The Rev. Ken's Blog

Sermon: Trinity Sunday

2008-05-18T07:02:00.002-04:00

Trinity: Unity through Diversity
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Trinity Sunday, Year A
Matthew 28:16-20

Today is Trinity Sunday. When you think of the trinity, what image comes to mind? Maybe the image of a wise old man next to a youthful Jesus standing under a descending dove. Maybe you see an image of three persons who look the same, all sitting side by side, breaking bread or sharing wine. Maybe it’s not people at all, maybe it’s a symbol or symbols instead. Maybe you see a diagram of a triangle with the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit all clearly written at the points. Or maybe you see a triangle like that found on the front cover of our bulletin for today, with three separate fish all sharing the same head. There are as many ways to convey the trinity as there are snowflakes or fingerprints. All being unique and expressive and artistic, yet at the same time, all sharing the same truth; all being united in the same hope and underlying meaning.

When I was in seminary I had a church history professor who, in trying to explain the concept of the trinity, shared with the class an elaborate diagram which told us what the trinity was, and what it was not. The diagram was entitled “Shield of the Trinity” or “Scutum Fidei”, but actually looked less like a shield and more like the flux capacitor from Back to the Future. In essence, it was an inverted triangle, with each point clearly labeled the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit. In the center of the triangle was yet another label, another name. In the center it clearly read “God”. Connecting the points of the Father to the Son to the Holy Spirit were lines which each read “Is Not”. Connecting the center “God” circle to the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit were spokes, radiating out, each reading “Is”. Since pictures truly are worth a thousand words, here’s that same diagram, enlarged so that you can see what I’m talking about.

The point the diagram makes, and the point my professor was trying to get across to us, is that while the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit are all a part of God, the Father and the Son are two different things, as are the Son and the Holy Spirit, as are the Holy Spirit and the Father. What the diagram conveyed to me was that while the parts of the trinity are all different, just as you and I are different, at the very same time, they are all the same, just as you and I are the same; they are all the same because they share with each other the same center, the same God. Far better than the flux capacitor that can transport us back to the future, this understanding of the trinity showed me, shows us that diversity and unity are not mutually exclusive; that three can indeed be one, that far from being obstacles, differences can draw us together rather than tear us apart.

Taking a minute to study the diagram, one thing is clear. It’s clear that were it not for God, nothing would hold us together in our differences. Were there no center to the triangle, there would be no “Is”; there would only be “Is Not”, there would be the utter and complete lack of relationship, companionship, and meaning. Without God, we would be solitary planets, orbiting the same center of nothingness, never touching, never interacting, never growing in love and compassion. Yet with God’s gravitational pull, pulling us back towards the center, we bump into each other, we rub elbows, we share our stories and our lives. Being oriented towards the center, focusing on God, we are able to see the God in the other even though we ourselves may have absolutely nothing in common with them. God, the center of the trinity, introduces us to strangers in the hope that we ourselves will share and learn and grow.

As I was thinking about all of this this last week, about the parts and the whole of the trinity, it occurred to me that today is Trinity Sunday for another reason as well. Today is Trinity Sunday not only because it’s the day when we think about and meditate on the three in one, but also because today is the last Sunday of the winter schedule; today is the last three-service Sunday until the fall. Instead of having three services at 8am, 9:15am and 11am next week, throughout the summer months we’ll be having two services at 8am and 9:30am. And as I was thinking about our last three-service Sunday for the school year, as I was thinking about the Holy Trinity, I wondered how the two are related; I began to apply the model of the trinity to our model of three services.

Over the past year that I’ve been here at St James, a few parishioners have shared with me a sense of mourning and of loss for the way things once were. They’ve shared with me their desire for us to return to two Sunday services instead of continuing on with three. They’ve shared with me their sense of being disconnected from others. They’ve shared with me their hope in once again having St James feel like one big happy family. They’ve shared with me their longing to be in community in that same way that the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit are in community, one with the other.

I’ve heard these concerns, and this last week, found counsel in that inverted triangle diagram of the trinity. And again, since a picture is worth a thousand words, here’s that same diagram, revised to include all three services at the points and “St James” in the center. Just as the trinity is about unity in the midst of diversity, so too is this the case here at St James. The 8am service is not the 9:15am service, the 9:15 is not the 11, the 11 is not the 8. Nor should they be, for each of them serves a different part of St James, each of them serves a different part of the body of Christ. Yet at the very same time, through the body which is St James, each service is and must be connected. Just as the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit are all in relationship through God, so too are those at the 8am, the 9:15am, and the 11am services all in relationship through all of them being a part of the parish of St James.

Like spokes on a wheel, God holds the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit together in tension; keeping each part of the trinity focused on the community, on the communion, on the relationships that they share. So too is that the purpose of St James; to draw our differences together in tension; keeping each service, each part of St James focused on who we are as a community of faith, as a ministry and mission to the people of Essex Junction, Vermont, our country and the world. The Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit work with each other, not for each other, in order that God might be glorified. So too is that true for us, the 8 o’clockers, 9:15ers, 11am folk, we are to work with each other, not for each other, in order that the mission and ministry of St James, in order that God might be glorified in this little corner of Vermont.

For the wheel not to fly off of the bikes, the spokes must be strong. For the planets to continue along their courses, the gravitational pull of the sun must be strong. For the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit to remain in relationship, working and ministering in concert, the Godhead that holds them together must be strong. For those who attend the 8am, the 9:15am, and the 11am services here at St James, the mission and ministry of our church must be strong. If we are feeling pulled apart, separated in time and space, then it is because the spokes, the gravity, to pull of this place has weakened over time. Rather than pulling ourselves together at the expense of the beautiful differences that make us who we are, we must once again center ourselves on that which we share in common; our worship of God, our proclaiming the Gospel, our serving those in need in our community, both at home and abroad.

Jesus said it best in today’s Gospel when he came to his disciples and instructed them to go out into the world and to make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. In the giving of the Great Commission, Jesus told his disciples to go out into the world to create unity through diversity, not at the expense of diversity, but through it; through the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Today, we too must do the same. We must go out into the world, acknowledging and embracing and cherishing our differences, while at the same time holding firm to what unites us; our common humanity, our being created in the likeness of God. Today, may we come to see our differing worship times, worship styles, ways of praying, so forth and so on, may we come to see them as strengths and not impediments to unity. Today, may we come to learn to love our differences, just as we have come to learn to love St James, this place, this church home which calls us each by name. Amen.

Sermon: Day of Pentecost

2008-05-11T06:52:00.001-04:00

Mother’s Day Sermon
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Pentecost, Year A
John 20:19-23

Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side…. [Then] Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

Today is Pentecost; the birthday of the church, the day when we receive the Holy Spirit, the day of when the risen Christ gives us the gift of peace. And this year, on this Day of Pentecost, we also celebrate Mother’s Day; the day when we give thanks for the spirit of mothers, the day when we are to be reminded of Christ’s gift of peace to us and our being sent out into the world as apostles to share that peace with others.

When most of us think of Mother’s Day, we think of white carnations, afternoon brunch, and Hallmark cards which tell our moms, our wives and our daughters just how great they are as mothers. For most of us, Mother’s Day is about Mom, it’s about those special women in our lives who have nurtured us and been with us through both the good times and the hard times. For most of us, Mother’s Day is much like any other holiday; a time for us to eat, a time for us to visit with family, a time for us to reflect upon all that’s good and right in this world. Mother’s Day is the day when moms get the day off, dads work a little bit harder, and the kids try to be on their best behavior.

Yet this wasn’t the original intent of Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day wasn’t originally a day of appreciation and celebration. Originally Mother’s Day was to be a day of protest, a day of solidarity, a day when all women would come together to stand up against war in all of its forms and stand up to their husbands and their sons going to war at all costs. Today, we have regrettably lost sight of this and instead focus on the meekness of mothers, rather than on their strength; their ability to bring about peace in a war-torn world. Today, sentimentality has all but washed away the original purpose and passion of this day. Instead of diplomacy, we focus on dining out and are easily satisfied with waffles made-to-order rather than with the struggle of peace and justice in our world.

Yet this wasn’t the case in 1870 when Julia Ward Howe, the author of that famous hymn “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”, sought to convene women from around the world in order that they, as one body, could bring about peace and justice on earth. For Julia, there were only two causes truly worth fighting for—world peace and equality for all. During the Civil War, Julia not only saw some of the worst effects of war, not only the death and disease which killed and maimed soldiers, but in working with the widows and orphans of soldiers on both sides, she also realized that the effects of war go beyond the battlefield and consume even the home.

It was because of this life-changing experience during the Civil War and the beginning of the Franco-Prussian War that, in 1870, Julia called for all women around the world to rise up and oppose war in all its forms. She wanted women to come together across national lines, to recognize what we hold in common above what divides us, and to commit to finding peaceful resolutions to conflicts. It was with this hope that Julia issued her declaration, hoping to gather women in an assembly of action. It was with this hope that Julia gave birth to a Mother’s Day of Peace. So in the spirit of Mother’s Day, in the spirit of the original meaning and mission of Julia Ward Howe’s Mother’s Day of Peace, I’d like to share with you all this morning those stirring words which were to convene mothers from around the world on this day in history.

Julia writes:

Arise then...women of this day! Arise, all women who have hearts! Whether your baptism be of water or of tears! Say firmly: "We will not have questions answered by irrelevant agencies, our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience. We, the women of one country, will be too tender of those of another country to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."

From the voice of a devastated Earth a voice goes up with our own. It says: "Disarm! Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice." Blood does not wipe our dishonor, nor violence indicate possession. As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil at the summons of war, let women now leave all that may be left of home for a great and earnest day of counsel. Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead. Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means whereby the great human family can live in peace, each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar, but of God. In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask that a general congress of women without limit of nationality, may be appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient and the earliest period consistent with its objects, to promote the alliance of the different nationalities, the amicable settlement of international questions, the great and general interests of peace.

Some one hundred and thirty years later, not much has changed. It’s been five years now since our mission was declared “accomplished” in Iraq, yet we’re still there. And since the invasion of Iraq, over 4,000 US soldiers and over 1.2 million Iraqis have died. And the US of course isn’t the only country at war. There are wars going on today in Columbia, the Congo, India, Israel, the Ivory Coast, Nepal, Russia, Sudan, Uganda, and Afghanistan, all defined by the United Nations as “major wars”; military conflicts inflicting at least 1,000 battlefield deaths per year. And while only the deaths of soldiers make up these 1,000 casualties, most victims of war are civilians. While during World War 1 civilians made up only 5 percent of all casualties, today, 75 percent or more of those killed in war are civilians.

Today, it is more apparent than ever that we need Mother’s Day to find its roots and to once again become for us a Mother’s Day of Peace. As we remember this day the love and the warmth and the respect that our mothers have shown us over the years and taught us to carry with us throughout our lives, so too must we remember that these same principles must be applied to international diplomacy as well. Our mothers loved us even when we were unbearable, so shouldn’t we love our enemies when they are intolerable as well? Our mothers sought to nurture, to cloth, and to feed us when we were immature and helpless, so shouldn’t we seek to nurture, cloth, and feed the poor of the world? Our mothers forgave us when we misbehaved and gave us countless chances, so shouldn’t we do the same? This Mother’s Day, go to brunch, enjoy spending time with your family, tell your mother, your wife, your daughter that you love and appreciate them, but also remember, in the true spirit of Mother’s Day, to pray for peace. Amen.

Sermon: Easter 6

2008-04-27T07:32:00.000-04:00

The Spirit of Sitting by One’s Side
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Easter 6, Year A (RCL)
John 14:15-21

Jesus said to his disciples, “I will ask the Father, and he will give you a Paraclete, to be with you forever.”

I know what you’re thinking. What on God’s green earth is he talking about? A parakeet? God’s gonna send his disciples; God’s gonna send us a small blue and yellow bird to stay with us forever? God’s gonna send us out to Petsmart to pick up a small little chirpin’ feathered friend to support us? Fr. Ken has done lost his mind. Or did he say pair of cleats; pair of soccer shoes that will carry us along and support us. How on earth will sports equipment help us? What on earth is Fr. Ken talking about? Maybe he got too much sun yesterday or not enough sleep last night.

No, I’m not talking about a pet bird. I’m not talking about soccer shoes. I’m talking about the Greek word parakletos; the word which gets translated in our version of today’s Gospel as “advocate”. In other versions of the Bible, that same word has been translated as “counselor”, sometimes even as “lawyer”, or in a more general sense as “helper.” Unfortunately, any time we translate from one language to another, we are forced to leave out essential parts of the each word’s meaning in order to avoid run-on sentences and to simplify things for the modern reader. What that usually does however is leave us with translations of texts which are far from being true to the original meaning and sentiment of the words themselves. The Greek word parakletos is a prime example, for the spirit, the being, the entity that Jesus asks the Father to give to us is much more than a “helper”, much more than a “counselor” or “lawyer”, much more than an “advocate.”

Generally when I think of a “helper”, I think of someone who is doing something for me; someone who is helping me to complete some task or action. Maybe it’s because I’m a man, but usually when I’m asked to help someone, I try to fix things. It’s hard for me to help by being an active listener because I often times find myself searching for solutions. “Oh, you’ve got this problem, maybe you could do this.” It’s always most tempting for me to suggest action steps, lifestyle changes, doing things in a new and different way; to suggest that belief follows behavior. Even at home this seems to be the case; that a “helper” is someone who is doing something for another. Natalie calls Emma her “big helper.” Why? Because Emma does something for Natalie; she helps her watch Amelia when Natalie is in the shower or making dinner or answering the phone. Yet the Paraclete really isn’t a helper in this sense; the Paraclete isn’t a spirit or being or entity whose primary job is to do something for else, to act for us in the world. That really isn’t why Jesus asked the Father to give what he calls the “true Spirit”.

At the same time, the translation of the Paraclete as being a “counselor” or “lawyer” or even “advocate” doesn’t really work either. Generally when I think of a “counselor” or a “lawyer” or an “advocate”, I think of someone who is saying something to me, or someone who is saying something to others on my behalf. In working with counselors in the past, in working with social workers and psychologists, I’ve often found that while they do a great deal of listening, they also do a great deal of talking, in offering guidance, comfort and consolation. In taking counsel in twelve step meetings in the past, I’ve often found that they offer hope and strength for a new day through the saying and sharing of personal stories of failure, redemption and faith. In having had to retain legal counsel in the past, I’ve learned that it is through their letter writing, their phone calls, their conversations with the judge and other attorneys, it is through their saying something to others on my behalf which proves most beneficial to my case, to my situation. Yet it is not in this sense either that the Paraclete comes to us; it is not through its words to us or to others that it graces us with its presence. Indeed, it is much more than this.

Back in the summer of 2000, I was fulfilling my seminary requirement of one unit of CPE, or Clinical Pastoral Education, and working as a chaplain intern at Beth Israel South hospital in New York City. That summer, through many disappointments and reflections, I learned what it meant for me to be a hospital chaplain. At the start of the summer, I was eager to help patients by doing something for them. Here, let me close the blinds for you, let me pour you more ice water, let me ask about your medical condition—as if I were their doctor. Quickly I realized that that wasn’t my job; that there were nurses and doctors and others already there to take care of their physical needs. So, I moved on to something else; I moved on to offering counsel. Half way through the summer, I became eager to help patients by saying something to them, or by advocating for them with nurses and doctors and the like. Again, I soon realized that that wasn’t my job either; that there were patient advocates and social workers and others already there to take care of their social and psychological needs. Finally, by close to the end of the summer, I had an epiphany. It occurred to me that I was not there to help by doing, that I was not there to counsel or to advocate by speaking to, or up for, the patients. No, I was there to simply be present; to sit with, to stand beside, to be in relationship with in the most basic and holy of ways, by sharing in the pain and loss and anger and joy of others.

Not through actions, not through words, the Paraclete comes to us simply to be with us. Parakletos literally means “the one who is called to one’s side.” The Paraclete does not come to do our laundry; to bear the hardships of life for us. Nor does it come to tell us what we need to hear or to petition God the Father on our behalf. No, the Paraclete comes to walk with us, journey with us, to sit with us in our pain and to share with us in our joy. The Paraclete comes to us to remind us that we are never, ever truly alone. Jesus, on our behalf, asked the Father to give us another who is called by God to come and stay by our side, to be with us forever. As Jesus left us on our journey to meet up with us later, the Paraclete comes to join us, to be our companion on the way of life.

Today, in a world separated by busy schedules and plane travel, where more and more people both young and old feel lost, unwanted and abandoned, God’s Paraclete, God’s “Spirit of truth”, God’s “true Spirit” still moves among us. On our best days, it beams with us. On our worse days, it sits in sorrow with us. No matter who we are, what we’ve done, where we’re going, God’s “true Spirit” abides with us. Nothing we can say or do will ever take it away; we will never be orphaned because God’s “true Spirit” is with us forever. Today, may we hear this Good News and believe it; may we hear this Good News and share it. Today, may we be mindful of the power of relationship, how it draws us not to do, nor to say, but to be; to be present with God and to be present with one another. Amen.

Sermon: Easter 4

2008-04-13T07:49:00.001-04:00

Oh We Like Shepherds
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Easter 4, Year A (RCL)
Psalm 23, 1 Peter 2:19-25, John 10:1-10

I can probably count on one hand the number of times that I’ve seen sheep being herded. It’s not really big back home in Ohio. And since living here in Vermont, while I’ve seen sheep being sheared and grazing in the fields at Shelburne Farm, I still have yet to witness in person the spectacle of sheep being round up and put into pens. In truth, the only time I’ve ever seen shepherds at work was on TV, and they weren’t really shepherds, they were more like dog trainers, for the quick and highly intelligent dogs they used did most of the work. With a series of whistles, the dogs would weave from side to side, in and out, grouping the sheep together and pushing them forward. Having never seen true shepherds at work, I just assumed that without their dogs, they’d have to do the same; they’d have to move from side to side and watch the sheep, pushing them forward.

Probably because of this, I’ve always envisioned Jesus the Good Shepherd doing much the same thing with his sheep. I’ve always envisioned Jesus pushing the flock forward, driving them on to the next pasture for grazing, looking over his sheep and making sure that they were well contained; bring up the rear so that all of the sheep were under his watchful, guiding eye. I think of the parable of the lost sheep, how Jesus must have been watching the sheep to know that the one was missing; how Jesus, noticing that the sheep was gone, left the others to search for and eventually find it. Whenever I’ve envisioned Jesus the Good Shepherd in the past, he’s stood with a lamb across his shoulders and a large flock before him, focusing on every sudden change, focusing on their every move.

Yet reading our lessons for today, I noticed that the opposite of this is actually true; that Jesus the Good Shepherd doesn’t follow the flock but instead, he leads them on. Jesus isn’t lagging behind but rather, he’s out in front; he’s treading where they will trod, he’s living the life that they will live, he’s providing for them an example of what to do and where to go. Our collect for today tells us that Jesus’ sheep “follow where he leads”, the 23rd Psalm tells us that our Lord “leads [us] beside still waters” and “guides [us] along right pathways”, the first letter from Peter tells us that Christ leaves for us “an example, so that [we] should follow in his steps”, and finally, our Gospel for today tells us that Jesus “leads [his sheep] out”; that “he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him.” Much to the contrary of my earlier assumption, it seems that Jesus the Good Shepherd doesn’t follow the flock but instead leads them; it seems that he doesn’t focus on the flock but instead, focuses on the way, on the path that is before him.

By leading the flock, Jesus isn’t counting on the flock for direction; he isn’t counting on his sheep to lead the way, to step out into the unknown, to do something he himself hasn’t done. Instead, he looks to something greater to give him direction, to set the path before him, to lead him so that he can lead others. Jesus the Good Shepherd looks to his relationship with God the Father to give him direction. His compass therefore is an internal one, not set by the whims and wanderings of his sheep. He knows his destination just as well if not better than he knows his sheep. While his flock may falter, the direction set forth by the Good Shepherd is certain. And as our New Testament reading this morning reminds us, Jesus the Good Shepherd who leads us leaves us an example; leaves us footsteps in which to follow, leaves us not with words telling us what to do, but with actions showing us how to live.

Many times, when we stop to think about where we fit in this story, we find ourselves identifying with the sheep. And this is true, Jesus is our Good Shepherd and we are his sheep, and the people of his pasture. Yet even still, just as we are sheep, so too are we shepherds. If you are a clergy person, you are a shepherd. And not only this, but if you are a manager, you are also a shepherd. A school principle, you are a shepherd. A teacher, you are a shepherd. A mother or father, you are a shepherd. If others look to you for guidance or advice or encouragement, you are a shepherd. All of us, just as we are sheep, are shepherds too. And being shepherds, all of us have the blessing and the great responsibility as shepherds of choosing how we will lead our flocks; how we will lead those parishioners, employees, students and children in our care.

Often times it’s tempting to shepherd from the rear; to push the flock along to where they should be going, to manager the stragglers and those deviating from their direction, to focus on which sheep are good and which ones are bad. Yet when we as shepherds do this, we many times push others into places they’re not ready to go. When we do this, we many times don’t allow others to get lost and to grow from that experience. When we lead from behind, we many times lose our focus on where we are going because we are so focused on if others are getting there. In church, I sometimes catch myself shepherding from the rear when my focus on God is lost through my focus on what others are doing. Why is that child crying? Why did that man walk out? What will they think of my sermon? All of these questions take my focus off of the path on which I am leading my flock and instead, put my focus on the flock which I am leading.

Instead of leading from the back, Jesus the Good Shepherd leads from the front; leads by living a life worthy of our following, leads by example, by doing what we must do, walking where we must walk, dying as we must die and living as we must live. Almost always it’s difficult to shepherd from the front; to trust in the flock enough to take your eyes off of them, to trust that the flock will hear when you call, to trust that the flock will follow. Yet when we as shepherds do this, we’re better able to discern where God is leading us and therefore to provide our parishioners, employees, students, children, and all our other sheep with right pathways through our experience and example. When we shepherd from the front, when we lead by example, no longer does the crying child in church matter, or the man who walks out, or what people think about us if we stand, sit or kneel to pray, for our focus isn’t on the other sheep. No, it’s on the path that is set before us; on the path that we must tread and leave for others who will follow.

Jesus the Good Shepherd leads us from the front through the thorny briar of life, walking gingerly and setting a path that we might follow. Jesus the Good Shepherd calls us to shepherd others in the same way, leading others into relationship with God not through our pushing, but through our pursuing our own calling from God. May we like sheep follow his example, that we like shepherds may lead others through out lives. Amen.

Sermon: Easter 3

2008-04-06T07:03:00.000-04:00

Breaking Bread: Being Served and Serving
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Easter 3, Year A (RCL)
Luke 24:13-35

Then they told what had happened on the road, and how [Jesus] had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

Today, Jesus is still known to us in the breaking of the bread.

When I was a senior in high school, I served as the liaison between the wealthy suburban Episcopal church where I grew up, and the poor inner-city Episcopal church that hosted the largest feeding program for the poor in the Diocese of Southern Ohio. Each month, I was responsible for seeing that parishioners from my home parish signed up to cook and serve meals, I had to talk with the priest and staff at the inner-city church to coordinate schedules, and I had to swing by and pick up large containers of donated food from the local Olive Garden.

Each month, cars of white, suburban soccer moms and business professionals would drive downtown to an area of Columbus affectionately referred to as “the bottoms”, park in the vacant lot across the street from the church, and descend the steps into the dark and dingy basement of the church where the meals would be served. Soon after, a line of local Appalachian working-class poor would form at the top of the stairwell. When it was time, the doors would be opened and the men and women and children who had been waiting would funnel into the undercroft, forming a line at the window where the food was dished up and served.

After everyone had been served, we’d serve ourselves there in the kitchen. We’d wait until the entire line had gone through, then we’d take some of what was left and stand there, huddled around the kitchen counter, standing, eating our dinner and talking with one another. Meanwhile, all of the locals were seated out there, in the undercroft, in another room with a very different feel. From time to time, someone would approach the window, asking for seconds, asking for more milk, asking for something, and one of us would have to leave the kitchen and go to help. But that rarely happened. Usually we could stay in the safety and comfort of the kitchen the entire time we were there, with the food and the trays and the window between us and them.

All of us felt pretty good about what we were doing; all of us were proud of ourselves and our church for helping to feed the poor in our midst as Jesus would have done. None of us paid too much notice to that fact that we were well dressed in Polo and Tommy, that our clothes were covered with clean aprons to protect us, that we smelled of sweet perfume or at least didn’t smell like week-old body odor or stale urine. Truthfully, we didn’t have to pay attention to these things because we were in the kitchen, talking and sharing and breaking bread with each other and not out there in the undercroft with everyone else. We weren’t out there sitting next to the elderly man with lettuce and sauce and crumbs lodged in his unkept beard, or the woman with year-old dreadlocks held together with oil and dirt, or the child who belched and flung food and kept bumping into others unapologetically. Our food was our own, our tables were our own, our space was our own. We felt good about our service, yet we were safe.

That is, until the priest at that poor inner-city Episcopal church there in the “bottoms”, in the sewer of central Ohio, until she asked us to try something new. From now on, we were going to be serving dinner family style; we were going to be preparing large bowls of spaghetti, salad and breadsticks, and instead of handing them out through the window, we would be placing them directly on the tables for people to serve themselves. So, when everyone came in from outside, there would be no waiting in line, but everyone would be seated around the dinner table with the tables already set with food and plates and utensils. And our job, instead of hanging out and eating in the kitchen, our job would be to go from table to table to get refills on food and drinks.

And not only this, but she had another idea as well, an idea which would pull all of us out of our comfort zones and challenge how we thought about the Last Supper, about the Eucharist, about table fellowship and the breaking of the bread. She suggested that we not only wait on our guests in getting refills on food and drinks, but that we also eat with them; that we sit down with them and rub elbows and talk with them and share the same bowls with them. If we needed to get refills, we could do so, but for the majority of the meal, we would be sitting and eating with them. For you and I today, this may seem like an easy, even welcomed request, but for those from one of the wealthiest parishes in central Ohio, even the suggestion itself was greeted with objection, rationalization, and fear. “What was wrong with the way things have always been done?” someone asked. “We’ve come to serve not to eat” another stated. Quickly, part of the group decided that they would just eat before everyone arrived, then they’d be able to be up and moving around to help out.

Wanting to support this new style of serving dinner, I decided that I’d take a chance and join the people at the tables, but that I wouldn’t force others from my church to join me. If they wanted to eat beforehand and then hide out in the kitchen, that was their choice. Yet at the same time, I made it clear to everyone that I wouldn’t be helping them in this way, that I’d only be getting refills for my table, as was the original intent of serving dinner family style. At first, some of my parent’s peers objected to my “sitting down on the job”. Yet slowly but surely, more and more of them began to engage those they were serving in conversation; more and more of them were being served by those they were there to serve. Within a few months, everyone was sitting at the tables; no one was in the kitchen. Within a few months, a transformation had occurred; Jesus had become known to me, Jesus had become known to them, in the breaking of the bread.

Today, Jesus is still known to us in the breaking of the bread.

One of the things that I love most about St James is our passion for outreach and our acting out Jesus’ gospel of service to others. I’m thrilled that four times a year a sign-up sheet shows up and is filled with our names, volunteering to cook and deliver meals to the Burlington Emergency Shelter. I’m thrilled that on Palm Sunday, and again this past Sunday, our St James Youth Group gathered after church in the kitchen to prepare and deliver a meal for the shelter. I’m overjoyed by our support of this most important feeding ministry in the North End of Burlington and stand as a witness to this ministry’s fulfillment of an essential part of Jesus’ gospel message to us.

Yet I also dream. I dream about what it would look like if we stayed and broke bread once we delivered those meals. I dream about what it would look like to have our church family breaking bread with their shelter family. I dream about a table surrounded by homeless men and women from the cold streets of Burlington and housed boys and girls from the warm walls of St James Episcopal Church in Essex Junction. I dream about our seeing and recognizing the face of Jesus in them just as clearly as they see and recognize the face of Jesus in us. What if we somehow, someway developed an even more intimate relationship with the clients there? What would that look like?

Back in the basement of that poor inner-city Episcopal church there in the “bottoms” of Columbus, I learned what that would look like. I learned that making a meal or dishing up food for others wasn’t the same thing as eating with them, talking over dinner with them, truly breaking bread with them. I learned that I can give others food, but unless I stay and eat with them, I will never truly receive the gift of faith and hope that God is calling them to give to me. Sitting and eating with them, I was able to truly see Jesus in them for the first time; my eyes were opened and I recognized the God in them recognizing the God in me. It was when we served and were served that Jesus was revealed to all around the table in the breaking of the bread.

My hope and prayer for us today is that we all set our minds and hearts on the task of creating more opportunities for us to break bread with those we feel we differ the most from; that we take the time and give each other the courage to enter into fellowship and relationship with the strangers in our midst and on our roads; that we come to know and to learn that while we have much to give, we also have much we need to receive. Amen.

Sermon: Easter 2

2008-03-31T19:50:00.001-04:00

An Easter Forgiveness
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Easter 2, Year A (RCL)
John 20:19-31

When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”

If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them. On the evening of the day of his resurrection, the risen Christ greets his disciples with these words of forgiveness. Hearing Christ speak these words to them, I’m reminded of his words on the afternoon of the day of his death. I’m reminded of his words according to Luke, when he is lead to the place of The Skull and is crucified there, with one criminal on his right and one on his left. I’m reminded of his last words before he is put to death, when he prays to God, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” On the day of his death, forgiveness is on the lips of Jesus. On the day of his resurrection, forgiveness is on the lips of the risen Christ. Both in his death and in his life, forgiveness is foundational.

Yet if we look more closely at his words, there seems to be a paradigm shift between how Jesus understands forgiveness before his resurrection and how he understands it after his resurrection. On the cross, Jesus asks God the Father to forgive them; to forgive his disciples, his persecutors, his followers, the crowds. Jesus does not say that he forgives them—though he probably did. Instead, he asks God the Father to forgive them. For Jesus on the cross, it seems as if he believes that God is solely responsible for issuing forgiveness; it seems as if he believes that forgiveness and pardon is beyond his own possibility. God is the one who has given him this cup to drink; God is the one who is to do the forgiving when the time comes.

Also, on the cross Jesus asks God to forgive them for what they are doing; his prayer to God focuses not on the common humanity that he shares with his persecutors, but instead, it focuses solely on their actions; it focuses solely on their wrongdoings. For Jesus on the cross, it seems as if he not only believes that is God solely responsible for issuing forgiveness, but that he also believes that God’s forgiveness is a forgiveness which comes through judgment; a forgiveness which is based on the reconciliation of our actions instead of the reunion of our souls. For Jesus on the cross, it seems as if God’s forgiveness depends more on what the crowds have done rather than on who the individuals within the crowds are; it seems to come more from judging the crowds for their actions, rather than loving the crowds regardless of their actions.

In contrast to how Jesus on the cross seems to understand forgiveness, we find the risen Christ in today’s Gospel coming among his disciples who betrayed him and saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” In today’s Gospel, we find the risen Christ not instructing his disciples to ask God for their forgiveness, not instructing his disciples to ask God to forgive others who had sinned against them. Instead, he focuses on the disciple’s ability to forgive the sins of others, on their ability to retain the sins of others. Forgiveness has become for the risen Christ not something to be left to God or something only God can do. No, forgiveness has become for him something which each and every one of his disciples are called to do. In fact, it seems as if forgiveness for the risen Christ has very little if anything to do with God, almost as if God’s grace and love are so all-encompassing and complete that forgiveness becomes unnecessary for God.

Furthermore, while Jesus on the cross asks God to forgive them for what they are doing, the risen Christ comes and stands among his disciples in today’s Gospel hardly concerned at all with what they have done. In fact, he seems entirely concerned with sin; entirely concerned with the separation of relationship, and not with what they are doing or with what they have done. Forgiveness for the risen Christ doesn’t seem to be contingent upon good or bad, right or wrong; it doesn’t seem to seek to place blame or to shower shame down upon others. Instead, it seems to seek to bring healing and restoration and growth regardless of who is guilty of what behavior. Forgiveness for the risen Christ seems to come not so much as a favor for the one being pardoned, as much as a favor, a grace for the one who is doing the pardoning, the one letting go of the offense in order to see the face of God in their offender.

So what does all of this mean for us today? Why should we care that Jesus Christ’s understanding of forgiveness seemingly changed from his time on the cross to his time with his disciples in today’s Gospel? We should care because the risen Christ’s understanding of forgiveness has a drastic impact upon those whom we’ve forgiven and those whom we will forgive; that is, if we take it to heart. It means that forgiveness no longer belongs to God alone. As the risen Christ told his disciples in today’s Gospel, so does he tell us; that we, that you and I are the ones who have the power and also the need to forgive the sins of others. God is not alienated from you and God is not alienated from me, even though we may be estranged from each other. It is we who must learn to forgive each other, it is not God who must learn to forgive others for what they have done to us, or learn to forgive us for what we have done to others. God’s forgiveness of us comes as quickly and as naturally as God’s love for us. It is we who must learn not to retain the sins of our brothers and sisters, but instead, to forgive them, to let them go.

And just as the risen Christ taught us that we, not God, are the ones who must learn to forgive, so too has he taught us that we, that you and I must not forgive others for what they have done, for forgiveness really has nothing to do with action, but instead, it has everything to do with relationship; with shared humanity. Forgiveness must never depend upon whether or not we can accept what someone has done to us. For true forgiveness only comes when we become willing to let go of our judgments of others actions and instead, open ourselves up to seeing our brothers and sisters through the eyes of God. For when we forgive sins, we are not forgiving sinful actions. No, we are forgiving sin as separation. When we truly forgive, we learn to see our enemies as victims as well; we learn to reach out, not to retain their sinful actions against us, but instead, to retain their shared humanity with us, their shared pain and fear and trouble.

The risen Christ came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you…Peace be with you.” Today, our Easter Jesus comes among us and says the same, “Peace be with you…Peace be with you.” For us to receive his peace, we must first set ourselves upon the journey of living fully into his forgiveness. We must come to learn and to know that God’s forgiveness of us is so constant and complete that it hardly makes sense at all for us to say that God forgives. Instead, it makes more sense for us to say that God is forgiveness, just as God is love. It is when we know this in our heart of hearts that we will have no fear of not being forgiven, it is then that we will find peace for our souls. It is then that we will find the peace which comes through our looking past others problem behavior and instead fixing our gaze upon the brokenness and pain which lies at the heart of the human spirit; the brokenness and pain which we all share. This Easter season, may we come to find that peace through that forgiveness which comes when we ourselves make the effort to forgive; when we ourselves make the effort to heal. Amen.

Sermon: Easter Sunday

2008-03-24T08:37:00.003-04:00

Easter: Birth and Beginning
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Easter Sunday, Year A (RCL)
John 20:1-18

Since having kids, I’ve come to the conclusion that while Easter egg hunts on the surface seem to be happy, cute, innocent events, on a much deeper level, they are actually quite tragic. Think about it. As children wait with excitement and anticipation, we run to hide colored plastic eggs filled with candy. Once all of the eggs are neatly tucked away out of sight, then we let the kids loose to run and frolic and find as many eggs as will fit into their baskets. And then, with a basket full of eggs filled with candy, then we tell them to wait. Wait until we’ve had breakfast, wait until we’ve eaten lunch. Now that you’ve found what you’ve been hunting for, found what you’ve been searching for, now that your excitement and anticipation has come to a head, now we have to wait even longer still. While the anticipation before the hunt and the running to find eggs is a lot of fun, the waiting part just plain stinks. It’s Easter after all; shouldn’t the waiting of Lent be over and done with already? I mean, come on!

I imagine that this is how Mary Magdalene must have felt in today’s Gospel. Waking the morning after Jesus’ crucifixion, she must have been filled with that same sense of anticipation; of going to that large empty egg of a tomb and finding her Lord’s body in order that she could ritually purify it. She must have been filled with a sense of urgency as she set out on her hunt for the treasure to be found in that tomb where Jesus’ body was laid. Much like a child on an egg hunt seeking guidance from surrounding adults, Mary shares her discovery of the empty tomb with Simon Peter and the other disciple, hoping that they may help. Later, when Mary encounters the two angels in the empty tomb, again she seeks to share her information with them, that her Lord is missing, in order that they might help her. And finally, when confronted by Jesus himself, seeming to be a gardener, she pleads for some insight as to where her Lord has gone, this time assuming that the gardener himself has carried him away.

Finally, John’s Gospel tells us, she finds what she’s been looking for; what she’s been hunting for. She finds the magical egg that she’s been searching for and, much to her delight, it is even bigger and better than she had imagined. Not only did she find the body of her Lord which she sought to honor, but she found that body standing, living, breathing, talking with her as if he had never died in the first place. In her discovery that the gardener is actually her Lord and Teacher, she has truly found the best egg of all. And then comes the twist. I’m sorry Mary, but you’ll have to wait, wait until we’ve had breakfast, wait until we’ve eaten lunch. Now that she’s found what she was hunting for (and then some), now that her excitement and anticipation has come to a head, now she has to wait.

Wanting to devour her new found treasure which she has discovered in the risen Christ, she is told by Jesus to wait. Jesus says to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father.” In fact, his words are actually closer to saying, “Do not continue to hold on to me as you once knew me.” Jesus is telling Mary in a rather abrupt yet loving way that things have changed; that he is no longer bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, that while he is there with her in spirit, he is no longer there with her in the flesh as he once was. At the same time, Jesus is telling Mary that there is still more to come, that his resurrection isn’t the end, just as his death wasn’t the end. He’s telling her not to hold on to how things were but rather to continue to hope for how things will be. Again, Jesus is telling her to be patient and to wait.

Just as tragic as five year old faces once they’ve been told that they must wait until after lunch to eat their candy, I imagine Mary must have been equally troubled by Jesus’ response to her affectionate gesture. They waited and hunted and found the eggs, now simply must be the time to eat all the candy. She waited and searched and found her Lord, now simply must be the time for Mary to finally be rewarded with his presence. We’ve waited and searched throughout these forty days of Lent, now simply must be the time for us to finally break our fasts and sing Alleluia and go on with our day-to-day lives. Its Easter darn it, we want our candy, we want our Lord, we want to celebrate joyously with the church and then go back to the busyness of our lives.

But Jesus tells us to wait; Jesus tells us to stay tuned. Jesus sends us out, not to bask in the glory of Easter, but to get to work in the world around us. After Jesus tells Mary not to hold on to how things once were, he guides her into the way of how things will now be; he sends her out, he ordains her as his first apostle by sending her to his disciples, to tell them the good news of our shared resurrection and ascension. For Jesus, Easter is the beginning, the resurrection is the beginning, Pentecost and the gift of the Holy Spirit is the beginning, the birth of the church which has brought us to today is the beginning.

As many of you know, Easter is one of the best times in the church calendar to welcome the newly baptized. This morning, four children here at St James will be (have been) baptized. A few years ago I received a phone call from someone loosely affiliated with the church I was serving at the time. They were calling to see if they could get their kid “done”. Not knowing what this meant, I asked. They said, “you know, baptized.” Up to that time, I had never heard of baptism as getting the child “done”. To me, it didn’t make sense. Would I need a meat thermometer for the job? It actually seemed more appropriate to refer to baptism as getting a child “started” instead of getting them “done”. For baptism is a sacrament in which we are changed, in which we begin again, just as Easter and the resurrection are a time in our church calendar in which we are changed, in which we begin again.

On this, one of the most climatic days of the Christian year, Jesus tells us to begin again. When we go to grab the pastel plastic eggs which hold our candy, which hold our delicious Easter ham, which hold our joy in the promise of the resurrection, Jesus tells us not to grab hold of these things, but rather, to go, to go out into the world and to share them with our neighbors. While we come to church on Easter to hear about the joy of the resurrection, we must never forget that we have a part to play in the resurrection as well. We are the not simply the consumers of this miraculous event, we are also the messengers; we, like Mary, are the ones who must not take hold of what once was, but instead, must take heart in what, because of the grace of God, can be. Amen.

Sermon: Maundy Thursday

2008-03-24T08:33:00.000-04:00

Back to Basics
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Maundy Thursday, Year A (RCL)
John 13:1-17, 31b-35

About six months ago I went to the chiropractor for the first time. I’d been having a dull, persistent pain in my lower back that didn’t seem to be going away. In fact, it had been getting worse. After sitting at the computer for a long while, or taking a long road trip in the car, I’d have to lean forward and move my spine from side to side until something moved, until something popped. Then the pressure would be relieved and the discomfort would stop, at least for the time being. Days later that pain and pressure would return and would be a little more intense than the last time. I finally decided to give the chiropractor a call when my lower back pain began to affect my desire to run; my exercise routine of running five miles every other day.

Much to my surprise, during my first consultation with the chiropractor, he didn’t start with my back; he started by taking a look at my feet. He had me take off my socks and shoes and stand up straight. Then he had me lift the arches of my feet and he jammed his fingers under them. Having me put all of my weight back on my feet once again, he leaned back to look at the alignment of my joints. Then we sat down and talked about what he saw. It turns out that for all my life I had been wearing shoes which lacked any substantial arch support. Because of this, my arches had all but disappeared. With the collapse of my arches came the misalignment of my ankles, of my knees, of my hips, of my back, of my body. And all of this was accentuated by the fact that I had run on these ill-supported feet for five miles every other day for most of my adult life.

It was amazing to me that a seemingly small problem with my shoes could lead to problems with my feet, which lead to problems with the alignment of my joints and body, which lead to a lack in my desire to workout and run, which lead to a less than healthy body and lifestyle, which lead to psychological changes in my mood and behavior, which lead to spiritual changes in my prayer life and my energy for ministry. Sure, it would be silly to say that poor arch support can lead to an existential crisis, but to say that the one has absolutely no effect on the other would be shortsighted. Through consulting with the chiropractor about my feet, I was reminded of how essential the seemingly small stuff in life really is. I thought about the importance of feet and food, of shelter and safety.

In 1943, an American psychologist by the name of Abraham Maslow proposed a theory which he called “the hierarchy of needs.” Maslow believed that all human needs were not equal, but that some needed to be fulfilled before others could even be perceived; thus giving us a hierarchy or pyramid of needs. At the bottom of the pyramid were basic needs, such as food and water and sleep. The next level up were needs of safety, like physical safety and job security. The next level up contained needs of belonging, such as belonging to a family or group of friends. The next level up were needs of esteem, both for self and for others. And finally, at the top of the pyramid we find needs of what Maslow termed self-actualization; of our having all of our needs met to such a degree that we become able to look upon the world as through the eyes of God.

According to Maslow’s theory, if we do not have access to food, to clean water, to shelter in order that we can sleep, if we do not have access to these basic human needs, then there is no way that we will be able to truly feel safe, to feel as we belong, to have self-esteem, to act unselfishly with others. If our physical needs are left unmet, then our psychological and spiritual needs will suffer. If the arches of our feet are causing us physical discomfort throughout our body and we do nothing to address that discomfort, then we will be distracted from our psychological and spiritual needs. Or to put all this in more positive terms, it is when we take care of the seemingly small stuff for ourselves and others that we then allow ourselves and others the opportunity to ascend the pyramid and to grow in community, in esteem, and in the ability to look upon others through the grace of God; through the eyes of God.

In tonight’s Gospel we hear once again that familiar story of Jesus sitting with his disciples for their last supper together; we hear of Jesus getting up from the table and kneeling down in front of the disciples to wash their feet. This year, as I read the Gospel story, I was struck by just how simple Jesus’ farewell was. One would think, that with this being the night before he died and all, that Jesus would have had something special planned; something miraculous and ultimate, something above and beyond his transfiguration. But instead, two simple and quite basic acts occur: a shared meal and the washing of feet. Instead of focusing on the fully divine part of himself, he focuses on the fully human part; he focuses on dirty feet and hungry bellies.

As his last act with his disciples, Jesus addresses their basic needs; he addresses the bottom level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs; he addresses their feet and bellies which support their bodies which support their minds which support their souls. Jesus doesn’t provide his disciples with some lofty explanation of morality or self-actualization. No, he gives them the example of breaking bread, of feeding themselves and others, of sustaining the body in order to sustain the soul. He gives them the example of washing feet, of caring for the health and safety of others, again, of sustaining the body in order to sustain the soul. He does this not because he doesn’t value the self-actualizing pinnacle of the pyramid, but because he knows that before there can be peace there must first be justice; before we begin to expect self-esteem from others we first must hold them in esteem, we must first love them and serve them.

Jesus’ message for us today is the same. If we are to ascend Maslow’s pyramid, if we are to grow towards God, then we first need to see to it that our own basic needs and the needs of the world are met before any of us move on to any greater good. In the breaking of bread and in the washing of feet, Jesus asks us, ‘How can the world be safe when so many are hungry, when so many die from preventable diseases?’ In his setting an example for us, in his calling us to do what he has done for us, Jesus is asking us to see to it that the basic human needs of our brothers and sisters are met; that their bodies are fed and healed. Then, and only then, should any of us feel the need to move towards self-actualization. This Maundy Thursday, may God help us to step back from our own selves in order to serve the greater good. May our hearts find contentment with the simplicity of the sole of the foot rather than the loftiness of the mind of God. Amen.

Sermon: Lent 4

2008-03-02T07:24:00.001-05:00

Blinding Blame
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Lent 4, Year A (RCL)
John 9:1-41

His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s work might be revealed in him.”

When things go amiss in our lives, more often than not our first temptation is always to place blame. Coming upon a blind man, we quickly wonder who caused his blindness. If he caused it himself, so be it. We may feel sorry for him but somehow find ourselves okay with the fact that the wound was self inflicted. If someone else caused it, we may become filled with righteous indignation, seeking that the responsible party is brought to justice. If God caused it, we may find our faith shaken to its core, our understanding of how God works in our world challenged; we may find ourselves wondering if we can still believe in such a God. When something in life seems wrong, we seek to understand it, to find out who’s responsible, to place blame, to right the wrong.

While our intentions may be pure in holding the world accountable, what often times gets left out of this equation is the person for whom we advocate; is the person we seek to understand and help. In our concern for the blindness of the man, we may unknowingly see the man as nothing more than mere blindness itself. Wanting to understand, placing blame, desiring justice, it becomes easy to take personal suffering and transform it into a crusade for the greater good. Coming upon a blind man, it becomes easy to ask the question of fault rather than to ask the question of identity; the question of who this man is apart from his blindness and regardless of its cause.

Two examples come to mind. Coming upon a homeless man, I once asked myself how it was that he had become homeless; who caused his homelessness, who was to blame. Was he a drunk or a drug addict? Was he psychotic? Was he lazy? Or was it his upbringing? Did his parents abuse him? Did he grow up in poverty? Or was it God, did God cause it, or if not cause it, did God somehow allow this to happen? Asking myself so many questions about who was to blame, the homeless man became more of a social experiment in my mind and less of the human being that he was despite these things.

In a similar way, this happened on a national level following September 11th. Following the terrorist attacks, we asked ourselves how it was that the World Trade Center was destroyed; who had caused this horrendous act, who was to blame. Were the hijackers to blame? What about the terrorist leaders themselves? Were we to blame? Was God to blame? Asking ourselves these questions of cause, hijackers, terrorists, and victims alike all became what they had done or how they had died, while their humanity was forgotten. Through finding fault and placing blame, we sacrifice our ability to see the God in others and instead, create them in the image of what they have done or had done to them.

When we do this, when we sacrifice the person in order to place the blame, that blame becomes for us an idol. When we do this, a shift in power occurs; power is transferred from the individual to the cause or fault in and of itself. All of a sudden, how the man became blind is much more important than the blind man himself. How the man became homeless is much more important than the homeless man himself. How these horrendous terrorist attacks were carried out is much more important than the humanity of those involved in the attacks. And even for Jesus, as a man who is perceived by the Pharisees to be a sinner, how he can perform such signs and heal on the Sabbath becomes much more important than who he is as a person. When fault becomes our idol, the sacrament of creation is devoid of power and our humanity becomes meaningless.

Just as the scale of justice rises on one side while falling on the other, as a person is dehumanized through blame, that blame is emphasized and idolized. And in doing so, as this discrepancy increases, so too does the void between us increase; the void between actions and being, between fault and humanity, between us and our neighbors, between us and God. “Is this not the man who used to [be blind and] sit and beg?” Some were saying yes, that it was him because they were blind to his blindness. Others were saying no, that it was someone like him because his blindness was all they saw. He kept saying, “I am the man”; he kept saying, ‘I am more than my blindness, more than my fault or the fault of others who caused this, I am a man.’ And so too are the homeless men and women, so too are terrorists and victims of terrorism fellow human beings, so too is Jesus fully human and fully divine, despite his violating the Sabbath and performing miracles.

That’s what Jesus is teaching us today; that fault and blame do not and can never take away our humanity; our being created in the image of God and loved by God. It doesn’t matter how a homeless man or woman became homeless. What matters is that we never let these reasons, let any reason separate us from seeing the good in them; seeing the good that is to come out of their homelessness. It doesn’t matter who’s to blame for September 11th. What matters is that we never let our finding fault with them separate us from their humanity. Jesus said to the Pharisees, “I came into this world…so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.” To say it other way, Jesus came into this world to show us that those who do not blame end up seeing others as God sees them, while those who find fault end up becoming blind to the God in others.

So the next time you seek to find fault with someone, first spend some time thinking about, praying about, meditating on how God’s glory is being revealed through their lives. The next time you jump to blame yourself for some shortcoming, go easy on yourself and remember that even through our apparent failures God is working in us to reveal God’s grace in the world. The next time you blame God for something you feel that God unjustly did to you, don’t react, but act; don’t react out of pain and fear, don’t react out of the injustice done to you. Instead, act out of the goodness which God has also blessed you with; act out of the opportunities that God has already presented you with. For when you do this, when we do this, our eyes are opened to see not what has been, but what can be; not how we are limited, but how God is limitless; not what divides us, no, but what unites us and holds us together. Amen.

Sermon: Lent 3

2008-02-24T07:23:00.001-05:00

A Thirst for Justice, A Hunger for Peace
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Lent 3, Year A (RCL)
John 4:5-42

Living within each of us, there’s a deep, dark hole from which we hunger, from which we thirst. At the center of our being, there’s an eternal reservoir of emptiness which calls out to be fed. From our birth to our death, we seek fulfillment, we seek to plug this hole will something, to fill our lives with satisfaction and the gleeful feeling of happiness. Often times our hunger and thirst can be so much that they consume us. Often times we over eat to find contentment, or over drink and get drunk in order to escape the painful reality of our barrenness. Other times we shop to fill this hole, mistakenly believing that clothes do indeed make the man, or that having that extra room in that new house will provide us with the necessary extra space for serenity. Still other times we fill that hole with work, keeping ourselves busy and believing that our productivity with eventually be able to supply the demands of our emptiness. For a time we feast, but then we become hungry again. For a time our thirst is assuaged, but then we are thirsty again.

In today’s Gospel, we hear of the thirst that draws the Samaritan woman to the well, we hear of the hunger that leads the disciples to go to a neighboring city to buy food. Yet we also hear of something that Jesus calls “living water”; a kind of water that quenches thirst forever, which becomes in us a source of water in and of itself; a spring of water gushing up within us, giving us eternal life. And we hear of some mystery food that Jesus eats that even his own disciples don’t know about; a food that sustains Jesus even when his disciples presume that he must be starving. Jesus tells the Samaritan woman at the well, and later his disciples, of a way to fill that eternal hunger which can never be satisfied by the water from the well or the loaves and fishes from the fields and sea. Jesus tells us of a way which you and I can seek to fill our lives with a satisfaction which will sustain us for a life time.

So, what’s the secret? What’s the food that Jesus eats that helps him to fill that hole, that sense of hunger and emptiness within his soul? Jesus tells us when he tells his disciples, “My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to complete his work.” What’s the will of God and how do we complete God’s work? We complete God’s work not by saying “four more months and then I’ll help that person, then I’ll give to the poor, then I’ll seek reconciliation with my estranged wife or husband, mother or father, then I’ll work for peace and justice both locally and abroad. Four more months and then I’ll enter into the harvest.” Rather, we complete God’s work by saying “now is the time and this is the place.” We do this by looking around us and seeing that the fields are already ripe for harvesting and to start that difficult yet eternally rewarding work of helping others, reconciling with others, serving others, advocating for justice for others and peace for all, loving and forgiving our neighbors as God loves and forgives us.

Jesus provides us with the perfect example of this work, of his entering into God’s harvest, when he calls to the Samaritan woman to give him a drink. Jesus is not thirsty for the water which this woman can fetch out of the well. Jesus is thirsty for the justice which comes from a prominent Jew speaking publicly with not only a woman, but a woman from Samaria. You see, Samaritans in that day and age were seen as inferior to Jews because, even though they themselves were once Jewish, they had had children with their non-Jewish oppressors while their land was occupied, thus tainting their bloodlines, culture, et cetera. So, when Jesus asks the Samaritan woman for a drink, he is not only crossing gender lines; he is also crossing class lines, tribal lines and religious lines. In speaking openly and publicly with the Samaritan woman, Jesus is knocking down those walls between them; that dam which impedes the flow of God’s life-giving, living water.

In my own life, I’m reminded of a couple of times when I was parched and my stomach was growling yet the purpose for which I fasted fed me. Back when I was in high school I participated with my church youth group in something called the 30-hour famine. In the weeks leading up to the event, we raised money through sponsors and donors, money which would go to the millions of kids around the world who go hungry every day. On the day of the event, we fasted for 30 hours; we fasted for just over a day in order to be in solidarity with the over 29 thousand kids and parents who die from hunger each day. The event started at Noon on Friday. By 6pm many of us were hungry, by 6am the next morning, most of us were starving. That Saturday we spent the day playing games, doing outreach services projects, and doing our best to keep our minds off of the fact that we were hungry. In the end, it wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be, not because I was strong enough to do it, but because the living food which came from the support of my friends and the purpose of our fasting feed me along the way.

About a decade later, I once again found myself fasting for a cause. This time it wasn’t for the millions of starving kids around the world, it was for the janitors who worked in many of the office buildings in downtown Cincinnati. Together with local union representatives, we organized several simultaneous peaceful protests outside of many of the corporate headquarters in the city. As a part of this peaceful protest, we fasted in order to be in solidarity with those janitors who often times had to spend their checks on healthcare instead of food. For an entire week we stood outside of the Cincinnati Enquirer’s building (the city’s largest newspaper), fasting in protest each day. At the end of the week, the promise of negotiations between the realty corporation who hired the janitors and the janitors themselves became a reality. In the end I was fed, not by sandwiches and snacks from the corner deli, but by an experience of solidarity with modern-day Samaritans; with Latinos and Latinas in our society who are just squeaking to get by and almost always go unnoticed by the rich and powerful of our own time.

Everyday we drink to quench our thirst, yet wake up the next morning thirsty again. Everyday we eat to fill our hunger, yet rise the next day to a growling stomach. We all know that to drink water from the well is to be thirsty again. Yet Jesus promises us something more, God gives us something more. God gives us a living water which Jesus pours upon us in our Baptism, in our Baptismal Covenant, that living water that fills us when we “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving [our] neighbor as [ourselves]”, that feeds us when we “strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being.” This is the water that quenches our eternal thirst, that gushes up within us, that can feed not only us but can also feed the crowds, can feed the millions who thirst for justice and hunger for peace. Today, may we leave this place hungry, hungry to do God’s will and work in the world, hungry to reap the harvest of reconciliation, justice and peace. Amen.

Sermon: Lent 2

2008-02-17T16:44:00.001-05:00

“John 3:17”
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Lent 2, Year A (RCL)
John 3:1-17

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”

If you’ve ever attended a sporting event or watched one on TV, then you can probably quote what book, chapter and verse this line of scripture comes from. Let me give you a hint, it’s towards the end of today’s Gospel reading. That’s right, good old John 3:16. As a kid I remember always looking for the guy at sporting events holding up the chartreuse poster board with the handwritten “John 3:16” on it. It was almost like “Where’s Waldo?”. My friends and I would scan the crowd and take bets on who could find him first. I remember once deciding to jot it down on a piece of paper so I could look the scripture up when I got home and to find out for myself why it was so popular. On reading it for the first time, I found it strange that of all of the verses in the Bible that could be highlighted, this was the one. As a boy, it was clear to me from this verse that God loved me, but that if I wanted to love God (and wanted to live forever) then I’d need to return the favor by believing in Jesus. Lucky for me, I was already an Episcopalian and my parents made me go to church every week, so that seemed pretty easy.

As I got older I came to find out that, for some people (and for many of those who took “John 3:16” signs to sporting events), going to church was not enough. Turns out that the rest of the third chapter of John had something to say about what was needed instead. What was it? It was what Jesus told Nicodemus to do in today’s Gospel; that he needed to be “born again”. Now that I’m older and have had a chance to study the Bible some, I know that what the King James Version of the Bible translates as “born again” is actually closer to “born from above” in the original Greek. Anyway, what I came to learn was that if I wanted to love God and have eternal life, then what I needed do was not only go to church, but to be “born again”; to accept and to proclaim Jesus Christ as my personal savior. I came to learn that the flailing poster boards at sporting events weren’t some form of comic relief, they were a very serious matter; they were about converting people to the truth, they were about the salvation of souls.

Today, I can’t see these signs at sporting events without thinking about how much fear, bigotry, and misunderstanding has come into the world both through the signs themselves and through many of those who understand John 3:16 in this way. Today, when people think of what it means to be “born again”, most think of personalized salvation which depends on a one-time statement of faith by an individual Christian. Yet Jesus speaks of being “born from above”, of being born by a windful, wistful Spirit that blows where it chooses, coming and going, touching everyone in its path. The salvation which it brings is not limited to the individual person, but rather is open and available to all. And more than this, it depends not on any individual statement of faith which you or I could make. Instead, it comes to us regardless of what we believe or say or do. To be “born again” by our own abilities is to retreat again into our mother’s womb; is to view our birth as a human effort. To be “born from above” by the Spirit that moves where it may, is to let go of our control of our salvation and to trust in God’s care and concern for us.

While I could consider myself as being “born from above”, I could never see myself as “born again” in this way. For if salvation is for some and not for all, then it is not my idea of salvation. If it is only for Christians and not for all people of faith, and even people without faith, then it is not salvation. If it depends solely on me and not also on God, then I can not see how it is from God. If it is a one-time statement of faith and not a journey of belief, struggle, doubt, hardship, joy, then it is no more than a mere antidote to a much larger experience of life. Yes, God so loved the world that God gave us the gift of the life of Jesus Christ. Yet God did not send Jesus Christ to condemn us if we don’t believe in him, but instead to save us no matter what we believe.

Rather than “John 3:16”, I’d like to see poster boards waving in the wind at games with “John 3:17” on them. John 3:17 says, “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” Jesus’ role, God’s role is not to judge us but to save us, to help us to be “born from above”; to help us to be open to the Spirit moving in and through our lives. God does not want us to live in fear, bigotry and shame. God does not want us to threaten our brothers and sisters with signs; giving them ultimatums if they don’t believe as we believe. God does not want us to lord Christianity over other traditions, beliefs, and faiths. God does not want the division that “John 3:16” has brought upon the world, but instead wants the unity that a loving, forgiving, compassionate Christ might bring.

We live in an increasingly diverse, dynamic, ever-changing, ever-growing world. God has given us the gift, not of new birth in the judgment of the flesh, but of a new birth in the saving grace of the Spirit. If we are to be evangelists today, which I wholeheartedly believe we are, then it must be in our inclusion of others in our care for them and not in our exclusion of others in our judgment of them. We, like Jesus, must meet the cautious curiosity of Nicodemus not with condemnation, but with patience and great care. And so too, we must constantly remind ourselves that we are not Jesus, we are not God, we are not charged with the salvation of souls, we are only blessed with the calling to share our stories, to share our common journey with others. We must always remember that just as Nicodemus sometimes comes to us through others, so too do we many times come to Jesus with the questions and concerns of a Nicodemus.

Let us pray. God of all salvation, as you sent your Son Jesus Christ to walk with us as we journey towards you, help us to walk with others, not in a spirit of judgment and condemnation, but in a spirit “born from above”; a spirit born from your loving act of creation which continues to give us life. Help us to let go of our need to control, of our own need to take the lead. When we seek to convert others, help us to be converted ourselves. We pray this in the name of your Son Jesus Christ, our Rabbi, our Teacher, our Lord. Amen.

Sermon: Ash Wednesday

2008-02-10T07:15:00.001-05:00

Ashes: The Salve for Separation
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Ash Wednesday, Year A (RCL)

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Hearing these words, I’m reminded of the legendary words of Bill Cosby when he recounts his father saying to him, “Boy, I brought you into this world, I can take you out, and it don’t matter to me, cause I can make another one look just like you.” Every Ash Wednesday when I remember that I am dust and will one day return to dust, I can’t help but hear these words as a curse; I can’t help but hear these words as a threat, much like the threat from Bill Cosby’s father. When I kneel down and have a cross of ashes smeared across my forehead, I can’t help but hear these words and be reminded of the nineteenth verse in the third chapter of the book of Genesis; of God’s words to Adam as he is expelled from the Garden of Eden, that by the sweat of his face he shall eat bread until he return to the ground, for out of the ground he was taken; for he was dust, and to dust he shall return.

Through the lenses of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden, it’s easy for me to find the forbidden fruit in my own hand; it’s easy for me to begin to feel the sweat of hard labor gathering on my brow, hardening my face, my hands, my spirit. As they are thrown from paradise saddened and ashamed, I feel my own eyes wandering towards the ground, my own shoulders slumping, my own spirit being broken. As the cross of ashes is smeared across my forehead and I remember that I am dust and will return to dust, I feel the shame and the blame of Adam; the shame and the blame of a young boy who has disgraced his father. Every Ash Wednesday I feel just plain awful because of what I’ve done and because of what I’ve left undone; because of how I’ve separated myself from both God and my neighbor.

I feel this way until I turn to the Hebrew book of wisdom called Ecclesiastes. If you’ve ever heard the popular song “To everything there’s a season” then you’ve heard at least part of the book of Ecclesiastes. Another part of that book happens to be those same words which we find in the book of Genesis; those words that all are from dust and all will one day turn to dust again. Yet in the book of Ecclesiastes, these words from Genesis, these words with which we are marked with ashes today, these very same words take on a very different meaning. Instead of focusing on the sinful shame of a single man, they focus on the equal standing of all of creation. In the book of Ecclesiastes, our remembering that we are dust and will be dust once again isn’t a curse or a threat. Instead, it’s a reminder of our common mortality; a reminder of our common life, a reminder that the distinctions between us are artificial and that we are all we have.

During the period of time in which the book of Ecclesiastes was written there was tremendous economic growth. Money quickly became a commodity, desired for its own sake. Because of a standardized currency, it became possible for even the poorest of people in society to become wealthy. Not only did individuals during this period of time grow in wealth, they also grew substantially in wisdom and political power. The role of the individual increased while the honor traditionally given to the greater community fell by the wayside. As a result of this centralized wealth, wisdom and power, artificial distinctions within the community and between human beings and creation began to develop. When the author of the book of Ecclesiastes writes that we are from dust and will one day turn to dust again, he is telling his contemporaries that no matter how rich they are, wise they are, or powerful they are, they too will one day die and return to the dust from which they came. The author writes, “For the fate of humans and the fate of animals is the same; as one dies, so dies the other. They all have the same breath, and humans have no advantage over the animals; for all is vanity. All go to one place; all are from the dust, and all turn to dust again.”

Unlike the book of Genesis which portrays our remembrance of ourselves as dust as a form of punishment for our sinful behavior, the book of Ecclesiastes has us remember that we are dust as the impetus for our reconciliation. The former tells us to remember that we are dust because we have fallen and are sinful. The latter tells us to remember that we are dust just as those poorer than us, dumber than us, weaker than us are dust. Both the book of Genesis and the book of Ecclesiastes contain those same words which I will say to you this afternoon / evening as you come forward to have ashes imposed on your foreheads, yet each leads us to a very different understanding of what we are to remember about ourselves today; whether we are to remember our shortcomings and be shamed by our sinfulness, or remember that our mortality is precisely the basis for the ethic of our sharing all of creation with each other.

This Ash Wednesday, you and I, we have a choice. We can crawl inside of our own guilt and remember and dwell upon our own sinfulness, or we can reach out beyond ourselves and our sense of sinfulness and remember our common humanity, that all of us are loved and valued children of God and at the same time, imperfect, growing and changing beings. We can remember that sweet forbidden fruit which separated us from God’s garden, or we can remember that cross of ashes that is marked upon our heads and that cross of reconciliation that is burned into our hearts. We can begin this journey of Lent vainly seeking our own salvation, if not through individual power and wealth, than through individual penance. Or we can walk through Lent looking outside of ourselves, seeking to salvage our relationships with those we often distinguish ourselves from.

This Ash Wednesday, I invite you to wear the cross of ashes on your forehead proudly. Not so much as a sign to others that you’ve been to church today and are sorry for your sins, but as a sign to others that you and they are more alike than different; that no matter how rich you are and poor they may be, or how common you are and famous they may be, that in the end all of us will one day return to the dust from which we came. When people stop you and ask what’s on your head, you can tell them that it’s a sign that you’re sorry for your sins, but you can also tell them that it’s a sign that you and they have more in common than either of you realize, that you and they are brothers, are sisters, are siblings in this great journey of life that we all take together. You can tell them and teach them that Ash Wednesday is the day that our distinctions cease, the day when we remember our commonality as creatures, the day when we put on our foreheads the salve which will heal our separation. Amen.

Sermon: Epiphany 3

2008-01-30T07:57:00.000-05:00

Belonging to Each Other
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Epiphany 3, Year A (RCL)
1 Corinthians 1:10-18

A young rabbi found a serious problem in his new congregation. During the Friday service, half the congregation stood for the prayers and half remained seated, and each side shouted at the other, insisting that theirs was the true tradition. Nothing the rabbi said or did moved toward solving the impasse. Finally, in desperation, the young rabbi sought out the synagogue's 99-year-old founder. He met the old rabbi in the nursing home and poured out his troubles. "So tell me," he pleaded, "was it the tradition for the congregation to stand during the prayers?" "No," answered the old rabbi." Ah," responded the younger man, "then it was the tradition to sit during the prayers?" "No," answered the old rabbi. "Well," the young rabbi responded, "what we have is complete chaos! Half the people stand and shout, and the other half sit and scream." "Ah," said the old man, "that was the tradition."

Whether in a synagogue or at a church, two thousands years ago or today, difference has always been a part of religion. Some do it one way, others another, and ever the two shall argue about which way is the most pleasing, the best way, the right way. And if it’s not about sitting or standing for the prayers, then it’s about who was baptized by whom. This is where we find Paul today as he sits down to write his letter to the good people of Corinth. As he writes, there are quarrels among them, with some claiming to belong to Paul, others to Apollos, others to Cephas, and still others to Christ. In essence, the Corinthians are jockeying for position in the name of those who baptized them; they are claiming their allegiance to one part of the church at the expense of the other. It would be like some of you here today saying, I belong to Al Smith, or I belong to Molly, or I belong to Kipper, or I belong to Fr. Ken. Whether through our posture for prayer or through who baptized us at our beginning, sadly, the church has a history of difference leading to division, of preference for some leading to the expense of others.

A couple of weeks ago, I got an email, a modern day epistle which seems quite similar to Paul’s dilemma, so I’ll share it with you. It was an email from former parishioners, who are also good friends, who now live in Michigan. As it turns out, they will be visiting Cincinnati in March at the exact time that Natalie and the girls and I will be in town. Since I baptized their oldest daughter who was born just after Emma, they wanted to know if while I was there I’d be willing to baptize their other daughter as well. They knew that having the baptism at my former parish wasn’t a possibility, so they suggested having a private baptism in their parent’s home or at a park. For them, what was most important was their personal relationship with their priest, not so much their potential relationship with their new parish family. For me, what I’ll need to convey to them when I respond to their email is that baptism isn’t about who baptized or baptizes you, it’s about the Spirit of God with which you are baptized and about the cloud of witnesses that stands with you that day and forevermore.

I believe what Paul was trying to tell the Corinthians is that the church isn’t about who baptized you or who you belong to, but about how we as a community of faith get along together. Despite how it seems, the church isn’t about personalities; it isn’t about how scholarly Paul was in his writings or about how charismatic Apollos was in his preaching. It isn’t about how dynamic Al Smith was, or creative Molly was, or organized Kipper was, or whatever I am. Yes, it’s about the personalities of priests, but it’s more than that. It’s about how you and I, how all of us work together, get along together. The church isn’t about my baptizing my friend’s daughter in private, it’s about my encouraging them to find a church in their own community in Michigan where she can be baptized and celebrated and cherished in only the way a close church family can.

The church also isn’t about who sits and who stands for the prayers. Just as personalities can distract us, so too can tradition cloud our vision. I’m not saying that tradition is wrong or bad, I don’t believe that. I’m just troubled by how it can sometimes become a god in and of itself, much like the personalities of priests and parishioners. “We’ve always done it that way” often times becomes a protective coating on our faith. Yet whether you stand and I sit to pray, or I sit and you kneel, it doesn’t really matter. Whether you like the homemade bread that the altar guild makes or the stale, Necco wafer hosts that other churches use, it doesn’t really matter. Whether you say the contemporary version of the Lord’s Prayer and I say the traditional, it’s still the prayer Jesus taught us to pray. Whether you like the silence of the early 8am service, the creative chaos of the 9:15am service, or the more traditional taste of the 11am service, it doesn’t really matter, God still hears you, forgives you, loves you.

Ultimately, I believe that this is what Paul was getting at; that just because there are differences in the church doesn’t mean that they need to lead to division. Our diversity isn’t something that should scare or stifle us. Instead, it is something which should make us stronger, something which reflects more closely the nature of creation and the nature of God. When we commit ourselves to coming together, not hiding our differences but celebrating them, we become better able to see the message of the cross; the message that when differences lead to division, they also lead to death, and not just the death of our relationships, but also the death of our Lord on the cross. This is why Paul writes that Christ did not send him to baptize, but to proclaim the Gospel. To say it differently, Christ did not send him to divide through baptism, but to unite through the proclamation of the Gospel; not to be a wise leader, but instead, a foolish prophet.

So how do we get there? Amidst our differences which seemingly separate us, how do learn to come closer in our diversity? While there are many things we might try, I believe the first and most important one is listening. I know, sounds simple, right? Wrong. Active listening is one of the most difficult, and exhausting, things you and I can ever do. It’s far easier to be a talking head, that’s why we find so many of them in the media and in the church. That’s what we find in today’s letter from Paul to the Corinthians. It’s far easier to say, “I belong to Apollos” than to ask, “Who do you belong to and why?”. None of us need someone telling us what to do, and at the same time, we don’t need to be going around telling others what to do either. Instead, if we are to come closer in our diversity, we need to actively listen, we need to actively listen so that we can hear about the crosses they bear, see the love of God working in their lives, learn that God loves them just as God loves us, completely, unconditionally, eternally. Maybe then we’ll be able to start a new tradition in the church, a tradition of reconciling relationships. Amen.

Sermon: Epiphany 2

2008-01-24T16:05:00.000-05:00

Reclaiming Christianity
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Epiphany 2, Year A (RCL)
John 1:29-41

In today’s Gospel reading, it’s clear that from day one Jesus was attracting followers. Just after his baptism and before his ministry truly began, Jesus was already adopting the disciples who had been followers of John and having such an impact on them that they themselves were running home to call their own family members to “come and see” Jesus for themselves. There was something about Jesus that from the very beginning caught people’s attention and drew them to him. Through his demeanor, his body language, his words, his actions, his habits, people quickly came to see and believe that Jesus was the Messiah; was the anointed one from God. And it was not only that Jesus was the anointed one of God that drew people to him, it was also that Jesus had an innate, incredible ability to convey to others that they were anointed by God as well. Jesus loved wastefully, he forgave without hesitation, he embraced the untouchable, he in the flesh showed us what God was like in the Spirit and because of that, people flocked to him.

Even after his death, the community of early Christians that carried on continued in Jesus’ reputation of being generous, loving and kind. Luke writes in the Acts of the Apostles that the first believers “enjoyed the favor of all the people” and that “great grace was with them all”. A generation after the first believers, the theologian Justin Martyr summarized the appeal of the Christian community by writing, “We who once took most pleasure in accumulating wealth and property now share with everyone in need; we who hated and killed one another and would not associate with men of different tribes because of their different customs now, since the coming of Christ, live familiarly with them and pray for our enemies.” Shortly thereafter in the late second century, the early church father Tertullian wrote in a similar vein, “Our care for the derelict and our active love have become our distinctive sign before the enemy. . . See, they say, how they love one another and how ready they are to die for each other.” So, it’s clear that both during Jesus’ time, and the century or two that followed, that Christianity was seen by most as a way, as a religion of love, forgiveness, grace and tolerance. This is what Jesus taught and lived and this is what those early Christians were able to hold on to for a time.

Unfortunately, times have changed. In our own day and age, no longer do most people associate Christianity with these characteristics. My former professor of ethics at General Seminary, and now the bishop of my former diocese in Southern Ohio, told a funny story about the changed face of the Christian church when he was interviewing for the position of bishop. He told a story of when he was a college student back at Portland State University in Oregon. One day, he was walking across campus there and walked past a preacher type who was handing out tracts on Jesus and salvation. When the preacher asked him if he was saved, he quickly replied without thinking, “No thanks, I’m an Episcopalian.” The purpose of his story to us, and my sharing his story with you, was to illustrate how far our modern-day perspective of the Christian church has departed from the teachings of Jesus and the practices of the early church. When confronted with Christianity today, many of us, including my former bishop, react to the judgment and the shame and the blame which usually follows.

I myself had a similar experience back when I was student at Ohio State. On one bright and sunny spring afternoon, I was lounging on a piece of grass towards the center of the university’s famous green called the Oval. Unbeknownst to me, that day happened to be national “Coming Out” day and a group of gay and lesbian students had gathered for a rally at the north end of the Oval close to the main library. At the other end of the Oval I saw in the distance Brother Jed, an infamous fire and brimstone preacher who was known for getting into arguments with religion and philosophy majors; arguments which would always draw a crowd. Well, it was only a matter of time before both the gay and lesbian student group and Brother Jed’s crowd of onlookers grew so large that both groups began a conversation with each other. It ended with Brother Jed and his life-sized cross screaming judgments and condemnation down upon the gay and lesbian group, and their screaming back. Like my former bishop, I at the time was saddened by the impression that Christianity was leaving on the onlookers. I was concerned about the reputation I was getting as a Christian because of the hate spewed in Jesus’ name.

Unfortunately, it turns out that quote-unquote Christians like Brother Jed have left quite an impression on those of my generation and younger, according to a new book called “unChristian” by David Kinnamin. According to a three-year objective study by Kinnamin, an overwhelming percentage of sixteen to twenty-nine year olds view Christians with hostility, resentment and disdain. And these negative views of Christians aren't just superficial stereotypes with no basis in reality, says Kinnamin. Rather, they’re based upon real experiences with today's Christians. According to his study, 91% of those outside of the church who are sixteen to twenty-nine year olds view Christianity as being “antihomosexual”, 87% see it as “judgmental”, 85% see it as “hypocritical”, 72% see it as “out of touch with reality”, 71% see it as “insensitive to others”, and 68% see it as just plain “boring”. Kinnamin concludes by saying that it would be hard to overestimate, “how firmly people reject — and feel rejected by — Christians”.

So, where do we go from here? In asking the question I’m reminded of Gandhi’s words when he was asked why he wouldn’t become a Christian even though he so often quoted Christ, he replied, “I love your Christ. It’s just that so many of you Christians are so unlike your Christ.” It would seem then that the path for us to take is the path back to the early church, back to Christ, back to the radical and inclusive nature of Jesus. If we are to once again be like our Christ, we need to work to reform the church within; to make it once again a place of love, of acceptance, of inclusion, of radical welcome for all. And we need to continue to tell others to “come and see”, to tell others to “taste and see” that the Lord is good as we did in last year’s Memorial Day parade, to tell our friends and family about a church where they are accepted wholeheartedly without judgment.

Fortunately, on Sunday, February 10th starting before the 8 o’clock service and going all morning, we’ll have a chance to do just that. That Sunday we’ll be gathering together in the parish hall throughout the morning to bake and decorate Valentine’s Day cookies. Not only will we have a chance to spend quality time together as a parish family during this event, but we’ll also be taking bags of these cookies home with us to give to our friends and family, neighbors and coworkers, as a sign that we here at St James care for them, welcome them, and wish them a Valentine’s Day filled with God’s unconditional love for them. On Sunday, February 10th, I hope you “come and see” for yourself, I hope you “taste and see” that the Lord is good; I hope you join us in our effort to spread God’s love in a fun and spirit-filled and tasty way. Amen.

A Land Called Paradise

2008-01-11T13:25:00.001-05:00

A wonderful video message that Muslims are God's children too!