What does it take?

 

 

St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Georgetown, DE

Pentecost XVI - Proper 21 

September 25, 2022

Luke’s gospel presents us with some complicated and complex and often confusing parables. What are we to make about this morning’s parable of The Rich Man and Lazarus?

Lazarus – not the friend of Jesus raised from the dead in Bethany but another man named Lazarus – (that Lazarus) ends up in heaven, and the rich man in hell. We don’t know the offense committed by the rich man that landed him in hell. Scripture tells us he had nice clothes and ate well and expected the poor to wait on him. Is being wealthy and arrogant sin?

 

Lazarus was poor, sick, and hungry; that’s really all we know about him. Did that, alone, land him a place in heaven? Or, did he do something great, something altruistic and noble that cost him everything he owned and resulted in his poverty and ill health? We don’t really know. Jesus doesn’t mention that the rich man became rich by stealing or embezzling, or that Lazarus was a great spouse and self-sacrificing father.

 

Morally, how are they different? The answer is, we don’t know.

 

Perhaps it’s not about being a scoundrel or a saint. Perhaps this is about being human and, despite how much money you have or how nice a person you are, people are just people, and God loves us all, no matter what.

 

On my last Sunday with you, I want to share one of my favorite stories about the early days of my ordination. I’ve told this story many times over the years but, for me, it never gets old. 

 

It was 1986. I was a newly ordained priest, a Chaplain at the University of Lowell in MA. And, I admit, I was feeling, well, maybe not in control but at least on top of the word. Truth be told, after three years of seminary and having passed the rigors of the ordination process, I was pretty full of myself.

It was in my capacity as a university chaplain that I first met Fr. Koumranian, the pastor at the Armenian Orthodox Church in Lowell. For some reason unknown to me, Fr. Koumranian took a liking to me – or, maybe he was simply intrigued by a “woman priest” – and decided that I should learn the “real” liturgy of the church. So, he took me under his wing in one of the most delightful and important mentor relationship I have ever known.

He was called “Father” so I, of course, became known as “Mother”. That’s not what I wanted; it’s what he insisted. He would call me and, in his heavy Armenian accent, begin, “Mother? Dees is Father. We are having baptism at church. It would be good for you to learn Divine Liturgy. It would be good for my people to see woman priest. You come.”

Mind you, that wasn’t so much an invitation as an expectation. I was thrilled. I went. Every time. No exception.

One evening, he called. “Mother? Dees is Father. Der is funeral Wednesday. It would be good for you to learn Divine Liturgy. It would be good for my people to see woman priest. You come.”

Nothing was so important that couldn’t be rearranged so that I could be there.

There was smoke. There were bells. There was chanting. I admit that I loved it all in that beautiful mosaic tile sanctuary.

When it came time for the eulogy, I looked around the church and saw that it was filled with lots of old Armenian men and women, all dressed in black. 

 

I thought sure the eulogy would be spoken in Armenian and I could meditate quietly while he preached. To my surprise, Fr. Koumranian walked into the aisle, near the casket as he began the eulogy.

“Der are people in dees world,” he said, “who are always making you happy. You see dem walking on de street and your heart leaps for joy, for dey are making you so happy.”

He put his hand reverently on the casket and said solemnly, “Dees . . . is not one of dos people.”

I was, in a word, stunned. I shut my eyes tight. All I could think was, “Don’t let my face show what I’m thinking.” Which was, “What in the heck is he doing?” When I opened my eyes, I could see the front row of women, including the man’s widow.
They were all nodding their heads in agreement.

Fr. Koumranian continued, “But, isn’t God – our God – so wonderful, dat now – even now – even one such as dees is resting eternally in de arms of Jesus? Because, you know, eets true: People is people. And, God is God.” And then he said, “Ah-min,” and sat down.

 

Sometimes, when you least expect it – but, often, when you need it most – God brings people into our lives to help put us right into our place. Fr. Koumranian, for me, was one of those people. He died many years ago, but lives on in my heart.

 

Over the past 36 years, whenever I’ve felt just a little too big for my britches, I remember this important lesson from the early days of my priesthood, and I think about the lesson Jesus taught his disciples through many parables – especially The Rich Man and Lazarus.

 

Fr. Koumranian’s greatest lesson to me was one the Rich Man neglected to learn. It is the lesson of Servant Leadership: I am – you are – here not to be served, but to serve.  Our baptism in Christ makes that clear. Those who are ordained to the priesthood – as the reading from the Book of Hebrews (5:1-10) reminds us, “according to the order of Melchizedek” – are to lead the people of God in servant ministry.

 

As Jesus himself has said to his disciples, “ . . . .whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many."

 

That has been my goal since my very first day with you – to model for you what it means to be a servant leader and lead you into servant ministry. I may not have always done that with grace and style – there have been times when my frustration has gotten the better of me, especially before I realized just how decimated the organizational, corporate infrastructure had become here at St. Paul’s – but I have always done it with the heart and mind of a servant leader.

 

I know that the leader – laity or ordained – sets the tone. I have always tried to be optimistic, energetic and enthusiastic about what I’ve seen here: The possibilities. The potential.

 

As I hear the parable of Lazarus and the Rich Man, I have come to understand that the moral measure of each person does not factor into the lesson Jesus is trying to teach. What if the most important thing on your early report card is not having been right? Or, experienced? Or, the one with the best attendance or the longest record or served as Warden or sat in the pew?

 

What if the most important thing is not being morally impeccable, but how you treat the poor? What if the worst sin is to get rich and complacent and forget about those who are suffering? To have food and shelter and be impervious to those who are hungry and homeless?

 

What if it’s not going to matter to God where we worship or even how we worshiped – whether the vestments were the right color for the liturgical season, or that there was a HVAC (heating or air conditioning) system throughout the church, or there was a state of the art sound system, or a fully functioning, professional choir – not HOW we worshiped but THAT we worshiped?

 

What if all that is really going to matter to God is that we pray, in the words of Great Thanksgiving in the Service of Morning Prayer in the BCP, “not only with our lips but in our lives.” That there is at least some shred of consistency and integrity in what we say on Sunday and what we do on all the days of the rest of the week?

 

At the end of the day – or, at least, at the end of this parable – it doesn’t matter to God whether you are rich, fat and arrogant or poor, sick and hungry. It doesn’t even matter what you say you believe. What matters to God is what we do with what we’ve been given. 

 

Today is the birthday of one of my favorite children's authors, Shel Silverstein. In his book, "Where the Sidewalk Ends," he writes:

How many slams in an old screen door?
Depends how loud you shut it.
How many slices in a bread?
Depends how thin you cut it.
How much good inside a day?
Depends how good you live 'em.
How much love inside a friend?
Depends how much you give 'em.

 

Or, as my dear friend, Terry Parsons, often asked, “What do you do with all you’ve been given after you say, ‘I believe’”? 

 

Whether you are a scoundrel or a saint, here’s the Gospel truth: God loves you more than your wildest imagination. 

 

And, God loves us more than any of us deserve.

 

Because, in the words of one of my favorite priests, ordained according to the order of Melchizedek, “People is people. And, God is God.”

 

Amen. 

Things earthly and heavenly

Things earthly and heavenly

St. George Episcopal Church, Georgetown, DE

Facebook: Sirach 26:10

Pentecost XV - Proper XX

September 18, 2022

 

It’s not always the case, but this week’s Collect prayer really sums up beautifully the point Jesus is trying to make in that complicated and complex parable of the Unjust or Shrewd Manager. Jesus says,

“No slave can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth." 

Let me remind you of the beginning of that beautiful autumnal prayer, as things are passing away: “Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly . . .”

 

Not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly.

 

Let me tell you a little story about something that happened to me this past Monday.

 

I had just made a visit to one of our Hospice patients over at Atlantic Shores Extended Care Facility. I was parked in that small, unpaved, unofficial, pot-hole filled parking lot on the east side of the building, which, because of the rain the night before, became the autumnal version of what ee cummings described as “mud-licious” and “puddle-wonderful”.

 

Well, if you’re a kid and it’s spring, it’s wonderful. When you’re an adult and you’re working and you’re on a schedule and you feel like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders, well, not so much. To make matters worse, I put my key in the ignition and . . . . nothing.

 

The radio went on, the lights went on, but the engine made absolutely no sound. Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Bupkus. I tried a few more times. Silence.

 

My stomach flipped. No, no, no, no, no, NO! I don’t need this! C’mon, universe! Cut me a break here! I’ve got two more patients to see and it’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon. Ugh! I finally broke down and called Triple A and, after being put on hold and listening to that Gawd-awful muzak punctuated by commercials about the wonders of Triple A, was told by the nice lady that there was “heavy congestion in that area; it will be at least an hour before we can get a tow to you.”

And hour! It was hot. It was humid. It was muggy. The sweat was dripping off my brow. I was annoyed and angry but tried to sound calm and chipper as I called my supervisor and my colleague and my two scheduled patients to tell them of my predicament.

 

The good news is that, an hour later, almost to the minute, the tow truck arrived. Oh, it wasn’t just a truck. It was a HUGE flat bed truck. I looked at it and the small parking lot packed with cars and thought, “OMG! How in the world is he ever going to get me out of here?”

Out hopped the driver, a skinny, scrawny, scrappy young Sussex County man in maybe his early to mid-20s who introduced himself as “Jess.” He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt and he looked like he had probably caused his momma a few sleepless nights of walking the floor.

 

He quickly sized up the situation and saw the exact same challenges I saw. So, he first asked me for my keys to see if he could start the car. He tried a few times and then looked under the hood. It took him a few seconds to locate the starter – which is what I had feared it was – and said, “Yup, probly the starter. Welp, lemme see if I can get you outta here.”

 

I held my breath as he walked around the car, sizing things up. He looked at the other cars, then looked at the entrance to the parking lot. He paced a bit and then sort of jumped up as the solution seemed to hit his body and then he jumped into action.

 

He put my car in neutral and then pushed it out of the space. Then, through some miracle of physics or geometry or calculus he probably never took in high school but was just born knowing it, he was able to maneuver his tow truck on the street on the side of the parking lot and then, without jack-knifing it, backed that puppy in so that the flatbed was facing the front of my car. He quickly got the chains attached, artfully dodging all the puddles, and then set the hydraulic into motion to move my Jeep onto the flatbed.

 

And, just like that, we were ready to rock ‘n roll and head up the street a short distance to the JEEP dealership which I had already called and they were already waiting for me.

 

I pulled myself up the side of the cab of the truck, put all my gear in front of me, took a seat beside him and fastened my seat belt. When he came in the truck I said, “Well, Jess, I don’t know how much they pay you for this, but it’s clearly not enough.”

 

He smiled and said, “No, ma’am. No, they don’t. But then again, not too many of us get paid enough or what we’re worth. Not even you, and you’re doing God’s work.” He shook his head at the injustice of it all and said, "So, you know, I just do my best. Anyway."

 

I don't know why. Maybe it was the heat and humidity. Maybe it was that combined with my anxiety and anger and frustration and annoyance about the situation I was in. At any rate, my eyes started to sweat. (I'm not crying. You're crying.)

 

So, as he was paying attention to the traffic on the way to the dealership, I fished through my wallet and found two ones and a ten. I shoved the $10 into my pocket. He dropped me off at the service entrance and brought my car round the back. When he came back to give my keys to the service agent, I thanked him for his professional service, pressed the money into his hand and said, "Here, I just want you to keep doing your best."

 

I wish you could have seen the smile on his face. This tough, scrappy, skinny, Sussex County boy who has probably made his momma weep with worry more than a few nights looked at me and smiled like a very angel. Forget the $10. Two ones would just not have done. No, I couldn’t afford the $10. Then again, I couldn’t afford not to.

 

Heavenly things vs. earthly things, you see.

 

Jesus said, “No slave can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth.”

 

It’s so easy to fall into the trap of taking the easy way out, to throw up our hands and cave to the prevailing cultural values which always devalues the common worker, the one who is often more concerned with that which is of value in the heavens more than on earth – mostly because he has to work with his hands and the sweat off his brow and the smarts he’s picked up along the way of the rough road of life he’s had to travel.

 

Things like just doing your best, even if your compensation doesn’t reflect your value and worth. Anyway.

 

Things like stepping up to a challenge, standing up to those who say it can’t be done, and risking being called a fool because you knew the risks and, in the end, didn’t live up to your own hopes and expectations but you gave it your best. Anyway.

 

To love knowing that the love your give may not be the love you get and yet to love. Anyway.

 

Is that being ‘shrewd’? Is that, somehow, ‘unjust’? Personally? I don’t think so. And, I don’t think – not in a million years – that Jesus would have titled that particular parable using words like ‘shrewd’ or ‘unjust’.

I think it’s being human. I think it’s being the best human being we can be. I think it’s like what Jesus did in risking his life for the debts we owe and paying for them on the holy cross.

 

I think it’s like French scientist and theologian, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, once wrote, “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.”

 

Anyway.

 

It occurs to me that our collect prayer for today is also perfect to say and, perhaps, remember on this beautiful autumnal Sunday; this, my second to last Sunday with you,

“Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly; and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to hold fast to those that shall endure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.”

And let the church say, “Amen.”

Lost and found

 

Image: Dominico Fetti

Pentecost IV - Proper 19 - September 11, 2022 

St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Georgetown, DE

Facebook: Sirach 26:19 

Lost and found. Jeremiah’s “foolish … stupid children”. The psalmist’s song of the atheist fool. Timothy’s gratitude for the mercy of God. Jesus telling the stories of lost coins and sheep. Those are the dry bones of today’s lesson from holy scripture.

 

One group of the religious leaders of his day – the Pharisees, this time – were grumbling about Jesus. It seems that this is actually one of their favorite pastimes. They always seem to be grumbling about Jesus. This time, it was about the company he kept at dinner. Sinners and tax collectors. Imagine! Why would a Holy Man, a Teacher of Religion, associate with riff-raff?

 

My father used to warn: “You can’t choose your family but you can choose your friends. Like it or not, fair or unfair, you will be judged by the company you keep.”

 

As many of you know, I spent a week with my cousins who gathered in the Pacific North West to honor and celebrate the life of my last remaining aunt, Aunt Alice.

 

Well, we did that in grand style but we also shared lots of stories and memories – some of which had been lost to me in the sands of time, but were surprisingly easy to find once the memory banks were activated by good food, laughter and, perhaps, just a few sips of wine.

 

My cousin Fred – known in my childhood as “Junie” because he was a Junior and that’s what my grandmother called him – reminded me about one story in particular that I had almost forgotten. He had built what he called a “go cart”, which was really a prototype of the motorized vehicles we see at amusement parks today.

 

His go cart featured a wooden box in which my grandfather used to store potatoes. The frame was fashioned together with some pipes that had been tossed in the rubbish, along with some long-ago discarded wheels from our first bikes. A seat from . . . I think it was an old cushion.

 

Fred told me that he had checked out the whole thing with my grandfather for safety and had received his stamp of approval. So, the next thing was to take it out for a test drive.

 

Always the clever entrepreneur – even to this day – he brought it first to me to admire his handiwork. Which I did. I mean, I was very impressed at his accomplishment. A coat of paint and an appropriate name like “Wind Rider” or “Trail Blazer” and this thing would be the envy of the entire neighborhood.

 

Would I like to take it out for its first test drive? I had to shake myself to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. Would I – moi? – like to be the first one to drive it? I could hardly believe my ears! I wasn’t sure what I had done to deserve the honor but I certainly wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass me by.

 

Which was exactly what Fred was counting on. He, himself, was very nervous about the whole thing. I mean, he had had it safety-checked by my grandfather but still. If a wheel were going to pop off or the seat not hold, better to have someone else driving it, right?

 

So, it was set. I was to take it down our street – Renaud Street – at the place just before the crest of the small hill so that Fred could give me a good push and then let momentum carry me the rest of the way, cross the intersection of Jefferson Street to wherever it was that the momentum would carry me.

 

I was so excited and honored I could barely contain myself. I didn’t think about that intersection at the bottom of the hill. Neither did Fred. We were just both caught up in the excitement of test driving his amazing creation. Our heads were filled with the admiring looks and jealous glances of the kids in the neighborhood when they saw it.

 

That’s what I was thinking, anyway, as I got in – no helmet, of course, who wore helmets in those days, anyway? My grandmother, however, had come to the front of the house to water her hydrangeas and roses. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can almost hear her voice faintly in the background, calling my name. What I really heard was the anxiety in her voice. And suddenly, I was anxious.

 

Well, as the go-cart went down the crest of the hill, it did start to pick up speed at an alarming rate. It was going so fast that it started to rattle. I could feel my back teeth clenching in my mouth. That’s when I heard my grandmother yelling, “Elizabeth! Turn right! Turn right! Turn right into the Avila’s lot!”

 

And, that’s exactly what I did. At the intersection of Renaud and Jefferson St the Avila family had an empty lot where we used to play stick ball when they didn’t have family gatherings. I turned a hard right and turned right into the empty lot, my body bumping hard into the hard wood of the potato crate as it went over the dirt and grass.

 

When I finally came to a stop and looked up, I saw a car coming down Jefferson Street, approaching the intersection of Renaud. The driver looked angry. His fist was balled as it pumped the air and he yelled something that sounded like, “Stupid kids! You’re going to get yourself killed!”

 

The next thing I remember is my cousin Fred arriving just minutes before my grandmother who  picked us both up by the ears and marched us back to the house where she sat us in the kitchen and gave us a what-for lecture about safety and common sense and “Well, if he told you to jump off the bridge, would you do that, too?”

 

Part of what was lost that day was innocence. Blind trust was replaced by caution and careful consideration. I was pretty shaken after that incident and pretty angry with my cousin for putting me in that situation. It took a long time for me to trust again. Trust myself. Trust my own judgement. And, trust others.

No wonder I had buried that story.

 

Innocence was replaced by anger and defensiveness that was always lying in wait, just under the surface, along with the self-imposition of self-made rules. I didn’t want to be anyone’s fool again, so I developed a kind of hardness that my anxiety could easily transform to harshness and a kind of aloofness.

Don’t get too close to me, was my vibe, unless I invite you in.

 

That eventually evolved into being very careful about how I chose my friends. My father’s warning about being judged by the company I kept suddenly hit a cord of truth. That whole thing hit about the same time as pre-adolescence when kids naturally develop cliques and posses and gangs. Some of that insider-outsider stuff can be pretty brutal on fragile, developing egos.

The loss of innocence can be a devastating, life altering event.

 

And then, we grow up, don’t we? Life presents us other challenges, other tests, that make test-driving a homemade go-cart down a hill look like, well, child’s play. In that testing, we learn something more about who we really are, not just the careful story our egos have to tell.

 

In that suffering, we learn compassion. In that compassion we learn kindness. In that kindness we learn to reach out and include others who have been considered the outcast and misfits of their culture.

 

That is what Jesus is trying to teach us in today’s gospel. He’s teaching the Rabbi’s – the teachers of his religion – as well as his disciples, about the value of every human being in the eyes of God. He’s saying, essentially, grow up! Open your eyes! See the value in all of God’s creation.

 

If God cares about lost sheep and lost coins, how much more does God care for you? How is your precious reputation going to be harmed by sharing a meal with tax collectors and those described as sinners?

 

That’s not to throw all caution to the wind but to understand God’s unconditional love for us. There’s a maturity that helps us tolerate differences and respect others without putting our lives at risk.

 

To that point: Today is the 21^st Anniversary of what we’ve come to remember as 9/11. That was the day 19 young men hijacked three planes and killed 2,977 people at the World Trade Center in NYC, the Pentagon in Arlington, VA, and a field outside of Pittsburgh, PA.

 

9/11 stole our innocence as a people. It hardened us. Some of us became unrecognizable to each other. We willingly surrendered some of our constitutional rights in the name of freedom and something we called ‘patriotism’. We have forgotten some of our own history – what it really means to be a patriot – what it really means to be an American.

 

We have grown suspicious of those who look different or sound different or pray differently that we do. And, that process has slowly eroded common civility and has seriously damaged our ability to feel compassion for those who our society has always considered “lesser children of God.” 

 

It's been 21 years. Time to grow up. Time to listen to the words of the Great Rabbi who has a lesson or two to teach us about who we are as children of God. Time to listen to “old family stories” of lost coins and lost sheep so we can remember not only WHO we are but WHOSE we are.

 

Next week, we’ll hear the story of the Prodigal Son and remember that all of us – each and every last one of us – are precious in the sight of God.

 

Lost and found. Coins. Sheep. Wayward children. Here’s the truth: like my grandmother calling to me on her front porch when I was headed for certain disaster, we are never really lost.

 

Turns out, the lost do not find their way back to God any more than the lost sheep finds its shepherd or the lost coin finds its mistress.

It's the other way around...God finds us.

 

Amen

The Miracle of Healing

 

Pentecost XI - Proper XVI

Sunday, August 21, 2022

The Episcopal Church of St. Paul, Georgetown, DE

 

I wonder what it was that weighed so heavily on her that her body bent over.

 

Scripture says she had been like that for eighteen years, but you know it took a few years of pain prior to that to end up in that situation. Probably arthritis. It might have been a neurological complication or a nutritional deficiency.

Maybe she wasn’t old at all but because she had battled one of the diseases of the curvature of the spine (kyphosis, lordosis, or scoliosis) since pre-adolescence, all the years of pain made her look old.

 

I wonder what moved her to come into the Temple that Sabbath day? Had she just been coming every day and had forgotten that this day was the Sabbath? Had she forgotten where she was and why she came there?  Dare she hope, after all these years, for a miracle?

As a woman in antiquity, she was used to being invisible – especially in places where men were in power and authority as they would have been in the Temple – so to dare to be seen and dare to be healed took enormous courage.

 

But, what was she thinking? It was the Sabbath. If this upstart young Rabbi from Nazareth was going to heal her, surely he wouldn’t do it on the Sabbath!?! He knew the rules, the laws of Torah. So did she.

She may have thought: What if the pain becomes too much and I cry out? What if I am seen and then rejected?

 

Perhaps that’s why she didn’t throw herself at the feet of Jesus and ask for healing as so many men and women before her had done. Maybe she just pushed through the pain, pushed through the fear, pushed through the anxiety, and just simply put herself in a position to be seen, in a place where healing might happen, and trusted the rest.

 

In my experience, healing or miraculous events, if they are going to happen, happen just that way. Sometimes, it takes being so intense, so focused on that which you are seeking, that all the energy in your body and mind, your heart and soul and spirit becomes immersed in that intention. The hours, the cost, the risks are not counted. The only thing that matters is the pursuit of the thing you seek.

 

It takes time. It happens over a period of time. We’ve seen that happen with healing and health. We call that “the miracle of medical science”. Diseases that people died of just a decade ago now have what we often read as “a new lease on life.” Deadly disease like AIDS that once wiped out people in 18 months are now “chronic diseases with terminal implications.”

 

Is that a miracle? Is that evidence of divine intervention? Or is that just “modern medicine”? Is that evidence of human intellect and ability – or, hubris? – or does God get any credit?  

 

You in this church are holding evidence of a miracle.

 

In your service bulletin, you will find a copy of the report of the Mutual Ministry Review (MMR) that was recently completed by some of the leaders of this congregation. It was led by Fr. Jeff Ross, rector of St. Peter’s, Lewes, who knows a thing or two about congregations. It is being distributed to you today so that you will have a chance to read it and, as one of our collects says about scripture: “read, learn, mark, and inwardly digest” it.

Next week, Linda Dennis, a vestry member and participant in the Mutual Ministry Review (MMR), will talk briefly with you about it during the announcements and then be available to discuss it with you after church.

 

As a reminder, I won’t be here next Sunday. I’ll be with my cousins and other relatives as we lay to rest the last of the previous generation of family members. God willing, Deacon Pete and Nancy will be able to return to church. So, I want to say this to you about the MMR.

 

I was telling a colleague about the MMR and she laughed and said, “It wasn’t that long ago that you told me you’d never do parish ministry again. Whatever possessed you to go to St. Paul’s?”

 

I had to laugh at myself before I could answer. God knows, I was pretty clear with Judy Dean and then Sharon Mackwell and then Dick Bennett that Hospice is my jam. It’s not that I don’t like parish ministry. I do. It’s that I am not at all interested in maintenance. At. All. And, in many places in the Episcopal Church, interim and parish ministry is all about maintenance.

 

Oh, that’s not what we say. What we say is that we want to grow. We want young families. (I don’t know a church that doesn’t say they want young families.) And so, of course, we want a young priest. Married, preferable. If we’re honest, we have a male in mind but, you know, women priests are not an issue, so yeah, we’ll take a woman. That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, but it’s a start.

But, young. Definitely young. Energetic. Able to attract other young families with kids. Lots of kids. And, a church school. Because, we’re ready for change.

 

Funny how that change – that ‘new church’ – looks suspiciously like the church did way back in 1950. The truth is that the change most churches are talking about is changing from what is – almost dead – to what it once was.

I call it, “The Episcopal Church of the Future: Building a Better Yesterday.”

Now, that’s not what I heard here at St. Paul’s. What I heard here at St. Paul’s was what I see in that woman in this morning’s scripture. Weary. Worn out. Anxious. Exhausted and bent over from years – 18? 10? 5? , too many years – of carrying around this dream of the past. And feeling defeat and a deep sense of shame that you hadn’t been able to achieve (what’s that current buzz word?) “vitality.”

 

I also saw some people who wanted to throw off the burden of trying to attain something that was no longer possible. I saw a few people who had a clear understanding that something different was possible. That clinging to the familiar was the path to death, but the path to life was in taking a risk and stepping into a path whose actual, final destination was unknown.

What was certain is that a new path would lead to being prepared to begin a new chapter in the life of the church known as St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Georgetown, DE.

 

I must have asked Judy and Sharon and Dick a million times, “Are you sure? Are you sure this is about moving forward? I am not about maintenance. I don’t do maintenance. I do vision. I do creativity. I do energy. I don’t do backward. I do forward. I don’t do yesterday. I do today and I look to tomorrow. I don’t do band aids, I do healing and, if necessary, surgery.”

Yes, they told me. Oh, a few naysayers are here, but yes. Yes. Yes. And, yes.

 

And so, I took a risk. And, so did you.

I knew that there would be a lot of necessary edification. If you remember our annual meeting in January, I said that would be the word for 2022: Edification, meaning to build up.

I knew your infrastructure had taken a huge hit and would need a lot of attention. Everything – from Altar Guild to Hospitality, Christian Formation, Education, Liturgy, Music, Acolytes, Finance, Administration, Office Managers, Job Descriptions and Letters of Agreements – all of it needed rebuilding and restoring.

 

All this re-building and restoring would be going on while we simultaneously tried to start a ministry for the future that deals with the present reality of the changing demographic of the neighborhoods in Georgetown: The Latino Ministry.

And, because of my commitments to Hospice and my work with a major national organization – and oh, I don’t know, my own family life? – I could only commit to 6-10 hours per week – knowing full well that there would be times when it would be more. A lot more.

 

Sort of like rebuilding and repairing a plane while still flying.  

 

It was going to take a miracle.

 

What you see in your bulletin, the MMR, is most of all that we’ve been able to accomplish in the past two years. We have doubled our membership and our plate and pledge. We are restoring the infrastructure, and edifying the spiritual life of the congregation. Our new ESL ministry has been established and we are looking forward to our Latino ministry ("LMB") in the Fall.

 

We are not yet standing straight and tall but we are no longer bent over. We can see each other eye to eye and that has brought with it some new problems. We don’t always know how to relate to one another. We have some serious – some very serious – communication problems.

 

There has been some passive aggression and some obfuscation of information.

Some of us don’t know how to use our inside voices.

Some of us have forgotten that in the church there are no volunteers. We’re all ministers of Jesus Christ. If you want to hear me use my outside voice inside, start calling yourself a volunteer. 

 

That will pull my last, poor, tired nerve.

 

You are NOT volunteers. I am not the only minister here. You are.

I am the priest, and you are members of the priesthood of all believers. Don’t let anyone tell you any differently.

And, there is no “this is my ministry and that’s your ministry.” We are all ministers who do the ministry of Jesus.

Some have forgotten that three of the most courageous words in the English language are: “I need help.“ That is second only to admitting, “I don’t know.” And then, asking for help.

 

Some of us have forgotten that the church is not the building – the people are the church, We are called to be good stewards of all that God has given us – which is the building AND the people of God who come into the building.

The people make the building the church.

 

This morning’s gospel presents us with religious leaders - the leader of the Temple and Jesus - who have a great deal in common except for one major difference. Both leaders love God. Both love scripture. Both love the Temple. Both are leaders called to serve the people of God.

One leader was bound by the Law of the Temple.

The other leader was bound by the Law of the Heart – the Law of Mercy.

 

The leader who was able to heal the disabled woman did so because he stayed focused not on how things had always been done, but on what was right in front of him as well as what was possible.

The disabled woman was able to be healed because she allowed herself to be vulnerable enough to allow the healer to coming face to face with the problem and look it straight in the eye. She risked what she could only hope was possible.

The MMR you have in your hands is evidence of God’s handiwork, of the spirit working through us. (Not just me - YOU! All of you!) 

 

It is nothing short of a miracle.

It demonstrates clearly that we have come a long way in two years. It indicates that there have been some things left undone. It also contains some dreams for the future.

The altar you have in front of you demonstrates that there is no problem that can’t be healed and transformed when we offer it to Jesus.

It takes confessing our brokenness and admitting we have a problem. It takes looking at it eye to eye, making ourselves vulnerable and putting ourselves in the place where healing is possible, and then staying focused on the vision of what we are being called to do.

 

The Wardens and Vestry and I will be meeting in early September to have that very conversation. There is a remedy. There is hope for healing and for the future.

Like the disabled woman, if we are to achieve the vision which called me here – and the energy of that vision is what attracted so many of you here – we are going to have to push through the pain, push through the fear, pushed through the anxiety, and just simply put ourselves in a position to be seen, in a place where healing might happen, and trust God with the rest.

 

If we do that – when we do that – we, too, will be like that disabled woman who was free from her burdens, free from her pain, free from her disability, free from her shame, free from whatever bound her, free to remember why she came into the Temple in the first place, free to stand upright and give glory where it belongs: to God who gives us the gift of community, the priesthood of all believers.

 

Glory to God who gives us the work of the ministry of Christ Jesus which is our privilege to perform – to feed, to clothe, to visit, to teach, to build, to repair, to tend, to love, to communicate, to enable, to empower, to lead, to count, to record, to sing, to play, to praise, to pray, to start, to finish, to inspire.

Different gifts. Same spirit. Many hands. One God who gives this ministry, this work, TO US – all of us – in OUR community of faith.

 

Glory to God who gives us the power of the Holy Spirit – the power of hope and possibility, the power to know that we (WE - not the building) are the church, the Body of Christ – which allows us to do infinitely more than we could ask for or imagine.

 

That’s enough for now.

 

Somebody give me an amen.

 

Amen.

 

The "B" Committee

 

 St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Georgetown, DE

Pentecost VII - Proper XII - July 24, 2022

 

This is a sermon about persistence because these lessons from scripture – especially the Gospel lesson and the Lord’s Prayer – are about persistence.

 

So, I want to start with a story about persistence. I was still newly ordained when I moved to Baltimore, Maryland – the farthest south this New England girl had ever lived – and was getting used to the enormous culture shock of living below the Mason-Dixon line.

 

Up the street from my church was St. James, Lafayette Square, an Episcopal Church which was known as “the Black Church.” The Rector was one Michael Bruce Curry, who would go on to become Bishop of North Carolina and then Presiding Bishop of The Episcopal Church – a first for a Black person in both positions.

 

The first time I met Michael I asked him for advice, because I was newly ordained and he was wise, even then. He told me this story.

 

He said he came to St. James in June and by August, he was feeling like he knew most folk in the church. But, one Sunday, he came in and there, in the back of the church (narthex), was a man he had never seen before – just an itty-bitty old Black gentleman, dapper in a suit and tie, fillin’ up the space like he was six feet tall and owned it.

 

Michael said he went over to him, shook his and said, “Hey there, I’m Michael Curry. I’m the rector. I don’t believe we’ve met.”  The man introduced himself and said, “I’m on the ‘B’ Committee.”

 

“The B Committee?” asked Michael. Hmm . . . I been here since July. I thought I knew all the committees in the church, but I haven’t ever heard of The ‘B Committee. What is that?”

 

“Well,” said the man, “The motto of The B Committee is this: ‘I be here before you came, and I’ma be here after you leave.’ And, THAT, sir, is The B Committee.”

 

This is a sermon about persistence. This is a sermon about how life can be hard and life can be good but life can be worse if we give up.

Or, if we think one person can save us. 

Or, if we don’t understand that we are all part of something larger than ourselves and we are here because we are playing our part in it.

We are part of a covenant – a promise – between God and the people of God and God keeps up God’s part of the bargain and we must persist and keep up ours.

 

That first lesson from the prophet Hosea was a doozy, wasn’t it? Well, as I wrote in my Thursday reflection, it can sound really awful – well, more awful than it actually is, what with all the talk about whoredom – unless you understand it as prophetic poetry.


It’s metaphor and symbol and not to be taken literally. Please know that.

 

Hosea is reminding people of God’s covenant with us which had been broken. The people at that time professed loyalty to one God and yet they were praying to both Yahweh and Baal. Hosea says that is a form of adultery which, he compares to the infidelity of his spouse, Gomer. 

 

And, while he warns that there will be accountability – there will be consequences – there is always hope for reconciliation and renewal. We must be humble, he says, and we must be persistent.

 

In Luke’s Gospel, the disciples ask Jesus for a lesson in prayer. Teach us to pray, they ask. And, Jesus teaches them what has been described by many scholars – Christian and Jewish – as one of the most political prayers ever uttered by a religious person.


Political – meaning good government.


Not politics – meaning the representation of a contingency with a particular perspective on the meaning of good government.

I am not a political scientist and certainly no expert in forms of government or political process.  But in my lay understanding that the political always speaks to how the life of a people is ordered and organized, by whom and for whom it is ordered and organized, and importantly, how power and people interact within that order – specifically, who has the power and who does not.  

 

In teaching us how to pray, Jesus leads us to pray for the Kingdom of God to come, and for the kind of life that is normative for people who live in God’s Kingdom.  We will see what that kind of life entails, but I want first to note the “political” nature of praying in this way.

 

To pray for kingdom-come is to pray for a political reality, and that at least implicitly means – sometimes – to pray against other political realities. Wait! Just take that in for a moment.

 

We are praying FOR a political reality – the way the life of a people is ordered and organized, by whom and for whom it is ordered and organized, and how power and people interact within that order – because our life is not ordered and organized in that way, power is not shared, equality is not reached. YET. Stuff needs to happen. Things need to change. The status quo will probably have to be disturbed.

 

In the model Jesus has given us we pray for the Kingdom where God is Sovereign, as the alternate to other kingdoms and kings.  In fact, we are praying that God’s Kingdom would be established within the present world that is filled with and dominated by those other kingdoms and power structures.

 

In Jesus’ day that included the “kingdoms” of Herod and his family, of the Jewish Temple authorities, and, above all, of Caesar’s Household. 

 

So, not only is this a political prayer – it is a dangerous prayer. It was then, and it is now. Why is it dangerous? Well, I think we can clearly see why it was dangerous then. But, we have no “kingdoms like Herod” or “religious authorities” that rule our lives, do we? Really?

 

At the end of 2021, data show that 1% of the citizens of the United States of America owned almost 2/3 (32.3%) of the wealth. Indeed, by the end of 2021, the richest 1% gained $6.5 trillion in wealth.  

 

That’s not the image of the Kingdom of God that Jesus presents to us, is it? You could at least ruffle a few feathers if you tried to change that, couldn’t you? Might even be dangerous.

 

And, thank goodness, we don’t have a religious authority who tells us that we can’t eat bacon, or we can’t have a cream sauce on our salmon - or, tartar sauce on our fried fish or shrimp - or we can’t tattoo our bodies, or we must contribute the outer edges of our crop to the poor, or we can’t collect interest on money saved, or that seizure disorder is caused by demon-possession, or that the world is flat, or disease is caused by something your ancestors did, even though all those things are right there in the Bible!

 

Whew! Good thing we also don’t have religious authorities with political power to tell us how many children we can have, or define our families, or have a say in who we can love and marry.

 

And yet we pray – or sing sweetly, every Sunday – these words of the Lord’s prayer: “YOUR kingdom come. YOUR will be done on EARTH as it is in heaven.” Heaven – the place of GOD’S kingdom which we want to come here on earth. That is decidedly bad news for the 1% - or for those who want to impose their particular religious views on the rest of us.

 

We pray humbly to just give us what we all need – our daily bread – no more, no less. 

 

Forgive us our sins of envying what others have and we don’t. 

 

Forgive what we don’t do to make sure that no one goes to bed hungry at night, no person has to sleep on the hard ground without a pillow for their head blanket for their bodies, and every person has access to food for their minds as well as their bodies and has access to quality medical care for their bodies, minds and spirits.

 

Jesus says that, when we pray, we can be assured that God will answer our prayers. God will not give us a snake if we ask for a loaf of bread.


But, we have to humble ourselves and ask.

 

Ask, and it will be given to you, he says.

 

Jesus says, knock, and the door will be opened to you.

 

Seek, he says, and you will find.

 

What will it take, we ask? Persistence, answers Jesus. Keep asking in your prayers. But, it’s also important to get up off your knees and knock on a few doors.

 

Get up on your feet and seek out those places where God’s kingdom can come on earth as it is in heaven.

 

Prayer is not just about a lovely little stroll down Primrose Lane with Sweet Baby Jesus Meek and Mild.

 

It is also a prayer to get up off your bed, dry your eyes, wipe your nose, put on your boots, roll up your sleeves and work for the change you seek.

 

Which is why this is a sermon about persistence. It’s about knowing that although there will be consequences and we will be accountable for the things we have done, we ask God to save us from the time of that trial and help us always choose the good.

 

It’s about getting our poor, tired, raggedy, broke bodies out of bed every morning and, even when we don’t want to and don’t feel like it’s even true, we choose to say, “Good morning!” – and then get up and do something to actually make a good morning – and afternoon and evening – become reality.

 

I once heard author Anne Lamott say that about the most authentic prayer we can make at the beginning of the day is, “Please. Please. Please.” And, at the end of the day, saying, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” I think Jesus would like that prayer. Very much.

 

I was listening to an On Being interview with Collette Pichon Battle, founder and Co-Executive Director of the Gulf Coast Center for Law & Policy, an agency she founded in the wake of Hurricane Katrina of 2005, which she has described as “a crack in the universe.”

 

She was talking about the persistence it takes to work to bring about change which starts, she says, “when you find the courage to admit that we have taken too much.”

 

Just take that in for a moment.

 

Now say to yourself the words from the Lord’s prayer: “Give us this day our daily bread.” Not the whole loaf. Please just provide what I need.


And then, “save us from the time of trial,” and help me share because that’s what it’s going to take to live out “Your kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.”

 

Share, just like Mama said. 

 

So, here’s what Ms. Battle says is her practice of persistence. She asks, “What’s the line between the blame that stops you from action and the acknowledgement that catapults you into doing the right thing? You’ve got to practice that,” she says, “You’ve got to practice that one every day.”

 

Ultimately, it’s about God saying to us, in the voice of that itty-bitty Black man in the back of the sanctuary of St. James, Lafayette Square in Baltimore, Maryland,

 

“I be here before you came and I’ma be here after you leave.”

 

That’s the ‘B Committee’ kind of persistence we need on earth as it is in heaven if we even have a prayer of bringing in God’s kingdom and living out what Jesus wants for us in The Lord’s Prayer.                    

 

Amen.