in order to become what he was created to be.

He also told the disciples about the process of becoming that they, themselves, must experience if they are to be known as his "followers".

Note, please: Not what he is or they are now – but who they must become and how to achieve it. And that, of course, requires sacrifice of who they are now. For Jesus, that involves death. For the disciples, it means the death of their former self and possibly their actual death.

The other night, I was preoccupied with all that is going on in the world. I couldn't really focus on anything I'm presently reading . Network television was, for me, just junk - game shows, talent contests, reruns, and political commentary, the last being pretty much a combination of the first three.

I decided to watch a British film called, "Me Before You" on streaming TV.

 

So, I'll say this and get it out of the way: Emilia Clarke plays the character Louisa Clark. How many here are a fan of Game of Thrones? I’m not just a fan, I’m a true fanatic.

Emilia is probably best known for playing the Khaleesi (or Princess), Daenerys Targaryen, a most formidable woman. She is known as the Mother of Dragons which were born in the fire of her rebirth.

Her intention is to do what she must to become the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Hers was not a baptism of water, but a transformation by fire.

One of her most famous lines - when she wasn't shouting "Dracarys," to make her dragons breathe fire - was the understanding of what she must do to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Tyrion Lannister, of House Lannister, tells her that it is an impossible task. All of her family in House Targaryen is gone. So is House Stark and none of the others will back her.

She says, “Lannister, Targaryen, Baratheon, Stark, Tyrell: they're all just spokes on a wheel. This one's on top, then that one's on top, and on and on it spins, crushing those on the ground.”

Tyrion responds, “It's a beautiful dream, stopping the wheel. You're not the first person who's ever dreamt it.”

“I'm not going to stop the wheel,” says Daenerys, “I'm going to break the wheel.”

See also: formidable woman.

So to see her go from that character to the silly, flighty, Louisa Clark in this movie, with her funky fashion and impossibly silly rage of facial expressions was, well, difficult. I almost turned it off, but I had paid $2.99 to rent it and I'm cheap so I watched.

I'm glad I did.

 

Very short synopsis: Louisa is a "quirky," irrepressible cheerful, and very kindhearted young lass in Northern UK who moves from one job to the next to help her family make financial ends meet. Her whole worldview is tested when she becomes a caregiver for Will Traynor, a wealthy young banker left paralyzed - a quadraplegic - and deeply cynical from an accident two years earlier.

He wants to go to Switzerland to be euthanized. She wants to show him that life is worth living. During their six-month relationship, they are both changed and transformed. But not in the way you might suspect.

Both have to lose their lives in order to regain them.

 

I've been thinking about that movie in terms of the question Jesus asks his disciples. I've been thinking about how we are not - tomorrow, or next week, or, for some of us, next year - who we are today. Some of us change for the good and some of us, well, life's unkindness has left some of us unkind. Or, grumpy. Or, arrogant. Or, pessimistic and depressed and cynical.

Oh, we have the basic qualities and characteristics that are part of what is referred to as our "nature" - much of which can be tempered by how we are "nurtured".

The point is that we are always becoming.

Depending on how we manage the circumstances of our lives - the curve balls and the strikes and the walks, as well as the line drives, base hits, and home runs - we become more or less of who we are and the image God had of us when we were first conceived in the mind of God.

And, that is the point of our life in Christ: to become more of who we are as we discover why it is we were born here, at this time, in this place, for this purpose.

Not all of us have grand purposes – to become President of the United States, or a research scientist who helps to put a human on a faraway planet or discovers a cure for a previously incurable disease. Not all of us will ever be an Olympian, much less win a gold, silver or bronze metal.

For some of us, it is enough that we have discovered something –  a passion, sobriety, a relationship – that has saved ourselves from disaster or catastrophe.

For some, it is enough that we exhibit courage and strength and bravery in overcoming, to the best of our abilities, an illness that may eventually take our lives.

Some of us have stopped the wheel of patterns of family destruction. Other of us have broken the wheel.

I don’t know why you come to church. I don’t know your individual stories, but I see your faces. I have looked into your eyes. I know that if you have loved, you have suffered. I know that you didn’t get here today to who you are and what you have become without some sacrifice of self.

You can not become who you are without sacrificing at least in part what you once were.

Some of us had parents, grandparents, and great grandparents who sacrificed living with their families in the land of their birth to make a new life in this country. They never knew – could, perhaps dream but not even imagine – the life we have now. Their sacrifice was not so much for themselves but for the dream they had for us before we were even conceived or born.

And that is the point Jesus is making in today’s Gospel. No, we’re not as close to sacrificing our lives as the first disciples were. No, we are not being persecuted for our faith as the early Christians were. But, to be a Christian is to always die – at least a little – to self so that we can become better followers of Christ.

Being in order to become.

Dying to self in order to more fully live in Christ.

Living this life fully until we are called by God to live fully into the gift of Life Eternal.

This morning’s scripture tells us that Jesus “called to the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

Many of you have taken up your cross and followed Jesus into this wonderful little faithful church to become The Body of Christ. The good news is that the journey did not end when you arrived and became a member of St. Mark’s, Millsboro. Indeed, by the grace of God, the journey has only just begun.

Alleluia! And let the church say, “Amen.”