David again. How can we be hearing the story of David and Bathsheba this week and next? To begin with, ancient texts did not typically criticize successful and powerful kings, and they did not boldly show the kings’ behaving so badly as today’s reading from the Hebrew Bible does. More to the point, how is it that God’s anointed one, the one specifically chosen out of all of Jesse’s sons, sins as deeply as David does in this story? After all, this is the David who was so successful in subduing Israel’s enemies that God allowed him to bring the sacred ark into Jerusalem. God allowed him to dance and sing in front of the ark as it came up to the city, and David had even briefly entertained the possibility that he might build a permanent house for God. How could this David sin so egregiously? How could this powerful man make such bad choices, totally disregard the rights of those loyal to him, and use his power for such inhumane and evil ends?
And yet here we have the wrenching story of David and Bathsheba, a story so wrenching that some of us feel deep grief as we read it or hear it read. Idling in Jerusalem when he should have been commanding his troops in battle, David spied the lovely Bathsheba purifying herself after her period. His first wrong choice: even after he found out that Bathsheba was married – married to a Hittite, a foreigner from eastern Anatolia who was serving in David’s army – David commanded Bathsheba to have sexual relations with him, raped her really. When she revealed that she was pregnant as a result, David made another poor choice: he tried to cover up what he had done by recalling Bathsheba’s husband Uriah from the front and telling Uriah to have sex with his wife. When they were on duty, soldiers did not generally sleep with their wives, so, instead of going home, the loyal and dutiful Uriah stayed at the palace with his men. Even when David got Uriah drunk, Uriah refused to desert his men. And so David did something truly heinous. Trusting that Uriah would not open the message to Joab, David commanded Joab to send Uriah onto the front line of battle, where he was sure to be killed. And as we learn two verses beyond today’s reading, Uriah and several other officers indeed met their deaths.
In the story of David and Bathsheba do we confront a rare and isolated incident in human history? Would that it were so! I have been reading a lot lately about both the English Reformation, in which the mother of our church was born, and the twentieth-century Holocaust in Europe. In fact, if you would like an up-close view of the Reformation in England, I recommend a series of mysteries set between the years 1536 and 1547, i.e., between the dissolution of the monasteries in England and the death of Henry VIII, by the English writer C.J. Sansom. If you want to go a few years back, check outr the trilogy by Hilary Mantel, the first book of which is Wolf Hall, which portrays the role of Thomas Cromwell in the break with Rome, beginning in 1533.
Both the English Reformation and the Holocaust period provide excellent examples of sinful political leaders, much like David in their manipulative use of power for destructive ends. As some of you may know, Henry VIII, who lived from 1509 to 1547, was at first so strongly Catholic that, in the earlier years of his reign, he sanctioned the burning at the stake of many “heretics,” i.e., people whose crime was endorsing the writings of Martin Luther, or reading the English Bible produced by the exile Englishman William Tyndale, or questioning the doctrine of transubstantiation in the mass. After Henry’s break with Rome, his marriage to Anne Boleyn, and the establishment of an English church under the control of the crown, Henry then systematically persecuted those who disapproved of these developments. Most notable of those who felt Henry’s wrath was Thomas More, who remained staunchly Catholic and was beheaded in 1535. In the wake of his death, the Roman Catholic Church proclaimed More to be a saint. For somewhat different reasons, Thomas Cromwell met the same fate in 1540.
Closer to our time, it is hard to overlook the methodical and intentional destruction of the vibrant Jewish community in Eastern Europe that was undertaken by the Nazis. Personal accounts and photographs of the Holocaust portray unimaginable cruelty and destruction. Indeed one might even argue that Europe is the poorer today for the lost talent and devotion that perished with the six million. Needless to say, methodical and intentional genocide continues into our own day. Cambodia? Rwanda? South Sudan? And even closer, the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, 9/11, Tucson, Arizona, Aurora, Colorado, Newtown, Connecticut, Charleston, South Carolina, Lafayette, Louisiana. Dear God, when does it stop?
And ourselves? We are not plotting murder, we are not rapists, but are we too capable of sin? Does the story of David, heinous as his behavior is, call us to look at our own bad choices and sinful behavior? As we look closely at ourselves, would we confess to neglect of our responsibilities, hostility towards coworkers or relatives, malicious gossip, angry and hurtful outbursts? Would we confess to addiction, to alcohol, drugs, gambling, or something else? Are we judgmental? Have we taken advantage of others? Are we stingy, envious, or wasteful? When we look honestly at the face in the mirror, we know that at least some of those words describe us.
Let’s turn back to David’s story. Actually it gets worse, as we’ll hear next week. God was, as you might imagine, extremely displeased with David. So God sent the prophet Nathan to David. Through a clever parable, Nathan made David see the truth of what he had done. Nathan warned David that the sword would never depart from his house. Then, David did what all of us must eventually do. He said, “I stand guilty before the Lord.” Nathan pronounced God’s forgiveness, but warned him that Bathsheba’s child would die. But there was also good news: God did not abandon David, as he had abandoned David’s predecessor Saul. More important, Bathsheba had another son, Solomon. A wise and good king, Solomon built the first temple. Most important for us, he was an ancestor of Jesus – as Matthew tells us in the beginning of his gospel – through whom God transformed the greatest evil anyone could face into something greater than anyone could imagine.
It is no different for us. Certainly, we would prefer good to come from good. But the truth is that from our sin and brokenness God can – and does – bring redemption and good. From the atrocities of the English Reformation has come a strong, vibrant, distinctively English church. By God’s grace, our church continues to walk the via media, the middle road between the orthodoxy of Rome and the freedom and independence of the Protestant churches. Today, we are rediscovering the gifts and graces of contemplative spirituality, even as God leads us to greater concern for our neighbors. I have yet to see good come from the Holocaust – indeed the second and even third generations are still struggling to understand how their grandparents could have committed or consented to such evil – but I trust that the God of David can, in God’s good time, redeem even those events.
And then I look at myself. I look at my own sins and shadows. Slowly, I begin to face them, to confess them, to acknowledge them, to say, “I stand guilty before the Lord.” We must all do the same. If it is helpful to you, you may do that self-examination and confession in the presence of a priest and receive a priestly absolution; confession is still available in the Episcopal Church. As people lie dying, often a chaplain will ask, “Are you at peace with God.” The confession that may follow in answer, and the assurance of God’s forgiveness, is often a great gift to the dying person. Are you at peace with God? It’s a good question to ask yourself at any time, and then seek to answer it as honestly as you can.
And when we do answer that question honestly, we know that while we don’t condone David’s actions – or anyone’s sinful actions – neither can we stand on the sidelines in judgment. We are all, as Luther said, simul justus et peccator, simultaneously righteous and sinful. I’m reminded of the old spiritual, “It's me, it's me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer; it's me, it's me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer.” We are all standing in the need of prayer and grace. And here’s the good news: we can rejoice that God did not reject David but continually offered him forgiveness when he repented. That offer continues to this day. That grace comes to us, freely, whenever we seek it. Thanks be to God!
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Lord of the Dance
It was at an Easter Vigil in an old Episcopal church. The liturgy began in the darkness of Saturday evening with the lighting of the new fire. The Paschal candle was then lit, from which the worshippers lighted their own candles. The deacon processed into the church singing, “The Light of Christ.” Then the deacon sang the joyful Exsultet, “Rejoice now heavenly host and choirs of angels….” With only candlelight to see by, the lectors read the traditional nine lessons from the Hebrew Bible. The priest said a short prayer and then joyfully shouted, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” The people joyfully responded, “The Lord is risen, indeed, alleluia!” As the lights blazed on, organ and people broke into a joyful “Gloria,” the people accompanying the organ with bells and tambourines. There followed the reading of the Epistle and Gospel for the Eucharist, the Prayers of the People, and the Peace. The offertory hymn was a kind of dancy number, with a strong rhythm. The choir began to sway as they sang. The rhythm was contagious. The priest began to sway and move his hands to the music. By the last verse, the rest of the altar party members were dancing in place, while the congregation had begun to clap.
Could this really have happened in an Episcopal church? We have such a strong tradition of dignified – almost staid – worship. “All things decently and in order,” we like to say. Part of the reason why we insist on order is that our liturgy follows the Latin mass. This is a form of worship, in medieval times at least, in which most folks were mere spectators. Another reason is that our liturgy came of age in the 16th and 17th centuries, a time that emphasized a penitential spirituality, somber sorrow for one’s sins rather than joyful praise of God. Add to that the emphasis on propriety in the Victorian era, and in most places we have a very sober style of worship indeed.
Of course, we do now have a robust musical tradition. If you look through our current hymnal, you’ll see that some of the hymns are translations of Latin hymns. Lutherans were ahead of us in adopting congregational singing, but we quickly caught up and translated the best of the German hymns. Eighteenth-century hymnodists such as Charles Wesley and Isaac Watts, Victorian hymn writers, and twentieth century writers and composers added to our store of English hymns, and collections such as LEVAS have given us back African American hymnody. So, some of us are perfectly comfortable with music in worship. But dance?
And yet, why not? Dancing was a regular part of religious life in ancient Israel. In fact, Scripture gives us many different examples of people dancing in praise of God. The book of Exodus tells us that, after the Israelites walked through the Sea of Reeds, Miriam, Aaron’s sister, “took a tambourine in her hand; and all the women went out with her with tambourines and with dancing” (15:20). After Judith assured the victory of the Israelites over the Assyrians by killing Holofernes, “All the women of Israel gathered to see her, and blessed her, and some of them performed a dance in her honor” (Judith 15:12). And, of course, we hear the explicit command in Psalm 150 to praise God with “trumpet sound; praise him with lute and harp! Praise him with tambourine and dance; praise him with strings and pipe! Praise him with clanging cymbals; praise him with loud clashing cymbals!”
Today’s reading from 2 Samuel shows David doing just that. The shepherd boy, the youngest of all of Jesse’s sons, was unexpectedly chosen by God to be Israel’s next king. Now grown up, he has defeated his enemies, the Philistines, and Israel’s first king, Saul, whom God had rejected. Two weeks ago, we heard David’s lament over the deaths of his beloved friend Jonathan and of Saul. Now he is going up to Jerusalem in triumph. Showing that Jerusalem is both the political and religious capital of Israel, David leads those bearing the Ark, the sacred chest that is a sign of God’s presence with Israel. David is wearing a priestly garment, the ephod, as he exuberantly praises God in dance. The Tanakh, the Jewish translation of the Hebrew Bible, tells us that David was leaping and “whirling.” Can you picture it? Certainly, you can almost hear the shouting and the sounds of harps, tambourines, castanets, and cymbals that accompanied David’s leaping and whirling. Talk about “making a joyful noise to the Lord,” as six of the psalms tell us to do!
The text does allude to Michal’s reaction to David’s dancing. Here, we might infer that Michal thought David’s dancing was unseemly for a king. Yet there’s much more to the story than that. Michal was Saul’s daughter, and she was married off to David without her consent. We might imagine that her reaction to David’s dancing reflects not only her grief at her father’s death but also her resentment at having been a political pawn between Saul and David and having been mistreated by both of them. Clearly, everyone else in the story views David’s exuberant worship positively, not only because the Ark is installed in its rightful place, but also because, after the worship is concluded, David blesses the people and generously feeds them.
So, what can we learn from this story? Do we ever get as excited about worship as David? I’m not suggested that we dance with only an ephod on, but shouldn’t we dance in some way? Does worship ever fill us with joy and amazement, when we realize that God is with us and in us? Or are we just bored and disengaged from worship? Or worse, does the very thought of God depress and frighten us, as we wait for God to condemn us for our sins and brokenness? Perhaps we’re afraid of the Michals among us, of those who would frown at any sign of joyful celebration in our worship.
Yet, why shouldn’t be exuberantly joyful in worship? Why shouldn’t we dance and shout? We just heard, in the opening verses of the letter to the Christians at Ephesus, that, through Christ, God has adopted us as God’s children, and that we have been blessed “with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.” Do we forget that we are truly and irrevocably God’s children, and do we listen instead to the voices that harp on our sinfulness and brokenness?
My friends, am I being sacrilegious in suggesting that we should praise God in joyful song and dance? Theologians remind us that the Trinity is a relationship among the three persons of God, a relationship of never-ending, ever-circling praise, joy, and love. There is even a name for this relationship: perichoresis, which can be translated as “rotation” or “dance.” In fact, our Lutheran brothers and sisters even have a hymn that expresses this relationship: “Come, Join the Dance of Trinity.” They even set it to an English folk tune! Here’s just the first verse: “Come, join the dance of Trinity, before all worlds begun – the interweaving of the Three, the Father, Spirit, Son. The universe of space and time did not arise by chance, but as the Three, in love and hope, made room within their dance.”
And consider this: when Katherine Jefferts Schori was invested as Presiding Bishop at the Washington National Cathedral in November, 2006, the liturgy included lovely, expressive liturgical dance. I have no idea what Bp. Michael Curry is planning for his investiture, but I have no doubt that it will include loud, exuberant, joyful praise of God in music and dance.
And what of us? We no longer localize God in an Ark, but can we acknowledge that it is important to experience delight and passion in worship? Can we find a way of dancing our praise of God?
In 1963 English song writer Sidney Carter wrote a hymn entitled “Lord of the Dance.” It was sung to a Shaker tune, “Simple gifts,” and tells the gospel story in Jesus’ own voice. Carter was inspired to write it by a statue of Shiva Nataraj, Lord of the Dance in Hinduism, and by the Shakers, who incorporated dance into their worship. Carter later said of the hymn, "I did not think the churches would like it at all. I thought many people would find it pretty far flown, probably heretical and anyway dubiously Christian. But in fact people did sing it and, unknown to me, it touched a chord.... I see Christ as the incarnation of the piper who is calling us. He dances that shape and pattern which is at the heart of our reality. I sing of the dancing pattern in the life and words of Jesus.”
I invite you to share the dance. Listen as “The Lord of the Dance” is sung by the Resurrection Singers, a group of former orphan boys now a part of the St. Joseph’s Family in Port au Prince, Haiti. Stand if you can or want to and join the dance. If the Spirit can catch a congregation at an Easter Vigil, why can’t the Spirit catch us?
Could this really have happened in an Episcopal church? We have such a strong tradition of dignified – almost staid – worship. “All things decently and in order,” we like to say. Part of the reason why we insist on order is that our liturgy follows the Latin mass. This is a form of worship, in medieval times at least, in which most folks were mere spectators. Another reason is that our liturgy came of age in the 16th and 17th centuries, a time that emphasized a penitential spirituality, somber sorrow for one’s sins rather than joyful praise of God. Add to that the emphasis on propriety in the Victorian era, and in most places we have a very sober style of worship indeed.
Of course, we do now have a robust musical tradition. If you look through our current hymnal, you’ll see that some of the hymns are translations of Latin hymns. Lutherans were ahead of us in adopting congregational singing, but we quickly caught up and translated the best of the German hymns. Eighteenth-century hymnodists such as Charles Wesley and Isaac Watts, Victorian hymn writers, and twentieth century writers and composers added to our store of English hymns, and collections such as LEVAS have given us back African American hymnody. So, some of us are perfectly comfortable with music in worship. But dance?
And yet, why not? Dancing was a regular part of religious life in ancient Israel. In fact, Scripture gives us many different examples of people dancing in praise of God. The book of Exodus tells us that, after the Israelites walked through the Sea of Reeds, Miriam, Aaron’s sister, “took a tambourine in her hand; and all the women went out with her with tambourines and with dancing” (15:20). After Judith assured the victory of the Israelites over the Assyrians by killing Holofernes, “All the women of Israel gathered to see her, and blessed her, and some of them performed a dance in her honor” (Judith 15:12). And, of course, we hear the explicit command in Psalm 150 to praise God with “trumpet sound; praise him with lute and harp! Praise him with tambourine and dance; praise him with strings and pipe! Praise him with clanging cymbals; praise him with loud clashing cymbals!”
Today’s reading from 2 Samuel shows David doing just that. The shepherd boy, the youngest of all of Jesse’s sons, was unexpectedly chosen by God to be Israel’s next king. Now grown up, he has defeated his enemies, the Philistines, and Israel’s first king, Saul, whom God had rejected. Two weeks ago, we heard David’s lament over the deaths of his beloved friend Jonathan and of Saul. Now he is going up to Jerusalem in triumph. Showing that Jerusalem is both the political and religious capital of Israel, David leads those bearing the Ark, the sacred chest that is a sign of God’s presence with Israel. David is wearing a priestly garment, the ephod, as he exuberantly praises God in dance. The Tanakh, the Jewish translation of the Hebrew Bible, tells us that David was leaping and “whirling.” Can you picture it? Certainly, you can almost hear the shouting and the sounds of harps, tambourines, castanets, and cymbals that accompanied David’s leaping and whirling. Talk about “making a joyful noise to the Lord,” as six of the psalms tell us to do!
The text does allude to Michal’s reaction to David’s dancing. Here, we might infer that Michal thought David’s dancing was unseemly for a king. Yet there’s much more to the story than that. Michal was Saul’s daughter, and she was married off to David without her consent. We might imagine that her reaction to David’s dancing reflects not only her grief at her father’s death but also her resentment at having been a political pawn between Saul and David and having been mistreated by both of them. Clearly, everyone else in the story views David’s exuberant worship positively, not only because the Ark is installed in its rightful place, but also because, after the worship is concluded, David blesses the people and generously feeds them.
So, what can we learn from this story? Do we ever get as excited about worship as David? I’m not suggested that we dance with only an ephod on, but shouldn’t we dance in some way? Does worship ever fill us with joy and amazement, when we realize that God is with us and in us? Or are we just bored and disengaged from worship? Or worse, does the very thought of God depress and frighten us, as we wait for God to condemn us for our sins and brokenness? Perhaps we’re afraid of the Michals among us, of those who would frown at any sign of joyful celebration in our worship.
Yet, why shouldn’t be exuberantly joyful in worship? Why shouldn’t we dance and shout? We just heard, in the opening verses of the letter to the Christians at Ephesus, that, through Christ, God has adopted us as God’s children, and that we have been blessed “with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.” Do we forget that we are truly and irrevocably God’s children, and do we listen instead to the voices that harp on our sinfulness and brokenness?
My friends, am I being sacrilegious in suggesting that we should praise God in joyful song and dance? Theologians remind us that the Trinity is a relationship among the three persons of God, a relationship of never-ending, ever-circling praise, joy, and love. There is even a name for this relationship: perichoresis, which can be translated as “rotation” or “dance.” In fact, our Lutheran brothers and sisters even have a hymn that expresses this relationship: “Come, Join the Dance of Trinity.” They even set it to an English folk tune! Here’s just the first verse: “Come, join the dance of Trinity, before all worlds begun – the interweaving of the Three, the Father, Spirit, Son. The universe of space and time did not arise by chance, but as the Three, in love and hope, made room within their dance.”
And consider this: when Katherine Jefferts Schori was invested as Presiding Bishop at the Washington National Cathedral in November, 2006, the liturgy included lovely, expressive liturgical dance. I have no idea what Bp. Michael Curry is planning for his investiture, but I have no doubt that it will include loud, exuberant, joyful praise of God in music and dance.
And what of us? We no longer localize God in an Ark, but can we acknowledge that it is important to experience delight and passion in worship? Can we find a way of dancing our praise of God?
In 1963 English song writer Sidney Carter wrote a hymn entitled “Lord of the Dance.” It was sung to a Shaker tune, “Simple gifts,” and tells the gospel story in Jesus’ own voice. Carter was inspired to write it by a statue of Shiva Nataraj, Lord of the Dance in Hinduism, and by the Shakers, who incorporated dance into their worship. Carter later said of the hymn, "I did not think the churches would like it at all. I thought many people would find it pretty far flown, probably heretical and anyway dubiously Christian. But in fact people did sing it and, unknown to me, it touched a chord.... I see Christ as the incarnation of the piper who is calling us. He dances that shape and pattern which is at the heart of our reality. I sing of the dancing pattern in the life and words of Jesus.”
I invite you to share the dance. Listen as “The Lord of the Dance” is sung by the Resurrection Singers, a group of former orphan boys now a part of the St. Joseph’s Family in Port au Prince, Haiti. Stand if you can or want to and join the dance. If the Spirit can catch a congregation at an Easter Vigil, why can’t the Spirit catch us?
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Whenever I am Weak, then I am Strong
“For whenever I am weak, then I am strong.” You have just heard the gospel in a nutshell! Yet, isn’t it a truly paradoxical statement? Certainly it is for most Americans. We live in a culture that emphasizes rugged individualism, competitiveness, and aggressive strength. And now, God help us, in the wake of the tragedy in Charleston, SC, die-hard gun advocates are suggesting that churches should have armed guards, and that pastors should be armed. Can you see it here at St. Peter’s?
No? Then hear the truly counter-cultural message in Paul’s second letter to the Christian community in Corinth. We’ve been hearing excerpts from this letter since the beginning of June. Actually, most commentators think that this is probably not a single letter – it’s too fragmentary. Rather, the letter seems to be a composite of several letters that Paul wrote to the Corinthians. The passage that we heard today is the last part of what some have called Paul’s “fool’s speech.” In it, Paul addresses criticism of his ministry by some “super apostles,” as he calls them, who have boasted that they are the true spokesmen for Christ. They have also claimed that Paul is not a true apostle, and that he is neither sufficiently Jewish nor sufficiently charismatic. Should Paul respond in kind?
While you wait for the answer to that question, fast-forward to December 27th of last year. In the evening of that wintry day, Heather Cook, the then suffragan bishop of Maryland, struck forty-one year old cyclist Thomas Palermo, killing him almost instantly. Cook was texting at the time of the accident and initially fled the scene. When she surrendered and was tested, she had a blood alcohol level of .22. (Remember that .08 is the level for driving under the influence of alcohol.) Three years prior to this accident, Cook had had another DUI conviction. However, she had spent only a short time in rehab and apparently had been receiving no follow-up care. The diocesan search committee that presented her for election as suffragan bishop knew of Cook’s prior conviction. After her election, diocesan officials even suspected that Cook was drunk at a dinner party the night before her September consecration, but it is unclear whether they took any action. Cook was arraigned in February on charges of driving under the influence resulting in a homicide, vehicular manslaughter, criminal negligent manslaughter, texting while driving, and fleeing the scene of an accident. Her trial will take place September. Cook was deposed from holy orders on May 1 of this year, one day after the twenty-seventh anniversary of her ordination as priest.
As we grieve the death of Thomas Palermo and ponder how Heather Cook might have avoided wrecking her life, does Paul’s response to his critics offer us any wisdom or hope? Paul begins his response by trotting out what we might call his “apostolic resume,” his list of qualifications and accomplishments. First he asserts his Jewish credentials: “Are they Hebrews? So am I. Are they Israelites? So am I. Are they descendants of Abraham? So am I.” Then he goes on to list the hardships he has endured in his work as an evangelist: “Are they ministers of Christ? I am talking like a madman – I am a better one: with far greater labors, far more imprisonments, with countless floggings, and often near death.”
Then, as we heard, Paul alludes to his own experiences of visions and revelations: “I know a person in Christ….” Although Paul is speaking here in the third person, scholars generally agree that he is speaking of his own experiences. We are not sure to what exactly he is referring, whether his experiences on the Damascus road or some other visions. Is Paul boasting here in the same way that he has accused his rivals of boasting?
Actually, Paul is doing just the opposite. After soaring into the “third heaven,” Paul crashes to earth. In the frankest, most personal passage in all of his letters, Paul alludes to a weakness or limitation, the famous “thorn in the flesh.” No one knows what this “thorn” was, although guesses have ranged from the psychological, to external opposition, to physical maladies such as migraines, epilepsy, and eye infections. Although Paul asked for deliverance from the thorn, he did not receive it. Instead, he received another revelation: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” And so the thorn has become for Paul a perpetual reminder of his need for God’s grace, not only in enduring this limitation, but in his entire ministry. The thorn also reminds Paul – and by extension us – that although God does not inflict suffering on us, God can bring life out of suffering. Most important, the thorn reminds Paul and us that when we acknowledge our weakness, when we let go of the desire to be in control, when we give up the belief that we can fix the difficulties and tragedies of our lives by ourselves, when we acknowledge our dependence on God and on a supportive community, then – and only then – can we draw on the power of Christ, and – finally – allow God’s grace to work in us.
God willing, Heather Cook has reached or will reach that place of putting aside her own ego and drawing on God’s strength. Needless to say, Cook’s accident and Palermo’s death drew much commentary in both secular and Episcopal media. Some appropriately criticized the search committee for downplaying the seriousness of her previous DUI conviction and presenting her for election. However, what was much more important, for the first time in a long time Episcopal media began to question the role of alcohol in the Episcopal Church, both for individuals and for many parishes. We learned that a disproportionate number of Episcopal clergy are alcoholics. Many of us acknowledged the truth of the unfortunate epithet “Whiskypalians,” or in the saying – which I heard when I first came into the church almost fifty years ago – “Wherever there are four Episcopalians, there’s a fifth.” We also discovered that, after General Convention of 1979 approved a resolution addressing alcohol abuse, Recovery Ministries of the Episcopal Church was formed to provide a network of clergy and laity concerned with addiction and treatment.
On July 1, at this year’s General Convention in Salt Lake City, Bishop Mark Hollingsworth, of the Diocese of Ohio, rose in front of the House of Bishops and said, “I’m Mark and I’m an alcoholic.” Bp. Hollingsworth was speaking as chair of the Legislative Committee on Alcohol and Drug Abuse, a committee that had been created in response to numerous requests by delegates and others for the church to examine the role of alcohol in our life. Bp. Hollingsworth acknowledged his own journey of addiction and recovery and then introduced three resolutions which were subsequently passed by the bishops and affirmed by the deputies.
The first resolution recommends that ordinands be questioned at the very beginning of the discernment process about addiction and substance use in their lives and family systems. The second resolution acknowledges the role of the church in a culture of alcohol and drug abuse and “directs dioceses to work in partnership with The Episcopal Church Medical Trust, Recovery Ministries of The Episcopal Church, and community-based organizations in order to address most effectively prevention, intervention/diversion, education, advocacy, treatment, and recovery, including developing a list of trained therapists and consultants who are available to assist clergy and laity in this education process.” The third resolution creates a task force to review and revise policy on substance abuse, addiction, and recovery and recommends that, where possible, non-alcoholic wine be provided as an alternative to communion wine.
The Rev. Steve Lane, treasurer of Recovery Ministries of The Episcopal Church, was excited to see the church finally beginning to face the challenges of addiction. “The best known solution for [addiction] is a spiritual one,” he said, “but our church needs to be aware of it and see our own shortcomings and be aware of our own failures first before we can reach out and help others.” Retired Bishop Chilton Knudsen of Maine, who will begin assisting in the Maryland diocese in October, is a recovering alcoholic, an experience that is central to her ministry. “When the case in Maryland happened, my heart broke, as everybody’s did,” she said. Rather than advocating abstinence, Knudsen embraces the call for intentional awareness about alcohol abuse. Most important, Knudsen said, becoming healthy requires telling the truth about who we are and telling our stories. Deputy Doris Westfall of Missouri agreed. “The church holds out the hope of living into recovery, which is no less than resurrection,” she said.
Perhaps we have as a church begun to understand that, with alcoholism, drug abuse, and many other human weaknesses, denying reality or thinking we can find healing through our own efforts alone will not help us. Rather, perhaps we finally understand that, when we, like Paul, acknowledge our weaknesses and limitations, when we, like Bill W., the founder of AA, “made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him,” then we can open ourselves to the possibility of God’s grace working within us. Certainly, addictions are serious diseases, with both physical and spiritual aspects. But here is the good news: when we honestly examine our lives, acknowledge our need for God’s grace, and conscientiously avail ourselves of helpful organizations, Christ’s power and grace will support, uphold, and transform us. And then, by God’s grace, like Paul, like Bill W., and like Bps. Hollingsworth and Knudsen, we too might become instruments of grace for others.
No? Then hear the truly counter-cultural message in Paul’s second letter to the Christian community in Corinth. We’ve been hearing excerpts from this letter since the beginning of June. Actually, most commentators think that this is probably not a single letter – it’s too fragmentary. Rather, the letter seems to be a composite of several letters that Paul wrote to the Corinthians. The passage that we heard today is the last part of what some have called Paul’s “fool’s speech.” In it, Paul addresses criticism of his ministry by some “super apostles,” as he calls them, who have boasted that they are the true spokesmen for Christ. They have also claimed that Paul is not a true apostle, and that he is neither sufficiently Jewish nor sufficiently charismatic. Should Paul respond in kind?
While you wait for the answer to that question, fast-forward to December 27th of last year. In the evening of that wintry day, Heather Cook, the then suffragan bishop of Maryland, struck forty-one year old cyclist Thomas Palermo, killing him almost instantly. Cook was texting at the time of the accident and initially fled the scene. When she surrendered and was tested, she had a blood alcohol level of .22. (Remember that .08 is the level for driving under the influence of alcohol.) Three years prior to this accident, Cook had had another DUI conviction. However, she had spent only a short time in rehab and apparently had been receiving no follow-up care. The diocesan search committee that presented her for election as suffragan bishop knew of Cook’s prior conviction. After her election, diocesan officials even suspected that Cook was drunk at a dinner party the night before her September consecration, but it is unclear whether they took any action. Cook was arraigned in February on charges of driving under the influence resulting in a homicide, vehicular manslaughter, criminal negligent manslaughter, texting while driving, and fleeing the scene of an accident. Her trial will take place September. Cook was deposed from holy orders on May 1 of this year, one day after the twenty-seventh anniversary of her ordination as priest.
As we grieve the death of Thomas Palermo and ponder how Heather Cook might have avoided wrecking her life, does Paul’s response to his critics offer us any wisdom or hope? Paul begins his response by trotting out what we might call his “apostolic resume,” his list of qualifications and accomplishments. First he asserts his Jewish credentials: “Are they Hebrews? So am I. Are they Israelites? So am I. Are they descendants of Abraham? So am I.” Then he goes on to list the hardships he has endured in his work as an evangelist: “Are they ministers of Christ? I am talking like a madman – I am a better one: with far greater labors, far more imprisonments, with countless floggings, and often near death.”
Then, as we heard, Paul alludes to his own experiences of visions and revelations: “I know a person in Christ….” Although Paul is speaking here in the third person, scholars generally agree that he is speaking of his own experiences. We are not sure to what exactly he is referring, whether his experiences on the Damascus road or some other visions. Is Paul boasting here in the same way that he has accused his rivals of boasting?
Actually, Paul is doing just the opposite. After soaring into the “third heaven,” Paul crashes to earth. In the frankest, most personal passage in all of his letters, Paul alludes to a weakness or limitation, the famous “thorn in the flesh.” No one knows what this “thorn” was, although guesses have ranged from the psychological, to external opposition, to physical maladies such as migraines, epilepsy, and eye infections. Although Paul asked for deliverance from the thorn, he did not receive it. Instead, he received another revelation: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” And so the thorn has become for Paul a perpetual reminder of his need for God’s grace, not only in enduring this limitation, but in his entire ministry. The thorn also reminds Paul – and by extension us – that although God does not inflict suffering on us, God can bring life out of suffering. Most important, the thorn reminds Paul and us that when we acknowledge our weakness, when we let go of the desire to be in control, when we give up the belief that we can fix the difficulties and tragedies of our lives by ourselves, when we acknowledge our dependence on God and on a supportive community, then – and only then – can we draw on the power of Christ, and – finally – allow God’s grace to work in us.
God willing, Heather Cook has reached or will reach that place of putting aside her own ego and drawing on God’s strength. Needless to say, Cook’s accident and Palermo’s death drew much commentary in both secular and Episcopal media. Some appropriately criticized the search committee for downplaying the seriousness of her previous DUI conviction and presenting her for election. However, what was much more important, for the first time in a long time Episcopal media began to question the role of alcohol in the Episcopal Church, both for individuals and for many parishes. We learned that a disproportionate number of Episcopal clergy are alcoholics. Many of us acknowledged the truth of the unfortunate epithet “Whiskypalians,” or in the saying – which I heard when I first came into the church almost fifty years ago – “Wherever there are four Episcopalians, there’s a fifth.” We also discovered that, after General Convention of 1979 approved a resolution addressing alcohol abuse, Recovery Ministries of the Episcopal Church was formed to provide a network of clergy and laity concerned with addiction and treatment.
On July 1, at this year’s General Convention in Salt Lake City, Bishop Mark Hollingsworth, of the Diocese of Ohio, rose in front of the House of Bishops and said, “I’m Mark and I’m an alcoholic.” Bp. Hollingsworth was speaking as chair of the Legislative Committee on Alcohol and Drug Abuse, a committee that had been created in response to numerous requests by delegates and others for the church to examine the role of alcohol in our life. Bp. Hollingsworth acknowledged his own journey of addiction and recovery and then introduced three resolutions which were subsequently passed by the bishops and affirmed by the deputies.
The first resolution recommends that ordinands be questioned at the very beginning of the discernment process about addiction and substance use in their lives and family systems. The second resolution acknowledges the role of the church in a culture of alcohol and drug abuse and “directs dioceses to work in partnership with The Episcopal Church Medical Trust, Recovery Ministries of The Episcopal Church, and community-based organizations in order to address most effectively prevention, intervention/diversion, education, advocacy, treatment, and recovery, including developing a list of trained therapists and consultants who are available to assist clergy and laity in this education process.” The third resolution creates a task force to review and revise policy on substance abuse, addiction, and recovery and recommends that, where possible, non-alcoholic wine be provided as an alternative to communion wine.
The Rev. Steve Lane, treasurer of Recovery Ministries of The Episcopal Church, was excited to see the church finally beginning to face the challenges of addiction. “The best known solution for [addiction] is a spiritual one,” he said, “but our church needs to be aware of it and see our own shortcomings and be aware of our own failures first before we can reach out and help others.” Retired Bishop Chilton Knudsen of Maine, who will begin assisting in the Maryland diocese in October, is a recovering alcoholic, an experience that is central to her ministry. “When the case in Maryland happened, my heart broke, as everybody’s did,” she said. Rather than advocating abstinence, Knudsen embraces the call for intentional awareness about alcohol abuse. Most important, Knudsen said, becoming healthy requires telling the truth about who we are and telling our stories. Deputy Doris Westfall of Missouri agreed. “The church holds out the hope of living into recovery, which is no less than resurrection,” she said.
Perhaps we have as a church begun to understand that, with alcoholism, drug abuse, and many other human weaknesses, denying reality or thinking we can find healing through our own efforts alone will not help us. Rather, perhaps we finally understand that, when we, like Paul, acknowledge our weaknesses and limitations, when we, like Bill W., the founder of AA, “made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him,” then we can open ourselves to the possibility of God’s grace working within us. Certainly, addictions are serious diseases, with both physical and spiritual aspects. But here is the good news: when we honestly examine our lives, acknowledge our need for God’s grace, and conscientiously avail ourselves of helpful organizations, Christ’s power and grace will support, uphold, and transform us. And then, by God’s grace, like Paul, like Bill W., and like Bps. Hollingsworth and Knudsen, we too might become instruments of grace for others.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Hope and Trust
What do you hear in today’s Scripture readings? Do any of today’s readings speak to your own experience? Perhaps you empathize with David’s grief over the death of his beloved friend Jonathan, even as you might wonder how David can also grieve the death of his old enemy Saul. Perhaps you too have known the depths of sorrow – over the death of a loved one, over the deaths of nine innocent people sharing study of the Bible or of innocent tourists on a beach, over the betrayal of someone close to you, over the loss of a job, over continued war and poverty. Perhaps you too cry out with the psalmist, “Out of the depths have a I called to you, O Lord; Lord hear my voice!” Perhaps, like Paul, you have begged others to respond to a need or cause about which you feel passionate. Or perhaps, like the people in today’s Gospel stories, you have begged for healing, either for another person, or for yourself. Perhaps you’ve been in all these places, and you know, from your own deep experience, how Scripture continues to speak to our condition, continues to offer us words of hope and lead us to a deeper trust in God’s saving power.
Our reading from 2 Samuel, catches up with David after he has defeated the Philistines. Despite the fact that the way is now open for David to become king over Israel, and despite his bitter conflict with Saul, David pours out his grief over both Saul’s and Jonathan’s death. More important perhaps for us, the account of David’s grief allows us to see David expressing deep emotion. No “stiff upper lip” or “men don’t cry” here. Perhaps we might, like David, understand our emotions as gifts from God. Perhaps we might even trust that God’s shares our emotions and seeks to console and comfort us in our grief.
Certainly, the psalmist trusts that God shares our griefs and sorrows. The psalmist also reminds us that, eager as we are for God’s comfort, we must wait patiently. And we must never let go of our hope that, in God’s good time, God will restore all things.
St. Paul also counsels the Corinthian Christians to wait patiently – and to also act in faith. As he wrote to the Christians in Corinth, the faithful in Jerusalem were suffering from famine. Now Paul was certain that Jesus would quickly return, probably within Paul’s own lifetime. Yet Paul does not hesitate to look after the living. He does not say, “Ignore the poor, and hungry, because all of us will soon be taken up.” Instead, he asks for help from those he himself had brought to faith in Christ. He knows that life is a gift of God, that it is good, and that the bodies of children and adults must be fed. He knows what matters – and he trusts that the Corinthians will respond to his request – because he compares everything to God’s great gift: “For you know the generous act of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich.”
Our reading from the Gospel according to Mark offers another of Mark’s gospel “sandwiches:” one story nested within another, each speaking to us in different ways. Here, we catch up with Jesus, just as he has arrived from the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Despite Jesus’ best efforts, his fame as a miraculous healer has spread. As the crowds of the hopeful – and the curious – press in on him, a wealthy and important man, a leader in the synagogue, falls on his knees in front of Jesus, and begs Jesus to save his daughter. Jesus attends to the father in need and turns to accompany him.
Just then, the bleeding woman, outcast from all polite society because of her illness, approaches Jesus. She is convinced that she will be healed by just touching Jesus’ outer garment, and that, because of the crowds, no one will notice her. But Jesus notices her, or rather notices that something has happened. Perhaps the energy of the woman’s immense faith was more powerful than all the shoving and pushing of the crowd. Perhaps that energy was enough to call forth God’s healing power.
As we follow Jairus home, we hear that by the time he and Jesus finally arrive, the child has already been declared dead, and the professional mourners have begun to gather. Why is Jairus still bringing Jesus into the house? What can the rabbi do now? Even so, Jesus turns to the sad father and says the words that we all need to hear over and over again, “Do not fear. Only believe.” As Jairus leads Jesus into the child’s room, Jesus shocks him by saying, “The child is not dead but sleeping.” And then another miracle of healing occurs. Perhaps hinting at the end of Mark’s story, Jesus gently says, “Young woman, get up.” The onlookers collectively let out their breaths, and life returns.
Two instances of healing, for two different kinds of people, that came about in two different ways. In the frame story, Jesus offered healing to the daughter of a wealthy, powerful family. In the nested story, an outcast woman, a woman shunned because of her illness, claimed Jesus’ healing power for herself. What is more important, the healing of Jairus’s daughter was a public event: the crowds knew where he was going, and Jairus himself witnessed it. By contrast, the healing of the bleeding woman was a private event. Even Jesus wasn’t sure what had happened, until the woman, trembling and afraid, fell down before him and told him everything.
Does any of this resonate with our own experience? One thing these stories should tell us is that God offers healing to everyone. You do not need to be rich and powerful, you do not need to have a Cadillac health insurance plan, to claim God’s healing power. Indeed, as Mark and Luke suggest over and over, God has a preference for the poor, the outcast, and the marginalized, and God will attend to their needs, just as God attends to our needs.
Moreover, perhaps we too have experienced healing – or offered it – in these two different ways. An aside here: We hear the gospel stories of miraculous healings so that we can learn something about what God is like, not so that we can think that Jesus came to be a 24/7 medical savior. It is not impossible, though it is extremely rare, for miraculous healings, to actually occur. And if they do not, it is never because our faith was insufficient.
However, we all do experience open, public healing: through our medical facilities, through support groups, and even through our ministries as a church. What’s even more important, we can experience – and offer – healing more indirectly and privately, in the “random acts of kindness” through which God operates in the world. Such healing can happen anywhere. A twelve-step meeting was just ending when a young woman suddenly blurted out her name, shouted that she was an alcoholic, and rushed out of the room. An older woman followed her and saw her sitting in a dark corner weeping uncontrollably. The older woman came over to the younger woman and embraced her. She said gently, “My dear, just let us love you until you can come to love yourself.”
We may not even be aware when such healing occurs. Theologians who have studied the science of cosmology speak of “quantum entanglement,” the idea that ultimately all life, indeed all creation, has a common origin in God, and that we are all ultimately connected. Or perhaps you’ve heard of the “butterfly effect.” This is a term used in chaos theory to describe how small changes to a seemingly unrelated thing or condition can affect large, complex systems. The term comes from the suggestion that the flapping of a butterfly's wings in South America could affect the weather in Texas, meaning that the tiniest influence on one part of a system can have a huge effect on another part. If you think about it, perhaps this is the way prayer works. Our lives are connected. Like Jesus, we may receive healing from someone or some circumstance unknown to us, or we may be the agent of healing for someone, simply by virtue of how we live out our lives. Needless to say, as followers of the one who offered himself in love to all comers, we are called to be grateful to God for any healing in our lives that does occur, and we are called to treat lovingly all who approach us for help and healing.
My brothers and sisters, here is the good news. Much of our lives are out of our control. But as followers of Jesus we believe that we are connected to God and to one another, and that God will respond to our needs, directly or indirectly, in God’s good time. We may not be able to predict when or how God will act, but we can continue to live out our lives with hope and trust in God’s deep care.
Our reading from 2 Samuel, catches up with David after he has defeated the Philistines. Despite the fact that the way is now open for David to become king over Israel, and despite his bitter conflict with Saul, David pours out his grief over both Saul’s and Jonathan’s death. More important perhaps for us, the account of David’s grief allows us to see David expressing deep emotion. No “stiff upper lip” or “men don’t cry” here. Perhaps we might, like David, understand our emotions as gifts from God. Perhaps we might even trust that God’s shares our emotions and seeks to console and comfort us in our grief.
Certainly, the psalmist trusts that God shares our griefs and sorrows. The psalmist also reminds us that, eager as we are for God’s comfort, we must wait patiently. And we must never let go of our hope that, in God’s good time, God will restore all things.
St. Paul also counsels the Corinthian Christians to wait patiently – and to also act in faith. As he wrote to the Christians in Corinth, the faithful in Jerusalem were suffering from famine. Now Paul was certain that Jesus would quickly return, probably within Paul’s own lifetime. Yet Paul does not hesitate to look after the living. He does not say, “Ignore the poor, and hungry, because all of us will soon be taken up.” Instead, he asks for help from those he himself had brought to faith in Christ. He knows that life is a gift of God, that it is good, and that the bodies of children and adults must be fed. He knows what matters – and he trusts that the Corinthians will respond to his request – because he compares everything to God’s great gift: “For you know the generous act of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich.”
Our reading from the Gospel according to Mark offers another of Mark’s gospel “sandwiches:” one story nested within another, each speaking to us in different ways. Here, we catch up with Jesus, just as he has arrived from the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Despite Jesus’ best efforts, his fame as a miraculous healer has spread. As the crowds of the hopeful – and the curious – press in on him, a wealthy and important man, a leader in the synagogue, falls on his knees in front of Jesus, and begs Jesus to save his daughter. Jesus attends to the father in need and turns to accompany him.
Just then, the bleeding woman, outcast from all polite society because of her illness, approaches Jesus. She is convinced that she will be healed by just touching Jesus’ outer garment, and that, because of the crowds, no one will notice her. But Jesus notices her, or rather notices that something has happened. Perhaps the energy of the woman’s immense faith was more powerful than all the shoving and pushing of the crowd. Perhaps that energy was enough to call forth God’s healing power.
As we follow Jairus home, we hear that by the time he and Jesus finally arrive, the child has already been declared dead, and the professional mourners have begun to gather. Why is Jairus still bringing Jesus into the house? What can the rabbi do now? Even so, Jesus turns to the sad father and says the words that we all need to hear over and over again, “Do not fear. Only believe.” As Jairus leads Jesus into the child’s room, Jesus shocks him by saying, “The child is not dead but sleeping.” And then another miracle of healing occurs. Perhaps hinting at the end of Mark’s story, Jesus gently says, “Young woman, get up.” The onlookers collectively let out their breaths, and life returns.
Two instances of healing, for two different kinds of people, that came about in two different ways. In the frame story, Jesus offered healing to the daughter of a wealthy, powerful family. In the nested story, an outcast woman, a woman shunned because of her illness, claimed Jesus’ healing power for herself. What is more important, the healing of Jairus’s daughter was a public event: the crowds knew where he was going, and Jairus himself witnessed it. By contrast, the healing of the bleeding woman was a private event. Even Jesus wasn’t sure what had happened, until the woman, trembling and afraid, fell down before him and told him everything.
Does any of this resonate with our own experience? One thing these stories should tell us is that God offers healing to everyone. You do not need to be rich and powerful, you do not need to have a Cadillac health insurance plan, to claim God’s healing power. Indeed, as Mark and Luke suggest over and over, God has a preference for the poor, the outcast, and the marginalized, and God will attend to their needs, just as God attends to our needs.
Moreover, perhaps we too have experienced healing – or offered it – in these two different ways. An aside here: We hear the gospel stories of miraculous healings so that we can learn something about what God is like, not so that we can think that Jesus came to be a 24/7 medical savior. It is not impossible, though it is extremely rare, for miraculous healings, to actually occur. And if they do not, it is never because our faith was insufficient.
However, we all do experience open, public healing: through our medical facilities, through support groups, and even through our ministries as a church. What’s even more important, we can experience – and offer – healing more indirectly and privately, in the “random acts of kindness” through which God operates in the world. Such healing can happen anywhere. A twelve-step meeting was just ending when a young woman suddenly blurted out her name, shouted that she was an alcoholic, and rushed out of the room. An older woman followed her and saw her sitting in a dark corner weeping uncontrollably. The older woman came over to the younger woman and embraced her. She said gently, “My dear, just let us love you until you can come to love yourself.”
We may not even be aware when such healing occurs. Theologians who have studied the science of cosmology speak of “quantum entanglement,” the idea that ultimately all life, indeed all creation, has a common origin in God, and that we are all ultimately connected. Or perhaps you’ve heard of the “butterfly effect.” This is a term used in chaos theory to describe how small changes to a seemingly unrelated thing or condition can affect large, complex systems. The term comes from the suggestion that the flapping of a butterfly's wings in South America could affect the weather in Texas, meaning that the tiniest influence on one part of a system can have a huge effect on another part. If you think about it, perhaps this is the way prayer works. Our lives are connected. Like Jesus, we may receive healing from someone or some circumstance unknown to us, or we may be the agent of healing for someone, simply by virtue of how we live out our lives. Needless to say, as followers of the one who offered himself in love to all comers, we are called to be grateful to God for any healing in our lives that does occur, and we are called to treat lovingly all who approach us for help and healing.
My brothers and sisters, here is the good news. Much of our lives are out of our control. But as followers of Jesus we believe that we are connected to God and to one another, and that God will respond to our needs, directly or indirectly, in God’s good time. We may not be able to predict when or how God will act, but we can continue to live out our lives with hope and trust in God’s deep care.
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
The Hidden Work of God
Who knows why all the paraments are now green? The altar frontal, the pulpit and lectern drapes, even my chasuble and stole. Two weeks ago they were all white, the week before that they were all red. Why are they now all green? Can anyone tell me?
In the Episcopal Church we are blessed with a liturgical year that has distinct seasons. In Advent, our paraments are all blue, to symbolize our solemn preparation for the coming of Christ. In Christmas tide, in Easter tide, and on other festal days, they are white and gold, to symbolize our joyful response to Jesus’ birth and Christ’s resurrection. During Lent, the paraments are purple, symbolizing our need to confront our weaknesses and amend our lives. During Holy Week and on Pentecost, they are red, symbolizing either the blood of Jesus’ death or the fire of the Holy Spirit. And finally, in Epiphany tide and from now until next Advent, the paraments are all green. And, if you look outside the church, you see the same color: green! Yes, my friends, during the short season of Epiphany and during this longer Pentecost season, we wear green so that we may always remember that God is at work within us helping us to grow. We may not feel as if we are growing, we may not see any growth. Nevertheless, God is at work within us: enabling us to grow personally in our individual spiritual lives, to grow together as a Christian community held together by bonds of love, and to grow in our ability to see where and how we may join God in God’s work in the world.
Growth: it’s a mysterious process. As you gardeners know, we can stunt growth, or, we can encourage it, but we can’t make it happen. Often, we have to wait patiently before we can even see that it has happened. So you might rightly ask, “How can we tell if we are growing? How we can tell whether God is at work in the world?” I look around me, and it looks like the same old, same old. Same old sins, same old weaknesses, same old conflicts, same old war, violence, corruption, injustice, and death. Am I really growing as a Christian? What does God see that I don’t see? Is God really at work in the world? Well, my friends, you may not have always had the ambition to be a plant, but you are a plant! We are all God’s plants, and rest assured, God is at work in God’s field, even if we don’t always see where and how! Indeed, today’s lessons remind us that most often God’s work is invisible, mysterious, and hidden from us.
Were you surprised by the outcome of today’s lesson from 1st Samuel? God had surely been at work in David from the time of David’s birth, but God’s work was hidden. It was a mystery to everyone, perhaps even including David himself. Certainly, God’s choice of David was hidden from Samuel, from David’s family, and from the whole community of Israel, until the moment that God directed Samuel to anoint David. If you had been there, you would surely have thought: Jesse’s youngest son? Perhaps in 2006 General Convention delegates thought the same thing when Katherine Jefferts Schori was elected Presiding Bishop. She was certainly not the most obvious choice among the group of seven nominees. In subsequent readings this summer we will hear why God chose David and how, with the help of God’s Spirit, David became a great king and the ancestor and model for God’s messiah.
Both of the parables in today’s Gospel lesson remind us even more forcefully that God’s work is hidden, mysterious, and mostly beyond our control. God is indeed bringing in God’s Reign, but we as humans mostly can’t fathom how. The coming of God’s Reign, Jesus tells us in Mark’s Gospel, is like someone throwing out seeds and then waiting. The farmer may prepare the soil and plant at the right time, but the farmer can’t make the seeds grow. Without the farmer knowing how, the earth produces grain all by itself. And the signs are unmistakable: first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain. How? We don’t know. But the harvest is nonetheless assured – in great abundance. In the same way, Jesus suggests, the coming of God’s Reign can be compared to a tiny mustard seed. Not only does the tiny seed grow into a large shrub, it also produces oil and more seeds for cooking and flavoring. But how? We don’t know. In the end, despite our best efforts to find out – and despite the discoveries of modern science – the growth, of plants, no less than of ourselves, is still mysterious.
In his second letter to that fractious Christian community at Corinth, Paul also wrestled with the mysterious, hidden work of God. Paul knew that the Corinthian Christians took great pride in what they thought of as their great spiritual gifts. In this letter, as in his first letter to them, he reminded them that, if we grow or mature spiritually, it is because God has taken the initiative, and God has done the work. Paul tells the Corinthian Christians and us that if we are confident about God’s work, our confidence should not come from ourselves but from the death and resurrection of Christ. Because of Christ’s work, we are able to see as God sees, that is, we are able to “regard nothing from a human point of view,” but rather, to remember that “everything has become new,” through the death and resurrection of Christ.
When I think about the mysterious, hidden work of God in myself, in the Church, and in the world, I’m often reminded of the saguaros of the southwest desert. The saguaros are the cacti that most often symbolize the desert for us: tall, green, spiky, with great curving arms. Of all the cacti, the saguaros grow the most slowly. You can grow one from seed, but you will probably not live to see it as an adult. When they are about my height, they are about 75 years old. They’re about 100 when the buds for the arms begin to develop, and they’re close to 200 years old before they’re fully grown. They do produce flowers and fruit when they are mature, but they grow very slowly. If you want saguaros, you have to be very patient, and you have to take a very long view.
Fortunately, God takes the long view. God is at work in us, invisibly, mysteriously, slowly, and, rest assured, God will have God’s harvest. You may feel like one of those saguaros, as if God’s growth is happening so slowly that you cannot perceive it. Rest assured: you are growing! The Word of God somehow penetrates our hearts, and we come back to Christ with renewed devotion. By God’s grace, we find growing within ourselves the desire to deepen our relationship with God, perhaps even to seek spiritual direction. By God’s grace, we begin to read Scripture more intentionally and regularly. By God’s grace, we begin to pray for others. One day, without our knowing where the words come from, we finally have the courage to ask others to pray for us. By God’s grace, through the leading of the Holy Spirit, we are finally able to commit to a twelve-step program, give up our addictions, and become sober or clean. By God’s grace, we can finally forgive all the old wrongs members of our families have done us. By God’s grace, we can put behind us the old conflicts in our families, workplaces, and churches, and begin to reach out to one another in love. By God’s grace we hear God calling us to a new vocation, and, from unknown depths within ourselves, we answer, “Here am I, send me.” By God’s grace, our parishes discover new ministries that enable us to use our gifts and meet the needs of those around us. By God’s grace, we realize that God’s Reign has already begun, and we take our place at God’s side and participate in God’s renewal of creation. By God’s grace, we realize that where God is at work, the harvest is more abundant than we can ever ask or imagine.
And so, as we enter into this season of growth in the spiritual life, this season of growth reflected in the green paraments around us, we can be filled with hope and faith, and we can patiently trust that God is at work, even if God’s work is hidden, invisible, and mysterious. In a few minutes we will affirm our faith in the words given us by the early Church. Now, though, I’d like us to share a different kind of affirmation of faith, faith in God’s mysterious growth, given us by a contemporary spiritual “midwife,” Joyce Rupp. Let’s stand and say it together.
I believe that it takes much patience to sow a seed, to freely give it away to the heart of the earth, to allow it to take root and to grow in its own good time.
I believe that the Word of God has many times been planted in my life, often because of another who received the seed in ready soil, brought forth a harvest, and shared that goodness with me.
I believe that great things can come forth from even the tiniest seed planted in love and cared for tenderly in the heart of another.
I believe that even the most insignificant aspects of life can be the seed of God’s gifting, that deeper faith can root and mature in very ordinary soil.
I believe that some dying of seed has to take place before it can give itself over to life, that every heart has its germination time, its dark moment, before the future holiness of harvest comes.
I believe that my life will always know its season of hope … that I will find green, growing things after every harsh, barren winter.
And most of all … I believe in the Sower of all seeds, in the God of renewing seasons, in the Giver of all good and growing things, my Lord and my God! Amen.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Who Are My Mother and My Brothers?
What is a family? Perhaps you remember the popular TV show “Father Knows Best.” It aired from 1954 to 1960 on CBS. Set somewhere in the suburban Midwest, the show featured the Anderson family: Jim, an insurance agent, played by well-known actor Robert Young, Margaret, a stay-at-home mom, played by veteran actress Jane Wyatt, and their three children, Betty, Bud, and Kathy. The kids got into the usual scrapes that kids get into. Margaret was a loving, supportive mother, who exemplified the voice of reason, while father Jim always had sage advice for whatever situation the family faced. During the six years the show ran, rarely were there shouting, violence, or nasty words, nor did the family face alcoholism, dire poverty, serious health problems, or sudden death. Instead, “Fathers Knows Best” gave viewers "truly an idealized family, the sort that viewers could relate to and emulate.” One can easily imagine that, after the turmoil and losses of World War II and Korea, that idealized family was exactly the balm that 1950s America desperately wanted.
Is the “Father Knows Best” model what you think of when you hear the word “family?” In the ancient world, of course, in Jesus’ time, such a family would have been rare if not virtually unknown. Families were then – and actually still are in many parts of the world – extended families. Women married into a family headed by a senior male, in which three, perhaps even four, generations lived together in the same compound or village. In some Muslim countries, in some traditional African cultures, and in some defiant Mormon communities in this country, men may have had more than one wife. In some African cultures too and in traditional Chinese culture, one’s family also includes one’s ancestors.
Today we are at last beginning to recognize that the nuclear “Father Knows Best” family is not the only – or even the ideal – description of family. We have begun to see that there are many other ways for people to be family. For different reasons, we are beginning to see again families comprised of three generations in the same house. Two elderly women may live together as a family. A gay couple may enlarge their family by adopting children.
As we begin to accept that there are diverse forms of family structure, we may also need to accept that we have many different feelings about our own families, especially our families of origin. Think about it, what are your own feelings about your family? Was your family so loving and supportive that you totally relate to “Fathers Knows Best?” Or was your family less than ideal, perhaps even dysfunctional and abusive?
As we hear a Scripture reading like the passage we just heard from the gospel according to Mark, it’s important to recognize that we bring a host of different associations and feelings to the idea of “family,” associations and feelings that might color how you hear today’s passage. We’re now in the long growing season of Pentecost. In the first half of the Christian year, we anticipated Jesus’ birth, celebrated the coming of the Word into the human family, watched Jesus reveal his true identity to those around him and to us, walked the sorrowful road with him to Jerusalem, mourned his death, and rejoiced in his rising to life again, his ascension, and his awakening within us of the Holy Spirit.
Now, in the second half of the Christian year, we are called to grow in our commitment to Jesus. We do that by reflecting more closely on how Jesus lived and what he taught. This year, we return to the Gospel of Mark in order to deepen our immersion in Jesus’ story. As you remember, Mark was written in the late ‘60s AD. It was the first gospel to be written, and it probably represents the earliest compilation of the traditions and memories of the first generation of Jesus’ followers. No doubt reflecting the experiences of Mark’s audience, the gospel often shows Jesus in conflict with those around him, especially with the religious leaders. Often his own followers too seem to be clueless as to what he is trying to teach them.
In today’s reading, Jesus has just returned to Nazareth after performing a series of miraculous healings. Right away, before he can even finish his meal, he faces two challenges. As is often the case with Mark, one, the conflict with the Scribes who illogically charge Jesus with being in league with demonic forces, is sandwiched within the story of his conflict with his family members. Since conflict with the religious authorities will come up again before we finish with Mark, here I want to focus on Jesus’ interaction with his family members.
There are at least two ways to hear this story, depending on your feelings about your own families. If you came from a loving, supportive family, you might see the concern of Jesus’ mother and brothers as quite genuine, as evidence that they truly worried that he was becoming mentally unstable. After all, he had left his family profession of carpentry to become an itinerant preacher, and he had persuaded several men from fishing families to travel with him. Although he was not a trained physician, he had cured the sick. He had violated deeply held social and religious norms by touching a leper and healing on the Sabbath. Would we not react the same way as his mother and brothers did, if one of ours did such odd things? Did we not try to keep our children from fleeing to Canada during the Vietnam War and from becoming “flower children?” We might even see Jesus’ response to his family members – “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother” – as overly harsh, even cruel. Perhaps Jesus was suggesting that even the most loving families can be inward-looking and limited, generous with each other but unconcerned about the needs of others.
On the other hand, if you came from an abusive and dysfunctional family, and especially if you suffered psychological and physical abuse, you might be overjoyed by Jesus’ invitation to be part of his loving family, to have him for a brother, and to have a loving and gracious God as your Father and Mother. You might be delighted that now, finally, you can be accepted for who are you, forgiven all your failures, and lovingly embraced by a welcoming community.
The point of this story is that, whatever our families of origin, whatever kinds of family we now find ourselves in, we are all called to accept Jesus’ invitation to join a new kind of family, a family committed to loving God as deeply as we can and to caring for our neighbor as ourselves. Jesus calls us into a family in which our roles are not defined by blood, gender, ethnicity, sexuality, economic status, or previous failings and sins. Jesus calls us into a family that includes all: the wise and the righteous, the nobodies, the tax collectors, the prostitutes, and the sinners, a family in which we are all God’s children, and in which all of us are loved and accepted. That is the good news. That is the sign of the nearness of God’s Reign.
Oncologist Rachel Naomi Remen tells the story of a rabbi at a Yom Kippur service. On the Day of Atonement Jews everywhere seek God’s forgiveness. Instead of directly preaching on forgiveness, the rabbi walked up to the lectern with his infant daughter in his arms. She was a year old and absolutely adorable. As she smiled at the congregation, and then at her father, he smiled back and then began to preach about the meaning of Yom Kippur. The baby grabbed his nose. The rabbi gently took her hand away and continued preaching. Then the baby took his tie and began to chew on it. Everyone chuckled. The rabbi rescued his tie, smiled at his child, looked over her head at the congregation and said, “Think about it. Is there anything she can do that you could not forgive her for?”
Just then, she reached up and grabbed his glasses. Everyone laughed. The rabbi himself laughed, as he retrieved his glasses and settled them back on his nose. Still smiling, he waited for silence. When it came, he asked, “And when does that stop? When does it get hard to forgive? At three? At seven? At fourteen? At thirty-five? How old does someone have to be before you forget that everyone is a child of God?” To which I would add, how old does someone have to be before you forget that all of us are members of the same family, that all of us are Christ’s brothers and sisters?
My friends, this is the good news. All of us are God’s children, all of us have been forgiven and accepted, regardless of who we were and are, and all of us are sisters and brothers of Jesus and of one another. In this place, in this island of love and acceptance, we can begin to reflect out to ourselves and to the world, the love and acceptance we have found in God. As retired Methodist Bishop Will Willimon reminds us, “Every time the family of God gathers for Holy Communion … or a covered-dish fellowship supper, or serves up soup to the homeless on the street corner, the world looks at this odd family and says, ‘Jesus is hanging out with the same reprobates that got him crucified.’ And we say, ‘Thank God.’”
Is the “Father Knows Best” model what you think of when you hear the word “family?” In the ancient world, of course, in Jesus’ time, such a family would have been rare if not virtually unknown. Families were then – and actually still are in many parts of the world – extended families. Women married into a family headed by a senior male, in which three, perhaps even four, generations lived together in the same compound or village. In some Muslim countries, in some traditional African cultures, and in some defiant Mormon communities in this country, men may have had more than one wife. In some African cultures too and in traditional Chinese culture, one’s family also includes one’s ancestors.
Today we are at last beginning to recognize that the nuclear “Father Knows Best” family is not the only – or even the ideal – description of family. We have begun to see that there are many other ways for people to be family. For different reasons, we are beginning to see again families comprised of three generations in the same house. Two elderly women may live together as a family. A gay couple may enlarge their family by adopting children.
As we begin to accept that there are diverse forms of family structure, we may also need to accept that we have many different feelings about our own families, especially our families of origin. Think about it, what are your own feelings about your family? Was your family so loving and supportive that you totally relate to “Fathers Knows Best?” Or was your family less than ideal, perhaps even dysfunctional and abusive?
As we hear a Scripture reading like the passage we just heard from the gospel according to Mark, it’s important to recognize that we bring a host of different associations and feelings to the idea of “family,” associations and feelings that might color how you hear today’s passage. We’re now in the long growing season of Pentecost. In the first half of the Christian year, we anticipated Jesus’ birth, celebrated the coming of the Word into the human family, watched Jesus reveal his true identity to those around him and to us, walked the sorrowful road with him to Jerusalem, mourned his death, and rejoiced in his rising to life again, his ascension, and his awakening within us of the Holy Spirit.
Now, in the second half of the Christian year, we are called to grow in our commitment to Jesus. We do that by reflecting more closely on how Jesus lived and what he taught. This year, we return to the Gospel of Mark in order to deepen our immersion in Jesus’ story. As you remember, Mark was written in the late ‘60s AD. It was the first gospel to be written, and it probably represents the earliest compilation of the traditions and memories of the first generation of Jesus’ followers. No doubt reflecting the experiences of Mark’s audience, the gospel often shows Jesus in conflict with those around him, especially with the religious leaders. Often his own followers too seem to be clueless as to what he is trying to teach them.
In today’s reading, Jesus has just returned to Nazareth after performing a series of miraculous healings. Right away, before he can even finish his meal, he faces two challenges. As is often the case with Mark, one, the conflict with the Scribes who illogically charge Jesus with being in league with demonic forces, is sandwiched within the story of his conflict with his family members. Since conflict with the religious authorities will come up again before we finish with Mark, here I want to focus on Jesus’ interaction with his family members.
There are at least two ways to hear this story, depending on your feelings about your own families. If you came from a loving, supportive family, you might see the concern of Jesus’ mother and brothers as quite genuine, as evidence that they truly worried that he was becoming mentally unstable. After all, he had left his family profession of carpentry to become an itinerant preacher, and he had persuaded several men from fishing families to travel with him. Although he was not a trained physician, he had cured the sick. He had violated deeply held social and religious norms by touching a leper and healing on the Sabbath. Would we not react the same way as his mother and brothers did, if one of ours did such odd things? Did we not try to keep our children from fleeing to Canada during the Vietnam War and from becoming “flower children?” We might even see Jesus’ response to his family members – “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother” – as overly harsh, even cruel. Perhaps Jesus was suggesting that even the most loving families can be inward-looking and limited, generous with each other but unconcerned about the needs of others.
On the other hand, if you came from an abusive and dysfunctional family, and especially if you suffered psychological and physical abuse, you might be overjoyed by Jesus’ invitation to be part of his loving family, to have him for a brother, and to have a loving and gracious God as your Father and Mother. You might be delighted that now, finally, you can be accepted for who are you, forgiven all your failures, and lovingly embraced by a welcoming community.
The point of this story is that, whatever our families of origin, whatever kinds of family we now find ourselves in, we are all called to accept Jesus’ invitation to join a new kind of family, a family committed to loving God as deeply as we can and to caring for our neighbor as ourselves. Jesus calls us into a family in which our roles are not defined by blood, gender, ethnicity, sexuality, economic status, or previous failings and sins. Jesus calls us into a family that includes all: the wise and the righteous, the nobodies, the tax collectors, the prostitutes, and the sinners, a family in which we are all God’s children, and in which all of us are loved and accepted. That is the good news. That is the sign of the nearness of God’s Reign.
Oncologist Rachel Naomi Remen tells the story of a rabbi at a Yom Kippur service. On the Day of Atonement Jews everywhere seek God’s forgiveness. Instead of directly preaching on forgiveness, the rabbi walked up to the lectern with his infant daughter in his arms. She was a year old and absolutely adorable. As she smiled at the congregation, and then at her father, he smiled back and then began to preach about the meaning of Yom Kippur. The baby grabbed his nose. The rabbi gently took her hand away and continued preaching. Then the baby took his tie and began to chew on it. Everyone chuckled. The rabbi rescued his tie, smiled at his child, looked over her head at the congregation and said, “Think about it. Is there anything she can do that you could not forgive her for?”
Just then, she reached up and grabbed his glasses. Everyone laughed. The rabbi himself laughed, as he retrieved his glasses and settled them back on his nose. Still smiling, he waited for silence. When it came, he asked, “And when does that stop? When does it get hard to forgive? At three? At seven? At fourteen? At thirty-five? How old does someone have to be before you forget that everyone is a child of God?” To which I would add, how old does someone have to be before you forget that all of us are members of the same family, that all of us are Christ’s brothers and sisters?
My friends, this is the good news. All of us are God’s children, all of us have been forgiven and accepted, regardless of who we were and are, and all of us are sisters and brothers of Jesus and of one another. In this place, in this island of love and acceptance, we can begin to reflect out to ourselves and to the world, the love and acceptance we have found in God. As retired Methodist Bishop Will Willimon reminds us, “Every time the family of God gathers for Holy Communion … or a covered-dish fellowship supper, or serves up soup to the homeless on the street corner, the world looks at this odd family and says, ‘Jesus is hanging out with the same reprobates that got him crucified.’ And we say, ‘Thank God.’”
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
I Saw the Lord
“In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and lofty….” Can you imagine it? The year was 736 BC. It was a time of political conflict and turmoil. (Isn’t it always?) A man named Isaiah stood in the middle of a crowd worshipping in the temple. He could feel the heat from the roaring fire on the brazier, smell the burning flesh of the sacrificed animals, hear the sacred chanting of the priests, and see the rising of the clouds of incense. In the midst of the hubbub, Isaiah had an overwhelming vision of God’s presence. He could see God’s immensity, as just the hem of God’s robe filled the space of the temple. He could sense God’s power and holiness. He could hear the praise of the seraphs, those terrifying angels with three pairs of wings. He knew the world as God-filled, and he knew that he was in the presence of sheer and utter mystery.
Awed and terrified by his sense of God’s holiness, Isaiah immediately felt his own unworthiness. He knew that, despite all the sacrifices in which he had participated, that he himself was anything but holy. His people, still mourning the death of an arrogant king, were also unholy. “Woe is me,” he cried. What else could he say in the face of this totally unexpected vision? And then one of the angels, knowing his despair, transformed his mouth and his heart with a live coal from the sacrificial brazier. Still reeling from the angel’s touch, he heard God thunder, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” And to his own surprise – but not to God’s – he answered, “Here am I; send me.” Converted, transformed by his encounter with the living God, Isaiah accepted God’s commission, without knowing what “here I am; send me” might entail, without any sense of the difficulties he would almost immediately face in his prophetic ministry. His life was changed forever by his encounter with God.
It’s hard not to gasp in awe ourselves as we share Isaiah’s sense of God’s overwhelming power and utter otherness. Perhaps we wonder what we would do if we had a similar experience. In fact, Scripture is full of similar stories of God’s breaking into the lives of humans. Samuel too had an encounter with God at the beginning of his ministry. As a young boy, serving the old priest Eli, he heard God calling to him at night in the temple. At first, he misunderstood and thought Eli was calling him. But then, instructed by Eli, Samuel finally answered God, saying, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” Ezekiel too had a vision of God’s immensity, as he encountered God in a chariot surrounded by angels. He heard God’s command to go to the rebellious house of Israel, to speak God’s word to them. To reassure him that he would be speaking for God, Ezekiel was offered a scroll to eat. “Then I ate it; and in my mouth it was sweet as honey.” When God came to Jeremiah to commission him, Jeremiah tried to refuse God’s commission. He said, “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” But you know what God said? God said, “Do not say, ‘I am only a boy;’ for you shall go to all to whom I send you….” Then, just as the angel had touched Isaiah’s lips, God put God’s hand on Jeremiah’s mouth and said, “Now I have put my words in your mouth.”
Many saints have had similar unexpected encounters with God, grace-filled encounters that led them to understand in a new way God’s vision for their lives. Paul, the Desert Fathers and Mothers, Francis and Clare, Julian of Norwich, Teresa of Avila, John Wesley, Brother Lawrence, Therése of Lisieux, William Booth, Evelyn Underhill, and countless others experienced God’s presence in a new and profound way. All of them came away from their experiences knowing that God had transformed them and had commissioned them for new work on God’s behalf, even when they were not yet ready to accept God’s commission.
Many ordinary people also have life-changing encounters with God, encounters where they know God’s utter mystery and their own unworthiness, and yet they sense that God has initiated something transformative within them. I don’t often speak about myself in sermons. Worship is not about me, it’s about us and our encounter with God. Even so, today I want to share with you an experience of God from my own life. It was March, 1998. I had organized a Saturday morning Lenten Quiet day at the Church of the Good Shepherd in Athens. Three meditations, two in the morning and one in the afternoon, were offered by Sr. Eleanor from the Community of the Transfiguration. We had started out in the living room-like lounge. I stayed there after the first meditation and wrote in my journal in response. However, in response to the second meditation, I went into the nave and knelt in one of the pews. Some of you know that Good Shepherd is a Georgian colonial that was built in 1952. It has high ceilings and bare windows, and in daylight there is always a feeling of a lot of light in the nave.
I was kneeling in the pew praying about what Sr. Eleanor had said, something about going into the desert to experience God more intensely. As I knelt there, I had a distinct sense of God calling me and asking me to consider ordained ministry. In March 1998 I had been at Ohio University only two years, I was immersed in my academic career, I still had ambitions for another career move, and, to top it off, I had two children in college. Needless to say, I was not thinking about ordained ministry. And yet, this voice was insistent about ordained ministry. The longer I knelt there, the more insistent it became.
Finally, I had to answer. Unlike Isaiah, Samuel, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Paul, Francis, Julian, Teresa, William Booth, and all the others, I said, “Forget about it, Lord. Not me. Priest? Who me? You gotta be kidding!” I remember clearly what I felt: not such deep commitment to my career that I couldn’t leave it, nor concern about two private-college tuitions. I felt what Isaiah had felt: I felt unworthy, totally unfit for the work of ordained ministry. “Leave me alone, Lord,” I cried. And God did. However, unlike other quiet days, in which I had experienced joy and peace, on that day, even after the third meditation, I felt destabilized and unbalanced, as if something in my world had suddenly shifted. Then in January 2004, God came back….
A true sense of God’s presence. Sometimes it is huge and overwhelming, and we are overawed by the immensity, otherness, and mystery of God. Sometimes we can sense the reality of Jesus’ presence in our lives, as many of us do when we share Jesus’ Body and Blood with each other. And sometimes God comes to us in silence, when God the Holy Spirit whispers to us. In our incessant 24/7 world, can we clear away some of the noise that hides the voice of God: the jangling of cell phones, the shouting commentators on talk radio, the deafening drones of leaf blowers and riding mowers, and the ugly shouts of partisan politics? Can we pause, sit, breathe, and listen? Although we can never control when God will show up, when we open our ears for even a bit, God may just take advantage of our openness, just as God did with Isaiah in the temple. God may just initiate in us an ultimately life-changing transformation.
In seminary I spent an entire semester studying the nature of the Trinity. And even though I now wear a collar, God is still, and will always be, ultimately a mystery. There is so much I still don’t know. But I do know this. We may not be able to put into words any coherent articulation of who God is. But we can point to our own experiences. We have sensed God as the ground of all creation, of all that is, seen and unseen, as the source of all. We have known God in the Word made Flesh and in the Body and Blood. And we have heard God in the silences of our own heart, as God’s Spirit nudges us and urges us into action for God’s sake.
And I know this too. God loves us so much that God relentlessly pursues us. God is “the hound of heaven,” as Francis Thompson called God, whom Thompson fled “down the nights and down the days;” “down the arches of the years; “down the labyrinthine ways/ Of my own mind…” I know that God always shows up unexpectedly, unbidden, always at God’s own initiative, to shower us with grace. And I know that God comes to transform us, to bid us partner with God in continuing God’s creation and renewal of the world.
As we stand in awe at the ultimate mystery of God, we can still join the seraphs, the saints who have gone before us, and the saints among us, as we say, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.”
Awed and terrified by his sense of God’s holiness, Isaiah immediately felt his own unworthiness. He knew that, despite all the sacrifices in which he had participated, that he himself was anything but holy. His people, still mourning the death of an arrogant king, were also unholy. “Woe is me,” he cried. What else could he say in the face of this totally unexpected vision? And then one of the angels, knowing his despair, transformed his mouth and his heart with a live coal from the sacrificial brazier. Still reeling from the angel’s touch, he heard God thunder, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” And to his own surprise – but not to God’s – he answered, “Here am I; send me.” Converted, transformed by his encounter with the living God, Isaiah accepted God’s commission, without knowing what “here I am; send me” might entail, without any sense of the difficulties he would almost immediately face in his prophetic ministry. His life was changed forever by his encounter with God.
It’s hard not to gasp in awe ourselves as we share Isaiah’s sense of God’s overwhelming power and utter otherness. Perhaps we wonder what we would do if we had a similar experience. In fact, Scripture is full of similar stories of God’s breaking into the lives of humans. Samuel too had an encounter with God at the beginning of his ministry. As a young boy, serving the old priest Eli, he heard God calling to him at night in the temple. At first, he misunderstood and thought Eli was calling him. But then, instructed by Eli, Samuel finally answered God, saying, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” Ezekiel too had a vision of God’s immensity, as he encountered God in a chariot surrounded by angels. He heard God’s command to go to the rebellious house of Israel, to speak God’s word to them. To reassure him that he would be speaking for God, Ezekiel was offered a scroll to eat. “Then I ate it; and in my mouth it was sweet as honey.” When God came to Jeremiah to commission him, Jeremiah tried to refuse God’s commission. He said, “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” But you know what God said? God said, “Do not say, ‘I am only a boy;’ for you shall go to all to whom I send you….” Then, just as the angel had touched Isaiah’s lips, God put God’s hand on Jeremiah’s mouth and said, “Now I have put my words in your mouth.”
Many saints have had similar unexpected encounters with God, grace-filled encounters that led them to understand in a new way God’s vision for their lives. Paul, the Desert Fathers and Mothers, Francis and Clare, Julian of Norwich, Teresa of Avila, John Wesley, Brother Lawrence, Therése of Lisieux, William Booth, Evelyn Underhill, and countless others experienced God’s presence in a new and profound way. All of them came away from their experiences knowing that God had transformed them and had commissioned them for new work on God’s behalf, even when they were not yet ready to accept God’s commission.
Many ordinary people also have life-changing encounters with God, encounters where they know God’s utter mystery and their own unworthiness, and yet they sense that God has initiated something transformative within them. I don’t often speak about myself in sermons. Worship is not about me, it’s about us and our encounter with God. Even so, today I want to share with you an experience of God from my own life. It was March, 1998. I had organized a Saturday morning Lenten Quiet day at the Church of the Good Shepherd in Athens. Three meditations, two in the morning and one in the afternoon, were offered by Sr. Eleanor from the Community of the Transfiguration. We had started out in the living room-like lounge. I stayed there after the first meditation and wrote in my journal in response. However, in response to the second meditation, I went into the nave and knelt in one of the pews. Some of you know that Good Shepherd is a Georgian colonial that was built in 1952. It has high ceilings and bare windows, and in daylight there is always a feeling of a lot of light in the nave.
I was kneeling in the pew praying about what Sr. Eleanor had said, something about going into the desert to experience God more intensely. As I knelt there, I had a distinct sense of God calling me and asking me to consider ordained ministry. In March 1998 I had been at Ohio University only two years, I was immersed in my academic career, I still had ambitions for another career move, and, to top it off, I had two children in college. Needless to say, I was not thinking about ordained ministry. And yet, this voice was insistent about ordained ministry. The longer I knelt there, the more insistent it became.
Finally, I had to answer. Unlike Isaiah, Samuel, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Paul, Francis, Julian, Teresa, William Booth, and all the others, I said, “Forget about it, Lord. Not me. Priest? Who me? You gotta be kidding!” I remember clearly what I felt: not such deep commitment to my career that I couldn’t leave it, nor concern about two private-college tuitions. I felt what Isaiah had felt: I felt unworthy, totally unfit for the work of ordained ministry. “Leave me alone, Lord,” I cried. And God did. However, unlike other quiet days, in which I had experienced joy and peace, on that day, even after the third meditation, I felt destabilized and unbalanced, as if something in my world had suddenly shifted. Then in January 2004, God came back….
A true sense of God’s presence. Sometimes it is huge and overwhelming, and we are overawed by the immensity, otherness, and mystery of God. Sometimes we can sense the reality of Jesus’ presence in our lives, as many of us do when we share Jesus’ Body and Blood with each other. And sometimes God comes to us in silence, when God the Holy Spirit whispers to us. In our incessant 24/7 world, can we clear away some of the noise that hides the voice of God: the jangling of cell phones, the shouting commentators on talk radio, the deafening drones of leaf blowers and riding mowers, and the ugly shouts of partisan politics? Can we pause, sit, breathe, and listen? Although we can never control when God will show up, when we open our ears for even a bit, God may just take advantage of our openness, just as God did with Isaiah in the temple. God may just initiate in us an ultimately life-changing transformation.
In seminary I spent an entire semester studying the nature of the Trinity. And even though I now wear a collar, God is still, and will always be, ultimately a mystery. There is so much I still don’t know. But I do know this. We may not be able to put into words any coherent articulation of who God is. But we can point to our own experiences. We have sensed God as the ground of all creation, of all that is, seen and unseen, as the source of all. We have known God in the Word made Flesh and in the Body and Blood. And we have heard God in the silences of our own heart, as God’s Spirit nudges us and urges us into action for God’s sake.
And I know this too. God loves us so much that God relentlessly pursues us. God is “the hound of heaven,” as Francis Thompson called God, whom Thompson fled “down the nights and down the days;” “down the arches of the years; “down the labyrinthine ways/ Of my own mind…” I know that God always shows up unexpectedly, unbidden, always at God’s own initiative, to shower us with grace. And I know that God comes to transform us, to bid us partner with God in continuing God’s creation and renewal of the world.
As we stand in awe at the ultimate mystery of God, we can still join the seraphs, the saints who have gone before us, and the saints among us, as we say, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.”
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