Authenticity

 

 Authenticity

A Sermon preached during a 

Facebook Live Broadcast: Sirach 26:10 

the Rev'd Dr. Elizabeth Kaeton

 

Note: This is NOT the sermon I preached. When it came time to broadcast, I felt I couldn't preach on authenticity while reading from a manuscript. What I preached has elements of this sermon but it turned out to be much shorter than this.

 

I try very hard to tell this story only once every three years. I’m afraid I’ve lost track so if you’ve heard me tell it before, well, let me just say that it’s one of my favorite stories so thank you for understanding and I hope you enjoy hearing it again.

 

So, the story goes that St. Peter decided to take the day off from his official duties of welcoming the newcomers to the Pearly Gates and – what else? – go fishing. Jesus was happy to volunteer to cover for him.

 

Bright and early the next morning, Jesus appeared at the Gates even before the angels and archangels, the seraphim and cherubim, arrived for their warm up Alleluias. He had put on his special, dazzling-white robe – the one he had worn on Mt. Tabor (or, was it Mt. Hermon?) for the Transfiguration – and his Sunday-go-to-meeting handmade Italian leather sandals.

 

Suddenly, it was time, and the cherubim giggled as they opened wide the Pearly Gates of Heaven. The first arrival at the gate was a Roman Catholic priest. Jesus gave him a hearty welcome and then said, “Say, I’m wondering if you’d answer a question for me. Who do you say that I am?”

 

The Roman Catholic priest said, “Well, the Pope says. . . .” Jesus quickly cut him off saying, “I know what the Pope says. I’ve read all the encyclicals of all the Popes. Welcome! Welcome! Come in! Come in! ”

 

The next arrival was a Lutheran pastor. Jesus also gave him a hearty welcome and then asked him the same question: “Who do you say that I am?”

 

The Lutheran pastor said, “Well, the Bible says . . . “ Jesus quickly cut him off saying, “I know what the Bible says. I’ve read every bible in every version. Come in! Come in! Welcome! Welcome!”

 

Finally, an Episcopal priest appeared at the gate. Jesus gave him a warm and enthusiastic welcome and then asked, “Who do you say that I am?”

 

The Episcopal priest said, “Why, You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God! The Anointed One! The Christ who is and was and is to come!”

 

Jesus was absolutely elated. He even did the same little joy-joy-happy-happy dance he gave when Peter gave him a very similar answer. “Yes! Yes! Yes,” said Jesus. “That’s absolutely right.”

 

And then, the Episcopal priest became a bit pensive and thoughtful and said, “Yes, but others say . . . .”

 

That is one of my favorite stories not only because it presents, in comic, caricature form, the different Christology (or understanding of Christ) from the various branches of religion, but it does so with a certain amount of authenticity which, I think, gives the story its humor.

 

If nothing else, we Episcopalians can laugh at ourselves.

 

It is true that Episcopalians, being Anglicans, adhere to a fairly orthodox view of the humanity and divinity of Jesus while still being open, without judgment, to the interpretation of other perspectives of Jesus.

 

Someone once said that the Anglican Church is “the roomiest room in all of Western Christianity.” I have found that statement to have more than a thread or two of truth. At least, that’s our goal – to be open to catholic, protestant, evangelical and orthodox expressions of faith which maintaining an adherence to the basic tenants of Christianity.

 

The point is that, whatever one does, it must come from a place of authentic belief. This is so because, as Jesus said to Simon (who he called) Peter, “ . . . whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.”

 

Those particular words of Jesus, more so than many of the other words of his teachings, have always affected me deeply.

 

Jesus is speaking, of course, of what he has just said to Simon: “And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven . . .”

 

Jesus is making a promise to Simon Peter and, some say, by extension to the other disciples. It’s as if he’s saying, I will build my church on you and you will have the keys to the kingdom – this is my solemn vow.

 

Think about that for a moment. Jesus is saying something about the nature of a sacred vow. Jesus is also saying that our spiritual lives are not lived in a vacuum. What comes out of our mouths should be at least as carefully considered and what we put into our mouths.

 

Jesus is saying that heaven and earth are not hermetically sealed apart from one another; that there is an exchange between the two; that promises or vows made on earth are heard and kept in heaven; and that what has been set free on earth is also set free in heaven.

 

I’d like to think that explains a bit why, in the story I told earlier, the Episcopal priest is hesitant to name his understanding about Jesus as the ONLY way to understand Jesus that has any authenticity or validity.

 

It’s not just about being “Protestant nice” or “politically correct” or “polite White”. It’s about being confident in your own beliefs without having to be restrictive of the beliefs of others. It takes real emotional and spiritual maturity not to have to be right – especially about God; to be confident enough in what you believe to practice generosity of spirit.

 

Religious intolerance is part of the reason this country was founded. The Puritans were very narrow in their focus of what they believed about God and who they thought God is and how they wanted to worship God and behave in the world. They fled England to find religious freedom here in this country.

 

Ironically, Puritans were pretty intolerant of the religious expressions of the Native people – calling them ‘heathens’ – and, in fact everyone else who came to this land who held different beliefs and expressed those beliefs differently.

 

That intolerance seems to be in our cultural DNA. There are Roman Catholics who can tell you that part of their family story includes harsh treatment and prejudice. Catholics in revolutionary America tended to be wealthy, English speaking, and more focused on private devotions than on public displays of their faith.

 

Thus the Protestant majority mostly tolerated them. But, by the 1920s, anti-Catholics, including the Ku Klux Klan, believed that Catholicism was incompatible with democracy and that parochial schools encouraged separatism and kept Catholics from becoming loyal Americans.

 

That attitude lingered for many years. I certainly remember it as a young Roman Catholic child, growing up as part of an immigrant Portuguese family in the mill town of Fall River, MA. I was just a small child but I have a clear memory of the intensity of the conversations about whether or not John F. Kennedy was fit to be President of the United States.

 

Not only was JFK the youngest man ever to run for POTUS, he was (gasp!) Irish. And even more unthinkable: he was Catholic. His family was built on its faith. His campaign for president was almost crushed by it.  People asked 'If a Catholic were in the White House, would that mean the pope would be calling the shots on what went on in the White House?'"

 

It sounds ridiculous now, doesn’t it? Especially since we have a President in the White House who professes to have been Presbyterian but is now non-denominational evangelical and a First Lady who is a Roman Catholic who attends Episcopal churches and sends their son to an Episcopal school.

 

We also have a Democratic candidate for POTUS and his wife who are devout Roman Catholics who both publicly support some issues which are in direct conflict with the strong tenants of the Roman Catholic Church. The candidate for VPOTUS grew up a Christian and a Hindu. Her mother was a native of India and her father was a practicing Baptist from Jamaica. She attends a Black Baptist church and her husband, Doug, is (wait for it) . . . . Jewish.

 

I submit to you that this is much more a picture of religious tolerance than some people are comfortable with. You must believe in THEIR understanding of God and Jesus or you are somehow deficient. Less than. Suspect. Inauthentic. Un-American.

 

I’ve quoted her before and I’ll quote her again and again. Author Anne Lamott says, “You can be pretty sure you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.”

 

I think the question Jesus asks his disciples is a question with which all Christians must wrestle and answer if their faith is to be authentic.

 

Who do YOU say that Jesus is? Not what the Bible says. Not what the Pope or the Archbishop of Canterbury says. Who do YOU say that Jesus is. For YOU?

 

When we get “real” about our faith, our faith evolves and becomes more real, more authentic. Until one day, we too will stand before Jesus and proclaim, “You are the son of the Living God. You are the Messiah!”

 

And then we’ll look around at all of the wonderful people from different countries and cultures and creeds who are with us in heaven and know that, while their answer may be different from ours, we are all exactly where we belong – home – with the one who created us from love to love to be authentically who we were created to be: Loving children of the God of Love.  

 

 Amen.

The Voice of a Stranger

 

 

The voice of a stranger. 

A sermon preach on Facebook Live Broadcast

Sirach 26:10 The Headstrong Daughter

Pentecost XI - Proper 15 A - RCL Track I

August 16, 2020

There’s a very silly joke about a monk named Brother Bernard who was traveling and sought respite in another monastery for a few days. This particular order of Monks was not allowed to speak but they could chant at prayer times. Each morning they gathered for prayers and the Abbot intoned 'Good morning Monks' and they all chanted in reply 'Good morning Abbot'. 

 

Brother Bernard was just a bit mischievous, and, truth be told, a bit bored with the silence, so he decided to have a wee bit of fun. The next morning, when it was time to reply ‘Good morning’ to the Abbot, he, instead, intoned 'Good Evening Abbot'. 

 

The Abbot heard this, looked round and chanted (to the tune from the Broadway play, South Pacific) 'Someone chanted evening. He must be a stranger'.

 

Yeah, it’s probably a good thing I can’t see your faces or hear you groan. 

 

I’ve been prayerfully considering the story of Joseph and his brothers as well as St. Matthew’s story of the Canaanite woman. It occurred to me that in both of these stories, that sometimes, you need to hear a foreign voice – the voice of a stranger – before you can discover or uncover what’s been there all along, right in front of your very eyes.

 

Let’s take a look, first, at Joseph,the great grandson of Abraham and Sarah, the grandson of Isaac and Rebekah, and the son of Jacob and Rachel – her first and his 11^th son. We’ve been following his story of betrayal by those brothers who left him in a pit and then sold him into slavery in Egypt. 

 

Betrayal and abandonment is not unknown to this family, so we ought not be surprised by the way his brothers treated Joseph. What is surprising – to us and to them – is how Joseph has moved through all that and has risen from his imprisonment and oppression to a status among the Egyptians and in the House of the Pharaoh that placed him in a position to help his brothers in their time of need and distress because of the famine. 

 

The first words of Joseph to his brothers always undo me. After he wept so loudly that “the Egyptians heard it, and the household of Pharaoh heard it,” he says, “I am Joseph. Is my father alive?” 

 

 

Oh, can you hear the pain in his voice? 

 

Remember, Joseph was so beloved of his father (the first born son of his wife, Rachel, with whom he first fell in love and for whom he worked an additional seven years.) that Jacob made him a coat of many colors. 

 

His brothers, who betrayed him because of that very coat, did not recognize him at first.  Then, he recounts his story but tells them it was all for the good because now he is in a position to save them. 

 

Joseph, their own brother whom they had betrayed, whose voice they did not recognize, who had become a stranger to them in a strange land, turned out to be one of their own.

  

We’re going to come back to this in a minute but I want to also want to lift up the Canaanite woman. Mark calls her the Syrophoenician woman because he is writing to a Roman audience and wants to emphasize her race. Matthew’s audience is the Israelites so his emphasis is on the fact that the Jews thought of the Canaanites as half-breeds or “mongrel dogs”. 

 

Whether you read the encounter in Mark or Matthew, this story is painful to read. The poor woman isn’t seeking anything for herself but healing for her daughter. In both accounts, Jesus is rude, bordering on being cruel. 

 

This is when his humanity is showing, and it’s not his most favorable side. 

 

The woman’s intelligence and wit, however, turn his put down into an insight for him.  He said, “Itis not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” She said,“Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’table.”

 

And, just like that, the eyes of the heart of Jesus are opened. Just like that, the voice of a stranger pierces through the dense fog of his humanity and cuts straight through the place of divinity in him.

 

The voice of a stranger has enabled him to hear the deepest truths of his heart. 

 

He knows, suddenly, that his understanding of the scope of his ministry has made his heart “too sizes too small”.  The voice of a stranger opens his understanding and his passion and compassion. Then Jesus answered her, “Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.” And her daughter was healed instantly.

 

We can get very comfortable, I think, with the familiar. And, that can work to our own detriment.  I don’t know about you but I have learned a lot about myself and my church and my world during this Time of the Great Unfamiliar which we know as the COVID-19 Pandemic. I don’t know about you but what I have learned about myself has sometimes surprised me and sometimes annoyed me. 

 

I’ve learned that I have more patience than I thought I had. Well, about some things. I’ve learned that my “normal impatience” becomes very aggravated when I’m annoyed – mostly by things I can’t do. 

 

I miss little things like meeting a friend for lunch. Or, just a spontaneous get together for coffee or tea at a Café. Hugs. I miss hugs. Oh, how I miss hugs! Yes, of course I miss Eucharist but I also miss baking things for Coffee Hour, even though Coffee Hour has never been my favorite thing about church. 

 

I had a doctor’s appointment for my annual physical this week and I found myself wanting to wear a dress or a skirt and a blouse. 

 

And, shoes - not flip flops or sandals. 

 

And, lipstick, which I used even though I was going to wear a mask (how silly is that?) And, I found myself spraying my hair lightly with hairspray which I only do when I’m going someplace special. Let me assure you that the doctor’s office for an annual Wellness Check has never been on my list of “someplace special”. 

 

But, it was this week. 

 

In this strange Time of The Great Unfamiliar I am learning things about myself that I didn’t know I didn’t know. I am listening to the voice of the stranger and discovering that it is me. My voice is strange to my own ears, telling me things I don’t necessarily want to hear about myself. But it is important – very important – for me to listen. 

 

A quick example: When I was in Thailand I initially had a very difficult time adjusting to the culture there. I kept asking myself, “Why do they do that?” Eventually, I started asking some of my Thai friends who had come to trust me, “Why do you do that?”

 

And then, one day, I was talking about soap, of all things, with one of my new Thai friends, most of whom had already created a term of endearment for me. I was the “crazy farang lady”. Farang means “foreign” and my craziness, I assume, was because I was Western. 

 

I didn’t realize it but they had been thinking, “Why do these Westerners do that? Why does she do that?” 

 

As we were talking about what kind of soap I should buy as souvenirs for my family and friends, my friend, Sunan, could not contain himself any longer. He burst into uncontrollable giggles and, when he came up for air, asked, “Why you do that?” 

 

Why do I do what? I asked. 

 

“Why farang lady have same word for thing to wash and thing to eat?” 

 

He saw that I was thoroughly confused, so he said, “You eat soup, yes? And you wash with soup? How that can be?” 

 

He was hearing “soup” and “soap” pronounced in the same way.  Well, of course, that sounds pretty crazy. Ridiculous. When I was able to enunciate more clearly for him and he understood, we laughed and laughed and laughed. 

 

The voice of Sunan taught me a very valuable lesson. From that point on, this crazy farang lady stopped asking, “Why do they do that?” Instead, I started to ask, “Hmmm. . . I wonder why I do that?” 

 

I stopped approaching the stranger from the perspective of judgment, that different must be wrong. Instead, I used the occasion to more closely examine why I do the things I do, to better understand myself from a different lens of reality.

 

I think that’s what happened to Joseph – a stranger in a strange land of Egypt – which allowed him to better assimilate into the culture of his new reality and find forgiveness and reconciliation and, eventually, salvation for his brothers.

 

I think that’s what happened to Jesus who allowed himself to listen to the intelligence and wit of the crazy foreign lady from Canaan and open the eyes and ears of his heart to see and hear something about himself he didn’t know or understand. 

 

St. Paul says to the church in Rome, “For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable.” He goes onto say a most remarkable thing, “For God has imprisoned all in disobedience so that he may be merciful to all.”

 

Truth be told, I’ve been sitting with that last sentence for many years now and it still sounds strange to the ears of my heart. Where I have landed with it at this point in my theological evolution is to avoid judging others before I examine my own actions and motives. God is merciful to all. So should I be merciful to others and myself. 

 

For me, that’s the Exit Door out of my own arrogance. 

 

Listening to the voice of the stranger – in the person of someone else or the voice that arises in me that is strange to me – is the more difficult path I need to walk in order to move past my cultural bias and prejudices. Or, as Paul would say, “imprisoned in my own disobedience”.

 

And sometimes, the key to open the Exit Door often lies in laughter. Laughing at “Soup and Soap” did it. Laughing at a silly story about chanting monks can do it. 

 

The brothers of Joseph listened to the voice of a stranger and discovered forgiveness and reconciliation and love and the path to their own salvation. 

 

Jesus listened to the voice of a Canaanite woman and it expanded his understanding of his ministry. 

 

Sometimes, you need to hear a foreign voice before you can hear what has always been in your heart but you were afraid to listen.   

 

Amen.

Why did you doubt?

 

 Why did you doubt?

A Sermon preached on Facebook Live Broadcast

Sirach 26:10 The Headstrong Daughter

Pentecost X - Proper 14 A

August 9, 2020

In 1881, a boy was born to Louise Helluin Mieusset who designed fashionable hats for Boston’s elites. Mme. Mieusset named her son Louis Ernest, who was reportedly a happy, active child, who thrived on the love of his mother. 

Not much is known about his parents or the child. What is known is that just three months before his fifth birthday, the child died. Now, some researches insist that Louie died of scarlet fever, but romanticism has always triumphed over historical data, so the facts have been disputed for years.

The story of the death of Louie Ernest Mieusset that has lasted is this: One day in 1886, Louie went sailing out on Jamaica Pond, which is part of a lovely suburb community just outside of the city of Boston, MA. He was not yet five years old. Some adult must have been in the boat with him. Perhaps he was with both his parents?  Or, was he out for a little ride with his Papa? Did a storm suddenly appear? Or, was he moving around, as children will, upsetting the balance of the boat?

We do not know. The tragedy of his death is so great and so filled with grief it seems unable to carry any further burden of detail. The story is only told that the boat tipped over and the child drowned.

Louie’s father is never mentioned in the story. Perhaps he drowned as well in the boating accident? Or, perhaps he met a face worse than death and had to bear the burden of blame and guilt for his son’s death? Conjecture and speculation do not lead to the truth that would hold the answers to our questions.

What we do know is this: His mother, Louise, paid a man named Max Greim, a stone artisan who had immigrated from Bavaria, to sculpt a memorial to her son which she placed over his grave at Forest Hills Cemetery in Roxbury, MA. 

The white marble sculpture, named "Boy in a Boat," is that of a hauntingly lifelike Little Louie, dressed resplendently in the proper Victorian clothing of the day, his right hand holding a tennis racket, his left hand resting on what looks like a large shell. The boat is filled with his favorite toys. His left foot is outside the boat, as if he were about to step out of the boat and run to the tennis court. 

The amazing thing is that the entire sculpture is encased in glass. When one visits the gravesite – as I did as part of my chaplaincy training – one will find the “Boy in a Boat” monument in pristine condition, sheltered as it has been all these many years later from the harsh New England winters and infamous Nor’easters.

Also erected with this statue is a marble bench with a removable drawer (since removed) where the grieving mother could come to clean the glass, polish its brass fitting, place flowers, and do other duties as she saw fit.  The story is that she paid for his statue with the money she had saved for Louis’ education.

Due to financial reverses, Mme. Mieusset’s private income ceased, and she went to work as a domestic on Beacon Hill.  She lived on Kirkland St. in the South End, becoming increasingly frail but attending to her son’s grave weekly by scrimping and saving, always leaving a fresh flower.

To this day, hundreds of years after Mme. Mieusset’s death, someone – or, perhaps, several someones – come weekly to clean the glass, polish its brass fitting, and place fresh flowers. The identity of this faithful someone is unknown – although, perhaps, that person or persons are known to the staff at Forest Hill Cemetery who have certainly observed them over the years but have guarded the caretaker’s anonymity.

I first saw this monument in 1985 as a chaplain intern at Boston University Hospital. We spent a morning at Forest Hill Cemetery to study what other people expressed in their monuments about their belief in death and the afterlife.

Over the years, when I’ve been visiting friends or family in the Boston area and as time has allowed, I have stopped by several times to visit “The Boy in the Boat” as well as one of Gracie Sherwood Allen, a little girl who died of whooping cough in 1880, at about the same age as Louie. Her statue is also encased in glass and rests not far from Louis’.

I’m drawn by the grieving of their parents, their need to immortalize their children in marble, and then, because they can no longer protect them, their stone images, at least, are protected from the ravages of time, sheltered under glass.

But it is the story of Little Louie in the boat that always captures my imagination. Indeed, whenever I hear St. Matthew’s gospel story of Jesus and the disciples in the boat that my mind often wanders to the image of the Boy in a Boat.

In the gospel story, Jesus has gone up to a mountain to pray, sending the disciples ahead of him in a boat. But, a storm suddenly came up and the wind and rough seas threatened to capsize the boat. Suddenly, Jesus came walking on water right by the boat. The men were, of course, startled and scared and thought it was a ghost.

Peter, being Peter, said, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Jesus said, “Come.” And, Peter did, walking toward Jesus on the water. But then, he noticed that the wind was strong, and he began to sink.

“Lord, save me!” he cried out. And, Jesus reached out his hand and saved Peter, saying, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?”

Jesus has his moments, in scripture, where he is utterly and thoroughly human – where his frustration and anger, his impatience and annoyance – come through loud and clear. This exchange between Peter and Jesus has always sounded so harsh to me.

When Jesus chides Peter and says, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” I want to respond, “Umm . . . because I was sinking? And, the wind was strong? And, I wasn’t in the boat? And, you know, because I’m only human?” 

It’s always fascinating to me that Jesus, fully human and fully divine, is his most human self when he chides others for being very human. And, mostly that happens even as he is in full divinity mode – such as in this instance of walking on water. 

“You of little faith.” Those are the words of Jesus that haunt me – second only to his question, “Why did you doubt?”

I have come to know that a big part of faith is doubt. Indeed, I think doubt is one of the guides on the Journey of Faith, which can often lead us to find a deeper, stronger, more robust and lively faith. 

In fact, it was after Peter doubted and he and Jesus got back into the boat that the disciples became even more convinced of the nature of Jesus saying, “Truly, you are the Son of God.” 

Doubt and anxiety are often companions on the Journey of Faith and guides on the Road to Belief.

As I’ve reflected on Louise Mieussett’s grief at the loss of her little Louie, I don’t know if it was doubt or faith that led her to commission that hauntingly life-like monument to her son’s life, but I have come to understand that both doubt and faith are two very strong strands woven deep into the pattern of grief.

To doubt is not to sin. To be anything less than human, to take tragedy at face value – to surrender to a dispassionate state of “It is what it is” – and not grieve and mourn, not doubt and be occasionally anxious or afraid, grieves the heart of God, I think.

Even Jesus cried out from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

I don’t know if there will be a monument to this uncertain, chaotic, turbulent time in our lives, when the winds of misfortune and death and killing prejudice threaten to hurl us from the safety of our life rafts on this fragile earth, our island home. 

If there were to be one, I don’t know what it would look like. 

I would hope that someone would come out and remember this time and all the souls lost to the dual pandemics of COVID and racism.

I would hope there would be some anonymous someone who would come and clean the glass around the monument so we don’t lose sight of the lessons this time has to teach us.

I would hope some anonymous someone would come and sit and meditate on the lives lost as well as the lives of the heroes who risked their lives to save the lives of others.

I would hope there would be some anonymous someone who was faithful to the belief that life is a precious gift and even the occasional unfairness life can bring does not diminish its value ---

To take an occasional risk even though that also extends an invitation for anxiety and fear to be companions on the journey

To ask questions even though more questions and doubt may be part of the answers received.

To know that betrayal is always possible but never a victor and abandonment is never as strong as hope.

To succeed and not grow complacent and self-satisfied.

To fail and not be paralyzed and defeated but rather see the lesson learned.

So that when, one day, in that great bye and bye, when we stand before Jesus, he will say to us as he did to Peter, “Come!”

And, he will stretch out his hand and together we will walk on the peace-filled waters of eternity.

Amen.

The Feast of the Transfiguration

Anglican Prayer Beads 

The Transfiguration of our Lord

 

NOTE: The lessons appointed for this day can be found here. 

An excerpt from a meditation on the Transfiguration by the Rev. Sam Portaro, “The Brightest and Best”.

 

The Transfiguration is an ordination. It is not a formal priestly ordination, but it is certainly the feast affirming the particular vocation of Jesus. Before he goes up the hill, he reveals his own doubts and his need for greater clarity of discernment in his little poll, asking, “Who do they say . . . who do you say that I am?”

He ascends the hill with their answers still resounding in his head. Peter’s response confirms that at least some of the people understand him to be the Messiah. Once on the hill he is told exactly who he is, presumably by Moses and Elijah, and emphatically in the voice that proclaims from the cloud, “This is my Son, my Chosen.”

 

Upon descending from the mountain, Jesus experiences the first test of his new ordination as he is confronted by the faithlessness of his own disciples. He expresses so poignantly his frustration when he demands to know how long he must put up with them. But even in expressing this exasperation, he has obviously accepted what God has demanded of him. His question is rhetorical; he knows as well as we do that the answer is “for all eternity.”

 

After that strange experience on the hill Jesus possessed something he had not known or evidenced before. He bore within and expressed without the unmistakable assurance of one who knew his place and what was demanded of him; he knew he was loved and chosen by God. That knowledge was his authority and the core of his integrity; he knew it so surely he could never relinquish it, even to the power of death. He was changed, and everyone who saw him saw that change. He was transfigured. The brooding shadow of doubt – doubt over his own place in God’s order and affections – was replaced by the clear light of assurance.

 

That transfiguring light, that blinding flash of insight, opens any person as it opened Jesus. That unassailable assurance of God, in one’s place within God’s household, of one’s worth as a child of God, illuminates life. Such transfiguration begets transfiguration in others, as the light is passed from person to person, until the whole world is ablaze with glory and God’s voice resounds, “This is my world, my Creation, my Chosen.”

The Collect for the Transfiguration of Our Lord Jesus Christ

O God, who on the holy mount revealed to chosen witnesses your well-beloved Son, wonderfully transfigured, in raiment white and glistening: Mercifully grant that we, being delivered from the disquietude of this world, may by faith behold the King in his beauty; who with you, O Father, and you, O Holy Spirit, lives and reigns, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

A Meditation on the Transfiguration using

Anglican Prayer Beads

 

CROSS

Moses came down from Mount Sinai. As he came down from the mountain with the two tablets of the covenant in his hand, Moses did not know that the skin of his face shone because he had been talking with God. (Exodus 34:29-35)

 

INVITATORY

Proclaim the greatness of the Lord our God
and worship him upon his holy hill; *
for the Lord our God is the Holy One. (Psalm 99:5-9)

 

CRUCIFORM

You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts. (2 Peter 1:13-21)

 

 

WEEKLY

“This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”  (Luke 9:28-36)

 

The Miracle of Tony the Trash Man

The Miracle of Tony the Trash Man

A Sermon preached via Live Broadcast

Sirach 26:10: The Headstrong Daughter Facebook Page

Pentecost IX - Proper 13 A

August 2, 2020

 

Whenever I hear this story ofthe feeding of the five thousand, I am immediately transported to that Christmas morning when I was eight years old and the shiny red Radio Flyer Wagon that was waiting for me under the Christmas tree.

 

It wasn’t “brand new” but I didn’t care. My father had gotten it from somewhere – maybe a second-hand store. Maybe from one of the guys at work whose kid had outgrown it. Maybe from the dump. It didn’t matter. Daddy had given it a new coat of red paint, including a slightly less-than-perfect re-tracing of the white letters that said, “Radio Flyer” – complete with a kid in a wagon between ‘Radio’ and ‘Flyer’.

 

It didn’t matter. What mattered is that it was Christmas and I had my very own Radio Flyer wagon and my grandmother was going to be thrilled. It was like a miracle.

 

I already had a Radio Flyer tricycle which I loved. My grandmother and I had devised a way to secure the handle of the wagon to the back of my tricycle so that I could be an even better help to her than I already was. I could hardly wait for Spring so I could help with moving mounds of dirt in the garden, fruits and vegetables in the Summer and, in the Fall, her canned produce from the kitchen to the pantry shelves.

 

My Really Big Business Plan was to collect old newspapers from my neighbors in my wagon, take them home and bind them in twine and then take them to the dump with my father on Saturday morning.

There, the dump man, whose real name was “Tony” but we called him “Bluto” – but never to his face, that would be Mr. Tony – because he was big and bearded and burley and looked like Popeye’s nemesis and rival for Olive Oyl, would weight the newspapers and pay me for them.

 

A half a penny a pound, is what I remember.  I only made a few pennies a week – a few times, a whole dine, but there was a story to that. I kept my “commission” – that’s what Mr. Tony called it – in a large mayonnaise jar I had carefully washed out and dried thoroughly. Once a week, I would wait until my siblings were outside playing and I would sneak into my bedroom and take out my pennies and count them.

 

I remember one day, very clearly, picking up my jar and knowing right away that something was wrong. It felt much lighter than usual. When I looked at it, I knew instantly that someone had been in my penny jar.

 

I could feel the tears burning in my eyes as anger began to spark right under the sense of outrage and betrayal I felt. Who would do this, I asked myself as I twisted open the lid? Immediately, a cascade of Most Wanted posters cascaded in front of my eyes. My brother? No, never. My baby sister? No, she was too young. It had to be Madeline, my immediate younger sister. Had to be. Couldn’t be anyone else!

 

George W. Geezel

I heard myself say to the image of Madeline that danced before my eyes, “I hate you to pieces.” I sounded just like George W. Geezel, a regular patron of the Rough House Cafe, who always said that to his nemesis, Wimpy.

 

When I opened the jar, all the pennies spilled out onto the floor and there, in the sea of copper with flashes of silver, was a slip of paper. I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat and as I leaned over to pick it up from the pile, I instantly recognized my mother’s handwriting.

 

The note said, “I.O.U. two dollars.” At the bottom of the note, my mother had written, “Daddy is on strike. I will pay you when he goes back to work. Thank you. Mom. xoxo”

 

Well, what was I supposed to do? First of all, it was my mother. And second, she didn’t actually steal it. Technically. She took it without my permission but she left a note. So, that’s not really stealing. I guess.

Years later, I could only imagine how desperate and humiliated she must have felt – to have to take money from her child in order to pay the bills or put food on the table. And, she only took what she needed. Nothing more. Nothing less. When I think of her sitting on the floor next to my bed, reaching under to find my mayonnaise jar and counting out exactly 200 pennies . . . . well, it just makes me weep.

 

And third, Daddy was on strike. All the men in my neighborhood were on strike at the factory. As the strike wore on, my grandmother and I used to load up my red wagon with loaves of freshly baked bread from her oven, and a huge pot of soup from her stove teeming with vegetables from her garden which she had canned, and we would go down to the strike line at the factory to feed the men lunch – and, as the strike wore on, their wives and children.

 

No matter how much she made, or how much we brought, or how many adults and children were there, we always seemed to have enough. I never understood how that happened. It was my second experience with what I came to call, “VaVoa’s magic”: making enough soup and bread to feed hungry, desperate people so perhaps there would be enough food at night to fill the children’s bellies so they could sleep.

The first experience of her magic was her tattering – how she could, with one hooked needle and a single thread and the rapid motion of her fingers and hands, produce a web design that would rival any spider’s web. Producing food at the strike line was a very close second.

But, it is the miracle of Tony (AKA “Bluto”) The Trash Man’s that strikes closest to my heart and reminds me most about this morning’s Gospel story of Jesus feeding the five thousand. It also gives me a little insight into this miracle of Jesus.

 

Bluto

My “commission” for the bundles of newspapers was not set by Tony. He did not own the dump He just worked at the dump.

The town owned the dump and Tony worked for the town, but even the town did not set the price.

That dollar (or penny) amount was set by the company with which the town had the contract.

 

Soon after it happened, I remember confiding to Mr. Tony about the loss of 200 pennies from my mayonnaise jar and how I had to make it up, somehow and, if possible, make more to help my family.

He wanted to know if someone stole it. Nah, I said, my mother had to borrow it because, well, you know, Daddy’s on strike.

 

I could see Mr. Tony had great compassion on my situation. I could almost feel his sorrow and for a few seconds, I thought he was going to cry. “Don’t worry, kidd-o,” he said. “It’s all gonna work out. You’ll see.”

 

After that, two things happened. The first was that my commission began to increase. Slowly but surely, what I had guestimated to be around five pounds of newspaper turned out to weigh six or seven pounds on the scale.

I couldn’t believe it. Tony always smiled and said, “I think you been eatin’ your spinach, little lady. You’re getting strong. You think it’s only five pound but it’s really more. Keep eatin’ that spinach. You’ll soon be as strong at Popeye.”

 

It was a couple of weeks later, when I caught a reflection of Tony weighing my newspapers. He had the toe of his boot ever so slightly on the scale. I’m sure that money probably came right out of his pocket. But, he never said a word.

 

The other thing that happened was that more people began to put out more newspapers for me. I mean A-LOT of people and A-LOT more newspapers. Some Saturdays, I’d have 10 or 12 pounds of paper. That’s five or six whole cents – more than double my usual take.

 

It didn’t take long before I not only had replaced the 200 pennies my mother had “borrowed” but I was ready if she needed more without worrying about whether or not she would replace it. (Which, she never did. I’m sure she was just too embarrassed to remember what she had done in her desperation.)

 

I think it was when my grandmother and I were walking out of church one weekday morning after Mass, when I finally learned what had happened. One of the men came up to me and said, “I’ve got a lot of old newspaper to bring to Tony but he said I should give it to you. When are you coming by?”

I told him I would be at his house around 7 AM on Saturday morning and he said, “And, it’s free?”

“Yes, sir,” said I.

“Well, I guess it’s worth it not to have to go to the dump,” he said.

 

That’s when a light bulb went off in my head, just like one of those cartoon characters when they have an idea. It was then I realized that Tony had been getting people to give what they had to support me so I could support my family during the strike. It wasn’t much, but when everyone shared a little bit of what they had, well, it was like some sort of pretty amazing miracle.

 

How did Jesus turn five loaves and two fishes into enough to feed five thousand? Well, first he sent out his disciples to see what was already there. Then, he made the people sit down.

Jacob and the Angel

Author and theologian and teacher Parker Palmer imagines that, when the people sat down, they began to talk to each other. Then, they took stock of what they had; after which, they started to share with each other, and, with that, everyone had more than enough to eat. Indeed, they even had some left over.

 

There are lots of miracles in this Gospel story – beyond the fish and the bread. There’s the miracle of compassion. The miracle of kindness. The miracle of generosity. And, the greatest miracle of all is the miracle of community.

 

Those qualities – compassion, kindness, generosity, community – seem to be in short supply these days, don’t they? I’m here to tell you they are not. Jesus said, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat. They replied, ‘We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.’ And he said, ‘Bring them here to me.’”

 

When we take what we have and bring it to Jesus, we have everything we need, especially when we share with others and they, in turn, share with us. That’s the important lesson Jesus taught that day, in that deserted place.

 

Oh, that and, sometimes, you have to balance the scales yourself. For others. Because the justice of Jesus requires taking a few risks.

And, sacrifice. Because, just as Jacob learned, when you are hoping for a blessing or a miracle, sometimes you have to wrestle with angels.

And, when you wrestle with an angel, sometimes, you are so deeply touched that you walk away with a limp, and you are changed and transformed and will never again be the same.

 

Amen.