In the name of the God of Abraham and Sarah, of Jacob and Rachel, of Moses and Jesus, of Peter and Paul, and of the Prophet Mohammed.
If I remember correctly, the last time I spoke with you from this position I was on crutches with a foot injury, but chose to speak standing up, as an inducement not to get carried away and talk for too long. This time I am nursing a very sore sacroiliac and the many muscles attached to it, which have decided to cry uncle, kick me in the gut and stab me in the back. Perhaps this is their idea of justice, but it feels like vengeance to me! Anyway I am sitting down because my brain doesn’t work well when I stand up, apparently it is located somewhere near my sacroiliac.
Part of the problem with being incapacitated for the past month is that I have had way to much time to sit in front of the TV & computer and watch our government and country try to fix our broken health insurance system. This has been a very depressing and debilitating experience, and not just because I think we should do this or that, which we probably wont do, but because of the process itself. Rather than focusing on the moral imperative to throw a lifeline to the millions of our drowning brothers and sisters, it is money that dominates the process and fighting about who will get to overcharge us for the rope, and by how much! Faith, hope and charity have been silenced while fear and resentment dominate the discussion.
In fact it was my depression that lead to a discussion with Ken, who encouraged me to talk about celebration on this occasion as we begin a new year. You know that this week brings us to the Jewish New Year, first with the celebration of Rosh Hashanah. In homes and synagogues around the world our Jewish brothers and sisters will gather to dip challah in honey and wish one another a sweet year. Then they will blow the shafir - a rams horn, to usher in the New Year. The celebration of the New Year will continue for eight more days, until observing Jews will abstain from food, drink and sexual activity for 25 hours before going to the synagogue to confess and atone for their sins. YomKippur is the Day of Atonement. It doesn’t sound like a great cause for a celebration, but the good news is that like us, they hear again, that an infinitely loving God forgives them their sins. We are also in the midst of Ramadan, the ninth and holy month in the Islamic liturgical year. Observant Muslims celebrate this month by abstaining from food, drink, and sexual activity during daylight for the entire month. And again, that doesn’t sound like much of a celebration, but there is good news for them too. The word Muslim means, “one who submits to God,” and the good news for Muslims is that our God is infinitely loving and forgiving, and can be trusted at all times. The good news is that by submitting to the will of Allah, and opening their lives to God, they get to share in that goodness, love, and forgiveness.
The Fall always seems to be the right time to celebrate the new year. Doesn’t it feel that way to you too? Children return to school; projects suspended for the summer are taken up again; we revisit our sense of purpose and rededicate ourselves to renewing our lives. Other than relieving the darkness of January I don’t see much sense in putting new year in January. It certainly doesn’t lend itself to spiritual renewal as we wear silly hats, get drunk and watch way too much football. But… I’m digressing, and your probably asking yourself what does any of this have to do with today’s gospel. Well, as it turns out, plenty.
As I have sat watching the health insurance debacle, I mean debate, I not only became increasingly depressed but increasingly anxious and resentful myself, and that is exactly what Mark is writing about in our reading this morning.
Every time I read or hear this story I find I can identify with Peter. Jesus announces he will go to Jerusalem and Peter immediately says ixnay on Jerusalem and crucifixion, not a good idea, Jesus. Peter is fearful and leads from his fear. We will see this fearfulness in Peter again when he thrice denies Jesus at the most crucial of moments. Far from thanking Peter for this eminently practical advice, Jesus calls him Satan. To be sure, this isn’t some smiling Jesus calling Peter a sweet taking devil, this is a major slap down. It is amazing that Peter hung in as well as he did when you think of how regularly Jesus was calling him one name or another, like block head. Until at the end of John’s Gospel we see Jesus working Peter over like Mohammed Ali beating up the bum of the month. But that is the point. Peter does hang in, and God accepts him and uses him. Think about it, the two men most responsible for the founding of the Christian church were Peter and Paul. The first was a fearful, impulsive, unreliable dunderhead and the other was a hired gun, who made his living tracking down the followers of Jesus and organizing stoning parties. But, God forgave them, and held them and lifted them up, and used them to spread the Good News that He is infinitely forgiving and loving.
Now I am familiar with fear. And I know that some fear is quite healthy, that people without some fear, don’t often make it to 33… and truth be known, they don’t usually die noble deaths. But I know too that when we give too much rope to our fear we will most assuredly end up trying to hang somebody else. Fear and resentment are brothers and live under the same roof. They are joined together by our pain. How we deal with our fear will be the groundwork for how we deal with our resentment. Whether we ourselves have the courage to own our sins, accept and forgive one another.
Twice in my life I have had the opportunity to attend retreats that dealt with the subject of fear. The first was at a gathering of Quakers in Pastoral Care and Counseling, about ten years ago. Throughout the first day I heard a number of women talk about their experience of fear, almost always about physical fear. By the end of the day I realized I hadn’t heard a single man acknowledge an experience of fear. Now I know that men are not one bit braver than women, but in that room the men were totally silent. They were in denial and hiding, and I called them out on it. Men and women tend, in general, to be afraid of different things. Women, I think, are more frightened by physical danger - of falling, or of being attacked by someone bigger and stronger than them. Men are afraid of their emotions. We are afraid of losing control, of appearing vulnerable, and afraid of looking too deeply into our own souls. And we are especially afraid of someone else looking too deeply into our souls. When it comes to taking a hard, honest look at our feelings men are, as often as not, as cowardly as Peter when he denies Jesus. And that is exactly what we are called to - look into our souls, own our own stuff, open ourselves to God’s love, accept that we are forgiven, and finally give that forgiveness to one another.
The second opportunity I had to deal with the subject of fear was at a retreat on “Men and War.” I attended this three day event with two dear friends - one was a WWII veteran from the Pacific Theater and the other was a combat veteran from Vietnam. I, as some of you know, was a Conscientious Objector during that war. The retreat included men from WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Bosnia, the First Gulf War, street gangs, and the IRA uprising in Northern Ireland. We were evenly divided among combat, non-combat veterans and religious objectors. It turned out to be the most conflict ridden retreat I have ever been on. But the conflict wasn’t along any lines you might have expected, rather it was about the presence of a BBC reporter in the room and whether or not he should be allowed to stay. I learned many things that weekend. Perhaps most importantly I learned how young we all were when we faced questions of life and death. Every man in that room needed to forgive the boy who made the choices he did, and grieve the wound he had received. I also learned that when you are are in the middle of a great struggle you don’t get to quit, you don’t get to say, I made a mistake, I’m going home. You don’t just get to run back to your comfort zone. You are forced to stay and deal with the mess you have gotten yourself into. That’s what we did, we fought about this man’s presence for the better part of two days, but before we were done we had addressed every important reason, fear, and hope for going to that place. That’s where I think we are right now. In a foxhole, struggling with and for our own souls.
In fear we want to run away, and in resentment we want to blame someone else. We want to tell ourselves that evil is out there - in the other guy. It’s their fault; it’s my co-workers fault; it’s my bosses fault; it’s my spouses fault; it’s the Iraqi’s, the Iranians; it’s the Jews; it’s the Muslims; and if all else fails; it’s the pastor’s fault. We are anxious and we want to make our anxiety go away by putting in on someone else.
Not true. Not true. Here’s the truth from Alexander Solzhenitsyn:
"If it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"
The gospel gives us another wonderful story about this desire to run away from life and blame it on someone else. Jesus tells his disciples not to send their demon out into the dessert, less, he tells them, it will come back and find it’s home swept clean, and it will bring nine more demons to occupy it, and then you will be ten times worse than before. Isn’t that we are tempted to do - rather than face and own our demons we want to send them off to the desert and pretend they we are done with them, we are clean and perfect. The more we do it the sicker we get. You can only toss out demons through prayer; you can only love yourself into healing.
Before we give in to the urge to cast someone out of the universe we need to stop and remember that Jesus was born an outcast and died an outcast, but in between his arms and his heart were stretched wide to all - to shepherds and gentiles, to prostitutes and tax collectors, and finally to a pair of political terrorist hung beside him.
In a few minutes in our liturgy we will have our own opportunity to own our own sins, to make atonement, to hear again the announcement of God’s forgiveness and to give that forgiveness to one another in the passing of the peace. We should not take this practice lightly. Caine did and he came to a bad end!
Yesterday morning, at our men’s breakfast, George Rudgers shared with us some of his spiritual struggles as a member of our Vestry and I want to thank George for looking into his soul and telling us what he was seeing. At the start of his sharing he acknowledged that he had no plan for his walk with God. He had many other plans - plans for paying off the mortgage and plans for going on vacation and stuff like that. But he had no plan for how to walk closer with God. George is not alone. That is true for most of us, and even those who claim they have a plan for deepening their journey with Christ, will admit that for most of their life they did not have a plan. As I said earlier Jews and Muslims have a plan and are working hard at it this month.
It sounds complicated, because, for one thing we don’t know where we are going and we usually don’t know what God wants us to do. So if you don’t know where you’re going, and you don’t know what to do, how can you make a plan? True enough, but here’s what we do know.
We know who we are called to be. We are called to be people of Faith, of Hope and of Charity, of open heartedness. We are called to take a clear-eyed look at the state of our own souls, to own our stuff and neither deny it nor project it on others; and - this is the hardest part of all - we are called to be a people who accept that our God is infinitely loving and forgiving and that we can open our hearts and live inside that love and forgiveness for as long as we give it to one another. We can trust God to be faithful. If a doctor tells us our heart is blocked and we need to open it up, we develop a plan to open up those arteries as fast as we can.
In the words of Leonard Cohen… “Ring the Bells that still can ring / forget your perfect offering / there is a crack in everything / that’s how the light gets in / that’s how the life gets in.”
My old Quaker roots lead me to close with what Friends call a “Query.” What is our plan for opening our hearts to God’s transforming power this year?
Thank you for your time and your attention. Amen.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sermon: Pentecost 12
God is our Belay
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Pentecost 12, Year B (RCL)
Ephesians 6:10-20
“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power. Put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.”
This last week, I put on the shoes of courage and wore the harness of faith. Last Thursday, I went rock climbing for the first time with my friend Ryan, the new associate at First Congregational Church here in Essex Junction. While Ryan’s an avid climber, I am not. And not only that, I also happen to be deathly afraid of heights. So when Ryan called me and invited me to go climbing with him, instead of saying ‘No thanks’ or telling him ‘You’re nuts!’, I decided to go. I decided that I’d go along with him and just watch; maybe I’d climb up the wall a foot or two, but nothing major, no height I couldn’t jump from. I decided to try something new and see where it went.
Once we arrive at the climbing gym, I start having serious doubts about what I’ve gotten myself into. First, I have to seemingly sign over my life; telling the good folks at Petra Cliffs that I won’t sue them should I fall and injure myself. Then, I’m given a harness and a pair of climbing shoes. And finally, a quick lesson on how to ‘belay’; how to support the other person climbing up the wall as they’re strapped to me, and then how to help them down the wall once they’ve reached the top. Thankfully, Ryan heads up the wall first. With each step, I pull the slack out of the rope that prevents him from falling. The mechanism on my waist takes the lose rope and clicks into place, holding it tight. Soon, he’s at the top, some 30 maybe 40 feet up this sheer, vertical wall. He calls ‘take’ which is my sign to draw out all of the remaining slack and to begin to lower him down.
Next, it’s my turn. At this point, I’m terrified. After all, I’m the type of person who gets nervous on a ladder changing a light bulb. But I focus on the climb, on the small and varied colored shapes dotting the wall that I’m supposed to take hold of and climb up on. After checking my gear, I begin to climb. I don’t look down but only ahead, above where I am to where I am going. I trust that Ryan will support my weigh should I fall, but I don’t know this. At this instant, I just want to get to the top and not think about how I’m going to get down. Taking a slightly longer time than Ryan, I finally reach the roof; to the ceiling of the gym. Once there, I don’t look down. I feel stuck. I’m sweating, nervous. I cautiously yell ‘take’ while still holding on, clinging to the wall.
Ryan calls ‘Okay, now lean back and sit down and push yourself back from the wall.’ ‘Yeah, right.’ I think. ‘Whatever.’ Yet I know he’s right; that that’s my only option. In order to get back down to the ground, I have to let go and to trust that the rope won’t snap and that he won’t drop me. My fingers slowly peal back from the resin knobs that now bear my nail marks. I lean back and let go and trust. Pushing off of the wall with my feet, I skip down the wall backwards until I reach the ground. I stand up, look up, look at Ryan, then think to myself, ‘I did it. I climbed that wall.’ Then it occurs to me, ‘Yes, but only because I was supported and held up all along the way by my belay; by my buddy Ryan who was seeing to it that I didn’t fall.’ Yes, I climbed that wall, but in a very real way, though not climbing himself, he climbed that wall with me.
This week, when I hear Paul’s letter to the Ephesians about our being ‘strong in the Lord’ and our putting on ‘the whole armor of God’, I think of the delicate balance between our taking the initiative with our faith and at the same time, our being protected, guided and cared for by our faith, by God. When Paul asked the Ephesians to be strong in the Lord, he was truly asking them to be strong, to have faith, to make a difference, to do something, to believe something, to act, to be, to live into God’s calling for them. Yet at the same time, Paul asked the Ephesians to put on the armor of God; to be strong while always remembering from whom their strength comes, to have faith not only in themselves but in the source of all faith, to stand firm while always being mindful of that rock upon which they stand. Paul was reminding the Ephesians then, and reminds us still today, that we are strong because God is strong for us and protects us. As Paul tells us throughout his letters, in God our weakness is made perfect strength.
Hearing these words to the Ephesians, I’m reminded of my rock climbing adventure this last week. I think of the courage and the strength needed from me in order to scale that wall, while at the very same time, the constant attention and care of my belay below, making sure that the line was always taut, using his weight to prevent me from slipping lest I fall. Last week, I came to learn and to know that climbing, like life, is relational. Yes, we can climb to great heights, we can do great things, we can build massive buildings and great bridges and super computers, but we can do these things only because we are being supported and held up and encouraged by others along the way. We may slip, but our rope, our relationship with our friends and family, our neighbors, our God is always there to hold us, to keep us from falling. We may be strong in the Lord and put on the whole armor of God, but it is not our own strength but the strength of the Lord, not our own toughness but the toughness of our God, that will protect us.
Right now, here this morning, I’d like you to take a minute to think back over the course of your life and to think about all those who’ve protected you along the way. Who would you consider that belt of truth you’ve fashioned around your waist? Who’s helped you most in opening your eyes to your own self-deceptions? Who would you consider that breastplate of righteousness? Or those shoes of peace? Who’s worn those shoes in your life? Maybe someone who’s marched for civil rights, women’s rights, gay rights, or to end an unjust war? What about that shield of faith? That sword of the Spirit? Could it be a parent? A close friend? A homeless man or woman? A complete stranger? Someone famous? Think about how God has provided you with all of these things already; with a conscience to you help discern what is true and right, with the quite calm of nature to help you nurture peace, with the faith and sense of the Spirit that woke you this morning and brought you here to St James today.
Now, think about how you’ve been and will continue to be these things for others. Knowing that others have helped you up the wall of life, think about how you’ve tied others to yourself and supported them along their journeys. Remember how you’ve helped to call others into truthfulness and righteousness. Remember how you’ve walked with others in a spirit of peace. Remember how you’ve bolstered other’s faith in times of hopelessness and despair. Know that you will, that we will, continue to do these things, as our baptismal covenant so famously says, ‘with God’s help.’
Today, may we be strong in the Lord by putting on the whole armor of God. Today, may we be strong in the Lord as we work to seek and serve Christ in all others, loving our neighbors as ourselves, while putting on the whole armor of God, knowing that our strength comes not from ourselves but through our relationships with loved ones, with family, friends and neighbors, and from our relationship with God, the ground of our being. Amen.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Pentecost 12, Year B (RCL)
Ephesians 6:10-20
“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power. Put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.”
This last week, I put on the shoes of courage and wore the harness of faith. Last Thursday, I went rock climbing for the first time with my friend Ryan, the new associate at First Congregational Church here in Essex Junction. While Ryan’s an avid climber, I am not. And not only that, I also happen to be deathly afraid of heights. So when Ryan called me and invited me to go climbing with him, instead of saying ‘No thanks’ or telling him ‘You’re nuts!’, I decided to go. I decided that I’d go along with him and just watch; maybe I’d climb up the wall a foot or two, but nothing major, no height I couldn’t jump from. I decided to try something new and see where it went.
Once we arrive at the climbing gym, I start having serious doubts about what I’ve gotten myself into. First, I have to seemingly sign over my life; telling the good folks at Petra Cliffs that I won’t sue them should I fall and injure myself. Then, I’m given a harness and a pair of climbing shoes. And finally, a quick lesson on how to ‘belay’; how to support the other person climbing up the wall as they’re strapped to me, and then how to help them down the wall once they’ve reached the top. Thankfully, Ryan heads up the wall first. With each step, I pull the slack out of the rope that prevents him from falling. The mechanism on my waist takes the lose rope and clicks into place, holding it tight. Soon, he’s at the top, some 30 maybe 40 feet up this sheer, vertical wall. He calls ‘take’ which is my sign to draw out all of the remaining slack and to begin to lower him down.
Next, it’s my turn. At this point, I’m terrified. After all, I’m the type of person who gets nervous on a ladder changing a light bulb. But I focus on the climb, on the small and varied colored shapes dotting the wall that I’m supposed to take hold of and climb up on. After checking my gear, I begin to climb. I don’t look down but only ahead, above where I am to where I am going. I trust that Ryan will support my weigh should I fall, but I don’t know this. At this instant, I just want to get to the top and not think about how I’m going to get down. Taking a slightly longer time than Ryan, I finally reach the roof; to the ceiling of the gym. Once there, I don’t look down. I feel stuck. I’m sweating, nervous. I cautiously yell ‘take’ while still holding on, clinging to the wall.
Ryan calls ‘Okay, now lean back and sit down and push yourself back from the wall.’ ‘Yeah, right.’ I think. ‘Whatever.’ Yet I know he’s right; that that’s my only option. In order to get back down to the ground, I have to let go and to trust that the rope won’t snap and that he won’t drop me. My fingers slowly peal back from the resin knobs that now bear my nail marks. I lean back and let go and trust. Pushing off of the wall with my feet, I skip down the wall backwards until I reach the ground. I stand up, look up, look at Ryan, then think to myself, ‘I did it. I climbed that wall.’ Then it occurs to me, ‘Yes, but only because I was supported and held up all along the way by my belay; by my buddy Ryan who was seeing to it that I didn’t fall.’ Yes, I climbed that wall, but in a very real way, though not climbing himself, he climbed that wall with me.
This week, when I hear Paul’s letter to the Ephesians about our being ‘strong in the Lord’ and our putting on ‘the whole armor of God’, I think of the delicate balance between our taking the initiative with our faith and at the same time, our being protected, guided and cared for by our faith, by God. When Paul asked the Ephesians to be strong in the Lord, he was truly asking them to be strong, to have faith, to make a difference, to do something, to believe something, to act, to be, to live into God’s calling for them. Yet at the same time, Paul asked the Ephesians to put on the armor of God; to be strong while always remembering from whom their strength comes, to have faith not only in themselves but in the source of all faith, to stand firm while always being mindful of that rock upon which they stand. Paul was reminding the Ephesians then, and reminds us still today, that we are strong because God is strong for us and protects us. As Paul tells us throughout his letters, in God our weakness is made perfect strength.
Hearing these words to the Ephesians, I’m reminded of my rock climbing adventure this last week. I think of the courage and the strength needed from me in order to scale that wall, while at the very same time, the constant attention and care of my belay below, making sure that the line was always taut, using his weight to prevent me from slipping lest I fall. Last week, I came to learn and to know that climbing, like life, is relational. Yes, we can climb to great heights, we can do great things, we can build massive buildings and great bridges and super computers, but we can do these things only because we are being supported and held up and encouraged by others along the way. We may slip, but our rope, our relationship with our friends and family, our neighbors, our God is always there to hold us, to keep us from falling. We may be strong in the Lord and put on the whole armor of God, but it is not our own strength but the strength of the Lord, not our own toughness but the toughness of our God, that will protect us.
Right now, here this morning, I’d like you to take a minute to think back over the course of your life and to think about all those who’ve protected you along the way. Who would you consider that belt of truth you’ve fashioned around your waist? Who’s helped you most in opening your eyes to your own self-deceptions? Who would you consider that breastplate of righteousness? Or those shoes of peace? Who’s worn those shoes in your life? Maybe someone who’s marched for civil rights, women’s rights, gay rights, or to end an unjust war? What about that shield of faith? That sword of the Spirit? Could it be a parent? A close friend? A homeless man or woman? A complete stranger? Someone famous? Think about how God has provided you with all of these things already; with a conscience to you help discern what is true and right, with the quite calm of nature to help you nurture peace, with the faith and sense of the Spirit that woke you this morning and brought you here to St James today.
Now, think about how you’ve been and will continue to be these things for others. Knowing that others have helped you up the wall of life, think about how you’ve tied others to yourself and supported them along their journeys. Remember how you’ve helped to call others into truthfulness and righteousness. Remember how you’ve walked with others in a spirit of peace. Remember how you’ve bolstered other’s faith in times of hopelessness and despair. Know that you will, that we will, continue to do these things, as our baptismal covenant so famously says, ‘with God’s help.’
Today, may we be strong in the Lord by putting on the whole armor of God. Today, may we be strong in the Lord as we work to seek and serve Christ in all others, loving our neighbors as ourselves, while putting on the whole armor of God, knowing that our strength comes not from ourselves but through our relationships with loved ones, with family, friends and neighbors, and from our relationship with God, the ground of our being. Amen.
Sermon: Pentecost 9
Worthy is God’s Name
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Pentecost 9, Year B (RCL)
Ephesians 4:1-16
“I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called.”
Good morning. Quick question for you all this morning: How many of you feel worthy to be here in church this morning? Strange question to ask, I know. But reading today’s letter from Paul to the Ephesians brought it to mind. How many of us feel worthy to be here this morning? How many of us feel worthy to be living this life we’re living? How many of us feel worthy of our calling, worth God’s effort, worth God’s love?
And how do we get there? How do we become worthy if we feel we aren’t? How do we stay worthy if we think we are? How can we insure that we’ll always be worthy, always worth something, always worthwhile, always valued and cherished and loved, always adequate and then some? Saint Paul gives us a clue at all this, at getting there when he writes to them and says, “lead a life worthy of [your calling] with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” Sounds rather straightforward. If we want to be worthy of our calling, worthy of God’s love and grace, then we’ll be humble, gentle, patient, love one another, do our best to stay united. In other words, if we want to be worthy, then we’ll be like God, both towards our neighbors, towards ourselves and yes, even towards God.
I like lists of tasks and goals to accomplish, so all of this sounds pretty practical to me. Step One: Insert peg A into slot B, turn counterclockwise one quarter turn, repeat with peg C and slot D. Sounds a lot like those instructions that come with that new bookshelf from IKEA. Sounds simple, right? Sounds almost too simple, doesn’t it? If only it were that simple. Have I been humble today? Check. Gentle? Check. Patient? Um, well, at least this morning, so check. Loving? Check. Did I do my best to stay connected with my neighbor? Check. Yet what happens when we fall short? Are we then unworthy of God’s calling to us? We’re all human, we all make mistakes, so what happens when we screw up royally, or even when we have a slight slip up? Does our worth stop there? Do we become worthless, damaged, no good, not worth the time or the energy or the effort? What happens when we fail to live a life worthy of our calling? What does God do then? What do we do then?
Asking myself these questions, I pulled out my old, dusty, trusty concordance and went looking for references to ‘worth’ or ‘being worthy’ in the New Testament. It turns out that other than this reference from Paul in his letter to the Ephesians, and another in his letter to the Philippians, the majority of the other references to being worthy in the New Testament all center around three glorious yet challenging stories in the Gospels.
The first story is found in all four Gospels and is that of John the Baptist foretelling of Jesus’ coming to baptize with fire and the Holy Spirit. John preached to those who came out to be baptized, saying, “After me comes he who is mightier than I, the thong of whose sandals I am not worthy to stoop down and untie.” Here, John refers to himself as being unworthy in comparison to Jesus, the Christ. So unworthy that he feels he can’t even stoop down to untie his sandals; so unworthy that he feels he is even inadequate in his serving him. Yet in Matthew’s account of the story, we read that Jesus in turn does something quite spectacular when he comes to meet John for the first time. Jesus comes from Galilee not to baptize John, but to be baptized by him! In essence, Jesus comes to John saying, ‘Not only are you worthy enough to untie my sandals, you’re worthy enough to baptize me.’ In a strange play on life, Jesus in his baptism, even before his public ministry and healings, shows John that his worth does not come from himself but comes from God. Jesus shows John that just as nothing he can do will ever make him worthy of God’s love, so too nothing he can do will ever make him unworthy of God’s love.
The second story is found only in Matthew and Luke and is that of the centurion who approaches Jesus as he enters Capernaum, asking Jesus to heal his paralyzed servant. After Jesus agrees to the healing, the shocked centurion says, “Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; but only say the word, and my servant will be healed.” The centurion then adds, “For I am a man under authority, with soldiers under me; and I say to one, 'Go,' and he goes, and to another, 'Come,' and he comes, and to my slave, 'Do this,' and he does it.” In this healing story, it’s interesting that both Matthew and Luke add that last part about how powerful and in control the centurion truly is, or at least believes himself to be. The centurion, a man used to telling others what to do and where to go, comes to Jesus and tells him the same, “I am not worthy to have you come under my roof”, he says. But like with John the Baptist, Jesus corrects the centurion as well. Jesus shows the centurion that his own worth and even the health of those under his care ultimately does not depend on him, but instead, rests solely on God.
And finally, the third story is found only in the Gospel according to Luke, even though it is a very well know parable told by Jesus, the story of the Prodigal Son. Upon returning home to his father after having gone out and squandered all of his inheritance on loose living, the prodigal son says to his father, “'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” And we all know what happens next, the father brings out the best robe, puts a ring on his hand, shoes on his feet, kills the fatted calf and has a party. This story, more than the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan, more than the healing of the paralyzed servant, more than any other story throughout the New Testament, conveys to us the readers just exactly where it is that true worth resides. Here, the father comes to his son and basically says, “Your worth is not to be found in what you did or even what you didn’t do. No, your worth is to be found in who you are to me; your worth comes on account of my loving you, not your earning anything from me.”
After reading these three stories on worth in the Gospels, it seems to me that while Saint Paul may mean well in his calling us to live a life worthy of our calling by being humble, gentle, patient, loving, connected with our neighbor, to think that the worth of our calling, our worth to God, our worthiness of God’s love, to think that these things depend solely on what we can or can’t do, this flies in the face of everything else that Jesus ever taught or did. In the end, our worth is not something that we ourselves can ever posses, but rather, it comes through we ourselves being possessed, possessed by God. So whether we feel worthy or not to be here in church this morning, we are. We’re worthy because this is the Lord’s house; because God invites us here, day after day and time and again, to feed us, to love us, to care for us. So whether we feel worth God’s effort, God’s love or not, we are. We’re worthy because God makes it so; because God loves us eternally and unconditionally and makes it so. I don’t know about you, but it gives me that peace which passes all understanding to know that my worth ultimately rests in God’s hands and not my own. I’m human, I mess up, sometimes royally, yet even still, I’m worthy, I’m worthwhile, I’m worth knowing and loving, I’m worth my calling and the life I’ve been called into living.
While I’m way too young to remember the 1928 prayer book, I’ve heard about it; mostly around campfires (no, just kidding). One of the prayers found in that book which made it into the 1979 prayer book, though only as an option in the Rite I Eucharistic rite, is referred to as the Prayer of Humble Access and is read together right before Communion. In that prayer, we pray, “We do not presume to come to this thy Table, O merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord, whose property is always to have mercy…” In that prayer, in the same breath, we balance our own sense of being unworthy with that same Lord whose essence is to always be merciful. Such a perfect summation of the three instances of worthiness in the Gospels! Yes, we are unworthy. Yes, we are worthy. But our worth or unworth don’t come from what we’ve done or who we are. No, they come through our Lord’s “manifold and great mercies”. We are worthy to come to this alter, to this table, to this feast because our God of grace and mercy is our host, not a judging, condemning God, but a God who runs out to meet us on the way and loves us all the way home.
In closing, I’m reminded of a camp song often sung in the chapel at Rock Point; a song that speaks to the true source of worth which is found in Jesus’ name, a song that reminds me of just what happens when our own sense of self-worth fails and Jesus is there to pick us up and once again give us meaning. It’s called, “You Are my All in All”:
You are my strength when I am weak / You are the treasure that I seek / You are my all in all
Seeking You as a precious jewel / Lord, to give up I'd be a fool / You are my all in all
Taking my sin, my cross, my shame / Rising again I bless Your name / You are my all in all
When I fall down You pick me up / When I am dry You fill my cup / You are my all in all
Jesus, Lamb of God / Worthy is Your name
Jesus, Lamb of God / Worthy is Your name
Amen.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Pentecost 9, Year B (RCL)
Ephesians 4:1-16
“I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called.”
Good morning. Quick question for you all this morning: How many of you feel worthy to be here in church this morning? Strange question to ask, I know. But reading today’s letter from Paul to the Ephesians brought it to mind. How many of us feel worthy to be here this morning? How many of us feel worthy to be living this life we’re living? How many of us feel worthy of our calling, worth God’s effort, worth God’s love?
And how do we get there? How do we become worthy if we feel we aren’t? How do we stay worthy if we think we are? How can we insure that we’ll always be worthy, always worth something, always worthwhile, always valued and cherished and loved, always adequate and then some? Saint Paul gives us a clue at all this, at getting there when he writes to them and says, “lead a life worthy of [your calling] with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” Sounds rather straightforward. If we want to be worthy of our calling, worthy of God’s love and grace, then we’ll be humble, gentle, patient, love one another, do our best to stay united. In other words, if we want to be worthy, then we’ll be like God, both towards our neighbors, towards ourselves and yes, even towards God.
I like lists of tasks and goals to accomplish, so all of this sounds pretty practical to me. Step One: Insert peg A into slot B, turn counterclockwise one quarter turn, repeat with peg C and slot D. Sounds a lot like those instructions that come with that new bookshelf from IKEA. Sounds simple, right? Sounds almost too simple, doesn’t it? If only it were that simple. Have I been humble today? Check. Gentle? Check. Patient? Um, well, at least this morning, so check. Loving? Check. Did I do my best to stay connected with my neighbor? Check. Yet what happens when we fall short? Are we then unworthy of God’s calling to us? We’re all human, we all make mistakes, so what happens when we screw up royally, or even when we have a slight slip up? Does our worth stop there? Do we become worthless, damaged, no good, not worth the time or the energy or the effort? What happens when we fail to live a life worthy of our calling? What does God do then? What do we do then?
Asking myself these questions, I pulled out my old, dusty, trusty concordance and went looking for references to ‘worth’ or ‘being worthy’ in the New Testament. It turns out that other than this reference from Paul in his letter to the Ephesians, and another in his letter to the Philippians, the majority of the other references to being worthy in the New Testament all center around three glorious yet challenging stories in the Gospels.
The first story is found in all four Gospels and is that of John the Baptist foretelling of Jesus’ coming to baptize with fire and the Holy Spirit. John preached to those who came out to be baptized, saying, “After me comes he who is mightier than I, the thong of whose sandals I am not worthy to stoop down and untie.” Here, John refers to himself as being unworthy in comparison to Jesus, the Christ. So unworthy that he feels he can’t even stoop down to untie his sandals; so unworthy that he feels he is even inadequate in his serving him. Yet in Matthew’s account of the story, we read that Jesus in turn does something quite spectacular when he comes to meet John for the first time. Jesus comes from Galilee not to baptize John, but to be baptized by him! In essence, Jesus comes to John saying, ‘Not only are you worthy enough to untie my sandals, you’re worthy enough to baptize me.’ In a strange play on life, Jesus in his baptism, even before his public ministry and healings, shows John that his worth does not come from himself but comes from God. Jesus shows John that just as nothing he can do will ever make him worthy of God’s love, so too nothing he can do will ever make him unworthy of God’s love.
The second story is found only in Matthew and Luke and is that of the centurion who approaches Jesus as he enters Capernaum, asking Jesus to heal his paralyzed servant. After Jesus agrees to the healing, the shocked centurion says, “Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; but only say the word, and my servant will be healed.” The centurion then adds, “For I am a man under authority, with soldiers under me; and I say to one, 'Go,' and he goes, and to another, 'Come,' and he comes, and to my slave, 'Do this,' and he does it.” In this healing story, it’s interesting that both Matthew and Luke add that last part about how powerful and in control the centurion truly is, or at least believes himself to be. The centurion, a man used to telling others what to do and where to go, comes to Jesus and tells him the same, “I am not worthy to have you come under my roof”, he says. But like with John the Baptist, Jesus corrects the centurion as well. Jesus shows the centurion that his own worth and even the health of those under his care ultimately does not depend on him, but instead, rests solely on God.
And finally, the third story is found only in the Gospel according to Luke, even though it is a very well know parable told by Jesus, the story of the Prodigal Son. Upon returning home to his father after having gone out and squandered all of his inheritance on loose living, the prodigal son says to his father, “'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” And we all know what happens next, the father brings out the best robe, puts a ring on his hand, shoes on his feet, kills the fatted calf and has a party. This story, more than the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan, more than the healing of the paralyzed servant, more than any other story throughout the New Testament, conveys to us the readers just exactly where it is that true worth resides. Here, the father comes to his son and basically says, “Your worth is not to be found in what you did or even what you didn’t do. No, your worth is to be found in who you are to me; your worth comes on account of my loving you, not your earning anything from me.”
After reading these three stories on worth in the Gospels, it seems to me that while Saint Paul may mean well in his calling us to live a life worthy of our calling by being humble, gentle, patient, loving, connected with our neighbor, to think that the worth of our calling, our worth to God, our worthiness of God’s love, to think that these things depend solely on what we can or can’t do, this flies in the face of everything else that Jesus ever taught or did. In the end, our worth is not something that we ourselves can ever posses, but rather, it comes through we ourselves being possessed, possessed by God. So whether we feel worthy or not to be here in church this morning, we are. We’re worthy because this is the Lord’s house; because God invites us here, day after day and time and again, to feed us, to love us, to care for us. So whether we feel worth God’s effort, God’s love or not, we are. We’re worthy because God makes it so; because God loves us eternally and unconditionally and makes it so. I don’t know about you, but it gives me that peace which passes all understanding to know that my worth ultimately rests in God’s hands and not my own. I’m human, I mess up, sometimes royally, yet even still, I’m worthy, I’m worthwhile, I’m worth knowing and loving, I’m worth my calling and the life I’ve been called into living.
While I’m way too young to remember the 1928 prayer book, I’ve heard about it; mostly around campfires (no, just kidding). One of the prayers found in that book which made it into the 1979 prayer book, though only as an option in the Rite I Eucharistic rite, is referred to as the Prayer of Humble Access and is read together right before Communion. In that prayer, we pray, “We do not presume to come to this thy Table, O merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord, whose property is always to have mercy…” In that prayer, in the same breath, we balance our own sense of being unworthy with that same Lord whose essence is to always be merciful. Such a perfect summation of the three instances of worthiness in the Gospels! Yes, we are unworthy. Yes, we are worthy. But our worth or unworth don’t come from what we’ve done or who we are. No, they come through our Lord’s “manifold and great mercies”. We are worthy to come to this alter, to this table, to this feast because our God of grace and mercy is our host, not a judging, condemning God, but a God who runs out to meet us on the way and loves us all the way home.
In closing, I’m reminded of a camp song often sung in the chapel at Rock Point; a song that speaks to the true source of worth which is found in Jesus’ name, a song that reminds me of just what happens when our own sense of self-worth fails and Jesus is there to pick us up and once again give us meaning. It’s called, “You Are my All in All”:
You are my strength when I am weak / You are the treasure that I seek / You are my all in all
Seeking You as a precious jewel / Lord, to give up I'd be a fool / You are my all in all
Taking my sin, my cross, my shame / Rising again I bless Your name / You are my all in all
When I fall down You pick me up / When I am dry You fill my cup / You are my all in all
Jesus, Lamb of God / Worthy is Your name
Jesus, Lamb of God / Worthy is Your name
Amen.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Sermon: Pentecost 5
Dreams and Stones
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Pentecost 5, Year B (RCL)
Mark 6:1-13
“Then Jesus said to them, ‘Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown….’ And he could do no deed of power there…. And he was amazed at their unbelief.”
Driftwood cracks beneath the weight of my feet. My shoes shift age old boulders which have become small rocks and washed ashore. Waves lap against the sand and the rocks, pushing more smooth, long-forgotten elements from water to land. It piles up seemingly on its own. Wood here, rocks there, sand closest too the water, along with a thin line of seaweed.
I’m at Eagle Bay at Rock Point. The rain has finally stopped and the sun is peaking through just for a minute, a moment in time. New York is foggy. More rain must be on its way. A week of rain, drizzling rain, pour rain, misty fog over the morning. Now’s my chance to notice nature.
I’m at Rock Point Summer Camp. I’ve taken this break in the weather to create something natural and meaningful for my secret pal. Something which looks and feels and smells like Rock Point. Yet also something that symbolizes the sacredness of that special place. A perfect combination of the sacred and the profane. A concoction from creation which draws us back to the earth yet allows us to look heavenward even still.
From a small piece of driftwood I find inspiration. A cross. A simple, smooth, weathered cross. I’ll take two pieces of like sized driftwood and make a cross. The lake’s waste now on shore will become a means of devotion. I notice a small, long rock. A leg. Then another. An arm. Wait. There’s a head. Oh, and then a chest and torso appear. Christ is found in the rocks. Found lying there for all to pick up and see. Out of pieces of ancient mountain comes an ancient symbol. A crucifix forms in my head.
Later, I find wire. After notching out the beams of the cross, I fit them together. Now for the body. I start with the torso. I hold it firmly in place against the cross and wrap it three times with wire. Three times for the Trinity. It stays in place. Now for the legs, then the arms. Finally, a crown for the head before it is attached as well. Wood. Rocks. A small bit of wire. An enormous amount of meaning.
I give the cross to my secret pal. He’s pleased. I’m moved to make another. Again, I return to Eagle Bay. More driftwood. More rocks. I notch out the beams. I secure the body. I’m transformed, as are the rocks and wood. A third time, I walk down to the bay. The wood has changed for me. So have the rocks. I no longer find the need to measure the lengths of driftwood. I sense the right size. Same with the rocks. As I scan the shoreline I see countless bodies, more arms, more legs. Faces on rocks, as if in clouds, begin to appear. Christ who is known in the breaking of the bread has now become known to me in the breaking of the waves on the shore of Eagle Bay.
Over the course of the week, I make a total of six of these crosses. My fingers are calloused from twisting wire. Even still, my spirit continues to be drawn back to the bay and the grace found there as it is revealed in this washed wood and these smooth stones. At week’s end, I’ve given all of the crosses away, save this one. This one which I now share with all of you here at St James.
I share this story with you this morning because of how it parallels Jesus’ story for us in today’s Gospel. Today, Jesus returns to his hometown. He returns to a place and a past where he is seen as wasted wood, as a simple stone. His friends and family know him well. So well in fact that they are only able to see their memories of him and not what he has now become. Walking the shoreline, they see piles of wood, large rocks, small rocks, sand, seaweed. They see it for what it is. Wood is wood. A rock is a rock. Nothing more, nothing less. The deeds of power which lead to creation, to art, to music, to healing, to the movement of the Spirit, none of these deeds can be realized. Because of their unbelief, Jesus is left powerless. Because of their blindness, the possibility of the creation of inspiration is left disjointed and hidden from view.
Sometimes I daydream about the deeds of power that I’ve overlooked or have been hidden from view because of my inability to look beyond the surface of things. How many times did I tread that shore of Eagle Bay before Christ on the cross called to me to be created? Ten times, maybe fifty, maybe a hundred? How many times in my life have I looked upon my brother or sister in Christ as wasted wood, as simple stones, as the cracks and creeks beneath my feet? How many times have I been paralyzed and blinded by assumption, indifference and unbelief?
I ask these questions of myself not to nurture the seed of guilt for what I have left undone, but rather to help to raise my consciousness of the world around me to a level where I can see in some wood the cross and where I can see in the face of a familiar friend the face of Christ. In our Gospel for today, Jesus calls us to be gentle with ourselves and the world around us, and to look ever more closely at the crags and crevices of life. He calls us to look again at our spouse. He calls us to look again at our children. He calls us to look again at our parents. To look again at friends. To look again at our enemies. Look again and see with new eyes. Look and see with eyes of possibility, hope, excitement, love. Look again and see, ask just what it is that God is calling you to not overlook, but to reconsider.
This week, my prayer for each of you is that you may find inspiration and may find God lurking in the most common of places. And that when you find God hidden there, that you take the time and the space that you deserve and that God invites you into, that you take that time and that space to nurture that gift, to nurture that relationship. Deeds of power wait for us on the other side. Miracles, in fact. It’s as small as seeing in wood and stone the symbol of our faith and sharing it with others, and as momentous and as large as seeing in our friends and family the face of Christ and deepening our relationships with them through this newfound insight.
So “Glory to God whose power, working in us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine: Glory to God from generation to generation in the Church, and in Christ Jesus for ever and ever.” Amen.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Pentecost 5, Year B (RCL)
Mark 6:1-13
“Then Jesus said to them, ‘Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown….’ And he could do no deed of power there…. And he was amazed at their unbelief.”
Driftwood cracks beneath the weight of my feet. My shoes shift age old boulders which have become small rocks and washed ashore. Waves lap against the sand and the rocks, pushing more smooth, long-forgotten elements from water to land. It piles up seemingly on its own. Wood here, rocks there, sand closest too the water, along with a thin line of seaweed.
I’m at Eagle Bay at Rock Point. The rain has finally stopped and the sun is peaking through just for a minute, a moment in time. New York is foggy. More rain must be on its way. A week of rain, drizzling rain, pour rain, misty fog over the morning. Now’s my chance to notice nature.
I’m at Rock Point Summer Camp. I’ve taken this break in the weather to create something natural and meaningful for my secret pal. Something which looks and feels and smells like Rock Point. Yet also something that symbolizes the sacredness of that special place. A perfect combination of the sacred and the profane. A concoction from creation which draws us back to the earth yet allows us to look heavenward even still.
From a small piece of driftwood I find inspiration. A cross. A simple, smooth, weathered cross. I’ll take two pieces of like sized driftwood and make a cross. The lake’s waste now on shore will become a means of devotion. I notice a small, long rock. A leg. Then another. An arm. Wait. There’s a head. Oh, and then a chest and torso appear. Christ is found in the rocks. Found lying there for all to pick up and see. Out of pieces of ancient mountain comes an ancient symbol. A crucifix forms in my head.
Later, I find wire. After notching out the beams of the cross, I fit them together. Now for the body. I start with the torso. I hold it firmly in place against the cross and wrap it three times with wire. Three times for the Trinity. It stays in place. Now for the legs, then the arms. Finally, a crown for the head before it is attached as well. Wood. Rocks. A small bit of wire. An enormous amount of meaning.
I give the cross to my secret pal. He’s pleased. I’m moved to make another. Again, I return to Eagle Bay. More driftwood. More rocks. I notch out the beams. I secure the body. I’m transformed, as are the rocks and wood. A third time, I walk down to the bay. The wood has changed for me. So have the rocks. I no longer find the need to measure the lengths of driftwood. I sense the right size. Same with the rocks. As I scan the shoreline I see countless bodies, more arms, more legs. Faces on rocks, as if in clouds, begin to appear. Christ who is known in the breaking of the bread has now become known to me in the breaking of the waves on the shore of Eagle Bay.
Over the course of the week, I make a total of six of these crosses. My fingers are calloused from twisting wire. Even still, my spirit continues to be drawn back to the bay and the grace found there as it is revealed in this washed wood and these smooth stones. At week’s end, I’ve given all of the crosses away, save this one. This one which I now share with all of you here at St James.
I share this story with you this morning because of how it parallels Jesus’ story for us in today’s Gospel. Today, Jesus returns to his hometown. He returns to a place and a past where he is seen as wasted wood, as a simple stone. His friends and family know him well. So well in fact that they are only able to see their memories of him and not what he has now become. Walking the shoreline, they see piles of wood, large rocks, small rocks, sand, seaweed. They see it for what it is. Wood is wood. A rock is a rock. Nothing more, nothing less. The deeds of power which lead to creation, to art, to music, to healing, to the movement of the Spirit, none of these deeds can be realized. Because of their unbelief, Jesus is left powerless. Because of their blindness, the possibility of the creation of inspiration is left disjointed and hidden from view.
Sometimes I daydream about the deeds of power that I’ve overlooked or have been hidden from view because of my inability to look beyond the surface of things. How many times did I tread that shore of Eagle Bay before Christ on the cross called to me to be created? Ten times, maybe fifty, maybe a hundred? How many times in my life have I looked upon my brother or sister in Christ as wasted wood, as simple stones, as the cracks and creeks beneath my feet? How many times have I been paralyzed and blinded by assumption, indifference and unbelief?
I ask these questions of myself not to nurture the seed of guilt for what I have left undone, but rather to help to raise my consciousness of the world around me to a level where I can see in some wood the cross and where I can see in the face of a familiar friend the face of Christ. In our Gospel for today, Jesus calls us to be gentle with ourselves and the world around us, and to look ever more closely at the crags and crevices of life. He calls us to look again at our spouse. He calls us to look again at our children. He calls us to look again at our parents. To look again at friends. To look again at our enemies. Look again and see with new eyes. Look and see with eyes of possibility, hope, excitement, love. Look again and see, ask just what it is that God is calling you to not overlook, but to reconsider.
This week, my prayer for each of you is that you may find inspiration and may find God lurking in the most common of places. And that when you find God hidden there, that you take the time and the space that you deserve and that God invites you into, that you take that time and that space to nurture that gift, to nurture that relationship. Deeds of power wait for us on the other side. Miracles, in fact. It’s as small as seeing in wood and stone the symbol of our faith and sharing it with others, and as momentous and as large as seeing in our friends and family the face of Christ and deepening our relationships with them through this newfound insight.
So “Glory to God whose power, working in us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine: Glory to God from generation to generation in the Church, and in Christ Jesus for ever and ever.” Amen.
Sermon: Pentecost 3
Red Flag Days
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Pentecost 3, Year B (RCL)
Mark 4:35-41
It was the summer of 2001. I was living in Cambridge and commuting into Boston everyday for my internship with Ecclesia ministries and my work with the homeless. This day, my best friend Elisha joined me for breakfast in Harvard Square, then we were off to Boston for a meeting. As we reemerged from the underground, crossed the Charles River and slowed for the Charles / MGH “T” stop, Elisha and I glanced over at the boathouse. “Damn”, he said. “A red flag day and we’re going to a meeting.” “What do you mean?”, I asked. Elisha went on to explain to me that he was taking sailing lessons at Community Boating, and in order for him to sail on his own, unaccompanied by an instructor, he needed to pass part of his sailing test on “a red flag day”. “What’s that mean?”, I asked. Turns out that those nice days that we all dream of, you know, sunny and 72 with a light breeze, those are green flag days. Those days that are a little worse, with choppy waters and less than ideal conditions, those days are yellow flag days. And those days like this day happened to be, with a cold driving rain, wicked winds and white caps, those most stormy of days are red flag days.
That morning I was fortunate enough to have watched the weather and to have remembered to bring my raincoat, boots and umbrella. I was thankful that we were going to be inside all day, meeting with area clergy, social works, politicians and the like to talk about affordable housing in Boston. Part of me was even a little resentful that I had to climb out of bed that morning. It was the perfect day to sleep late, wake up to a cup of tea and to stay home and read the day away. Because of all this, I could only offer Elisha a blank stare when he cursed the fact that he’d have to be inside all day and couldn’t be out sailing. Poor guy, I thought, with a smirk and a light laugh. But then once he explained himself, I got it. It was clear. Sometimes we have to suck it up and experience the rainy days of life in order to come to truly appreciate the sunny ones. Sometimes we have to risk a lot in order to gain a lot. Sometimes a red flag day is exactly what we need in order to get to the green flag days to come.
After Elisha shared all this with me, I got it. While I’ve never sailed and really have no desire to learn, I did play sports throughout my life. I know what it means to practice. I haven’t forgotten football two-a-days in July and August. Waking up at 6am to be on the field at seven. Running for miles, tackling, running some more, all in helmet and shoulder pads and cleats. Days reaching up to 95 degrees. Resting from Noon until 1pm, then back at it from one until four. Day after day, with no one watching, no real game to be played. Maybe a scrimmage or two, but that was it. Red flag day after red flag day, one after the next, seemingly never ending, until one week it happens, back to school and the first Friday night game under the lights. The green flag day. I haven’t forgotten training for the Columbus marathon. Running 3 miles here, 5 miles there, then up to 10, then on to 18. Running in small groups in the dark of the morning with reflective gear on to be caught by the lights of the one or two passing cars on the road. Running in the rain. Running in the snow. Legs cramping, waking me up in the middle of the night. But then, one day, joining hundreds of other runners for the marathon. Running down streets lined with anonymous cheering friends and family. Then, crossing the finish line. Red flag days for almost a year, then in the blink of an eye, a green flag day of a lifetime.
And then we have today’s Gospel. A red flag day in the purest sense of the word. A great windstorm, waves beating into the boat, the boat being swamped. And Jesus’ disciples; fearful, outraged, over exaggerating. “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”, they ask. No one has died, but for them, this is certainly a fate on par with death. Their fear has paralyzed them, yes, perhaps even caused them to perish. They can’t see beyond the howling winds, the crashing waves and failing boat. They can’t see the distant shore whereon generations of gentiles wait for their arrival; wait to hear the good news. It is a red flag day for the disciples with no green flag in sight. And then it happens, Jesus stills the great storm. He calms their nerves. He removes their fear and challenges them to supplant it with faith. He reminds them of their goal; that those who want to gain their lives must lose them for his sake. He reminds them that stormy waters must be faithfully endured if calm, peaceful waters are ever to be sailed upon.
Years ago, I used to often times say to my therapist, “But it’s so hard, it’s so difficult, it’s so….” I’d say this because I had the expectation that life would always be green flag days for me. Sure, there’d be red flag days along the way, but they’d be of my own choosing. I’d be setting my own course, thank you very much, so didn’t feel I needed to worry about any storms on the horizon. Yet when the storms came, and they did, I’d be left flabbergasted, saying to him and to myself, “But it’s so hard, it’s so difficult, it’s so….” I’d be left dumbfounded, saying to God, “Don’t you care that I’m perishing!?!” Fortunately, I’ve come to learn that life is full of red flag days, just as it’s full of yellow and green flag days too. I consider myself blessed because now I can see even the red flag days that aren’t of my own choosing, even those days as opportunities for growth; as benchmarks along the way to getting back to those sunny and 72 green flag days. I’ve been reminded that the long distance race is not won on race day, but through weeks and months of hard work, dedication, fear and failure.
Recently, it seems that many of us have been experiencing those stormy, red flag kind of days. Just a few weeks ago I was talking with a friend who had recently lost his job. In his voice and in his story, I could hear the disciple’s question of Jesus; the disciples fear, outrage, exasperation. I could hear myself once saying, “But it’s so hard, it’s so difficult, it’s so….” I could see the storm clouds in his eyes that feared stepping outside when instead he could stay safely at home, warm and with a good book. In our conversation, I shared with him that instead of seeing the loss of his job as a setback, he could instead see it a growth opportunity, both personally and professionally. He, like my friend Elisha, could embrace the red sailing flag and charter those foreboding waters, confident that his ticket to freedom lay at the heart of that experience. He, like the disciples, could relinquish his fear and instead, like Jesus, rest comfortably knowing that all would be taken care of, catastrophic or calm waters alike.
This is the good news. Indeed, this is great news! How very wonderful it is to struggle through the stormy waters of life when we know that still waters run deep and are waiting for us just on the other side. How very exciting a dreadfully stormy Boston day can be for when we know that our sailing independence lay in wait. How life-giving a diligent daily mile can be when we know that a glorious finish line waits for us in the months ahead. And what a blessing it is when we are released from a life of labor to be given the gift of time and space to rediscover who we are and just exactly what it is God that is calling us to do. Life is hard, life is difficult, there’s no two ways about it. But that difficulty isn’t the end, it’s only the beginning; the beginning of a long journey, of a long voyage. A voyage of growth, of self-discovery, of renewal, and ultimately of life. A voyage with Jesus asleep in the stern, staying with us, traveling with us, helping us along the way. Thanks be to God that God loves us enough to stay with us as we continue to grow through the pain, the loss, the heartbreak and the difficultly of life! Amen.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Pentecost 3, Year B (RCL)
Mark 4:35-41
It was the summer of 2001. I was living in Cambridge and commuting into Boston everyday for my internship with Ecclesia ministries and my work with the homeless. This day, my best friend Elisha joined me for breakfast in Harvard Square, then we were off to Boston for a meeting. As we reemerged from the underground, crossed the Charles River and slowed for the Charles / MGH “T” stop, Elisha and I glanced over at the boathouse. “Damn”, he said. “A red flag day and we’re going to a meeting.” “What do you mean?”, I asked. Elisha went on to explain to me that he was taking sailing lessons at Community Boating, and in order for him to sail on his own, unaccompanied by an instructor, he needed to pass part of his sailing test on “a red flag day”. “What’s that mean?”, I asked. Turns out that those nice days that we all dream of, you know, sunny and 72 with a light breeze, those are green flag days. Those days that are a little worse, with choppy waters and less than ideal conditions, those days are yellow flag days. And those days like this day happened to be, with a cold driving rain, wicked winds and white caps, those most stormy of days are red flag days.
That morning I was fortunate enough to have watched the weather and to have remembered to bring my raincoat, boots and umbrella. I was thankful that we were going to be inside all day, meeting with area clergy, social works, politicians and the like to talk about affordable housing in Boston. Part of me was even a little resentful that I had to climb out of bed that morning. It was the perfect day to sleep late, wake up to a cup of tea and to stay home and read the day away. Because of all this, I could only offer Elisha a blank stare when he cursed the fact that he’d have to be inside all day and couldn’t be out sailing. Poor guy, I thought, with a smirk and a light laugh. But then once he explained himself, I got it. It was clear. Sometimes we have to suck it up and experience the rainy days of life in order to come to truly appreciate the sunny ones. Sometimes we have to risk a lot in order to gain a lot. Sometimes a red flag day is exactly what we need in order to get to the green flag days to come.
After Elisha shared all this with me, I got it. While I’ve never sailed and really have no desire to learn, I did play sports throughout my life. I know what it means to practice. I haven’t forgotten football two-a-days in July and August. Waking up at 6am to be on the field at seven. Running for miles, tackling, running some more, all in helmet and shoulder pads and cleats. Days reaching up to 95 degrees. Resting from Noon until 1pm, then back at it from one until four. Day after day, with no one watching, no real game to be played. Maybe a scrimmage or two, but that was it. Red flag day after red flag day, one after the next, seemingly never ending, until one week it happens, back to school and the first Friday night game under the lights. The green flag day. I haven’t forgotten training for the Columbus marathon. Running 3 miles here, 5 miles there, then up to 10, then on to 18. Running in small groups in the dark of the morning with reflective gear on to be caught by the lights of the one or two passing cars on the road. Running in the rain. Running in the snow. Legs cramping, waking me up in the middle of the night. But then, one day, joining hundreds of other runners for the marathon. Running down streets lined with anonymous cheering friends and family. Then, crossing the finish line. Red flag days for almost a year, then in the blink of an eye, a green flag day of a lifetime.
And then we have today’s Gospel. A red flag day in the purest sense of the word. A great windstorm, waves beating into the boat, the boat being swamped. And Jesus’ disciples; fearful, outraged, over exaggerating. “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”, they ask. No one has died, but for them, this is certainly a fate on par with death. Their fear has paralyzed them, yes, perhaps even caused them to perish. They can’t see beyond the howling winds, the crashing waves and failing boat. They can’t see the distant shore whereon generations of gentiles wait for their arrival; wait to hear the good news. It is a red flag day for the disciples with no green flag in sight. And then it happens, Jesus stills the great storm. He calms their nerves. He removes their fear and challenges them to supplant it with faith. He reminds them of their goal; that those who want to gain their lives must lose them for his sake. He reminds them that stormy waters must be faithfully endured if calm, peaceful waters are ever to be sailed upon.
Years ago, I used to often times say to my therapist, “But it’s so hard, it’s so difficult, it’s so….” I’d say this because I had the expectation that life would always be green flag days for me. Sure, there’d be red flag days along the way, but they’d be of my own choosing. I’d be setting my own course, thank you very much, so didn’t feel I needed to worry about any storms on the horizon. Yet when the storms came, and they did, I’d be left flabbergasted, saying to him and to myself, “But it’s so hard, it’s so difficult, it’s so….” I’d be left dumbfounded, saying to God, “Don’t you care that I’m perishing!?!” Fortunately, I’ve come to learn that life is full of red flag days, just as it’s full of yellow and green flag days too. I consider myself blessed because now I can see even the red flag days that aren’t of my own choosing, even those days as opportunities for growth; as benchmarks along the way to getting back to those sunny and 72 green flag days. I’ve been reminded that the long distance race is not won on race day, but through weeks and months of hard work, dedication, fear and failure.
Recently, it seems that many of us have been experiencing those stormy, red flag kind of days. Just a few weeks ago I was talking with a friend who had recently lost his job. In his voice and in his story, I could hear the disciple’s question of Jesus; the disciples fear, outrage, exasperation. I could hear myself once saying, “But it’s so hard, it’s so difficult, it’s so….” I could see the storm clouds in his eyes that feared stepping outside when instead he could stay safely at home, warm and with a good book. In our conversation, I shared with him that instead of seeing the loss of his job as a setback, he could instead see it a growth opportunity, both personally and professionally. He, like my friend Elisha, could embrace the red sailing flag and charter those foreboding waters, confident that his ticket to freedom lay at the heart of that experience. He, like the disciples, could relinquish his fear and instead, like Jesus, rest comfortably knowing that all would be taken care of, catastrophic or calm waters alike.
This is the good news. Indeed, this is great news! How very wonderful it is to struggle through the stormy waters of life when we know that still waters run deep and are waiting for us just on the other side. How very exciting a dreadfully stormy Boston day can be for when we know that our sailing independence lay in wait. How life-giving a diligent daily mile can be when we know that a glorious finish line waits for us in the months ahead. And what a blessing it is when we are released from a life of labor to be given the gift of time and space to rediscover who we are and just exactly what it is God that is calling us to do. Life is hard, life is difficult, there’s no two ways about it. But that difficulty isn’t the end, it’s only the beginning; the beginning of a long journey, of a long voyage. A voyage of growth, of self-discovery, of renewal, and ultimately of life. A voyage with Jesus asleep in the stern, staying with us, traveling with us, helping us along the way. Thanks be to God that God loves us enough to stay with us as we continue to grow through the pain, the loss, the heartbreak and the difficultly of life! Amen.
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