Chronos meets Kairos
01 Apr 2012 Leave a Comment
Then Jesus entered Jerusalem and went into the temple.
And so, our journey begins. I’m talking about the Holy Week journey that is the climax of what some of us call the Church Year. April 1, 2012, meets Passiontide, which happens on a different date year after year after year, this complicated Sunday when Jesus enters Jerusalem to the sounds of joyful worship, and then is turned over to the authorities, tried, and executed. Particular events in a particular week two thousand years ago, which we re-enact and experience afresh in this 2012 week that begins today. We are traveling, through time and outside of time into a mystery that defies telling but must be lived.
The ancient Greeks had two words for time: chronos and kairos. Chronos refers to chronological or sequential time, while kairos refers to a time in between, a moment of indeterminate time in which something special happens. Chronos is quantitative; kairos is qualitative. Kairos is used to talk about the right moment, or the supreme moment. Kairos is time beyond time, time outside of time.
During Holy Week, we pay attention to chronological time: April 5, 6, 7, and 8. Six pm, 7 pm, 8 pm, and 10 am. Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, Easter Sunday. But the aim of our worship on those days is to enter into that time in between time, the time for all time that is kairos.
I know there are lifelong Episcopalians among you who have never gone to Holy Week services other than Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday. Holy Week is for you, no matter how many years you’ve lived without it. And there are others among you for whom this is your first Lent and your first Easter in an Episcopal Church. Holy Week is for you. I bet some of you in each of those categories long for some resolution to the betrayal and death we just heard about in the Passion Gospel. Holy Week is for you.
On Wednesday, we offer a preview piece of the Holy Week journey with Stations of the Cross. Traditional, ancient readings and prayers mark the steps along the way of Jesus’ final journey, with non-traditional images and non-traditional music. We’ll also have our own version of Jerusalem’s wailing wall, a place for you to enter into your own stories of loss or betrayal or mourning.
Thursday marks the beginning of the Triduum, a wonderful Latin word (with two u’s) that simply means “three days.” On Maundy Thursday we mark Jesus’ command to love one another and to live out that love through the celebration of the Eucharist. It is a time rich with symbol and ritual in a relaxed community setting.
On Good Friday, we offer two choices: the three hour service in the afternoon, and the traditional Good Friday liturgy in the evening. The afternoon service is a series of meditations on the seven last words from the cross, with lots of time for silence and for listening to music that is sublime and deeply moving.
The evening service on Good Friday is very simple. The church is empty of any adornments, and it is the one day of the year when we fast even from communion. We venerate the cross and we pray prayers, called the Solemn Collects, that we only pray on that one day of the year.
The former Bishop of Rochester, New York, used to say to his parishioners: If I don’t see you in church on Good Friday, I don’t expect to see you on Easter! Of course, I do expect to see you all on Easter, but the resurrection takes on new meaning when we enter into it through the emptiness and darkness of the Cross on Good Friday.
The Great Vigil of Easter on Saturday night is the dramatic movement from darkness and emptiness to light and resurrection. Bring bells to ring and a good appetite for omelets and champagne. I’d like to challenge each one of you to attend all of our Holy Week services, but if you can’t, consider simply adding one more to your week. You won’t regret it.
I’ve been talking about these services as if they were separate events, which, from a chronos perspective, they are. But from a kairos perspective, they are one service. There is no dismissal, and no postlude, at the end of this service, and you’re invited to leave church in silence. All of our services this week begin and end in silence until the end of our first Easter celebration on Saturday night. Time outside of time, time in between time, time beyond time.
And so, our journey begins.
Get your loves in order
26 Mar 2012 1 Comment
Sir, we wish to see Jesus.
Long ago, someone told me that somewhere in our diocese there is an old wooden pulpit with some graffiti carved in it, facing up so that only the preacher can see it. According to legend, it says “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.” In other words, stick to the matter at hand. Don’t go on about your summer vacation or your grandchildren or the upcoming election or church politics. It’s about Jesus.
Sir, we wish to see Jesus.
Now among those who went up to worship at the festival were some Greeks, the gospel tells us. Who were these Greeks? Greeks were foreigners, people outside the Jewish religion. They might have made it a practice to go to the Passover festival in the same way that lots of us regularly attend the Greek Festival in Portland every October: great music, great food, a chance to tour that gorgeous church…..But these Greeks going up to worship in the temple had heard something about Jesus. They heard that he had a message for social and cultural outsiders as well as insiders. So they track down Phillip, whom they know is part of Jesus’ inner circle.
Sir, we wish to see Jesus. This scene has me wondering: what if some foreigners came to our doors, perhaps for Easter, or maybe this morning, and said to the ushers, or to the person next to them at the coffee pot: “excuse me, please, we wish to see Jesus.” What would you say? What would you show them? How would you help first time visitors to see Jesus? Would you catalog our ministries that proclaim good news? The list isn’t as long as it could be, but it’s a good list. Would you say to them: “Stick around for the Eucharist. Then you’ll really see Jesus!” This is what most of us believe about worship—that every Sunday we get to proclaim the miracle of resurrection.
What would you say if someone asked you to show them Jesus?
I’ve also been wondering what did the Greeks hoped to hear from Jesus, once they saw him. Perhaps they wanted to hear Jesus say yes, you’re welcome here. Even if you come from a very different religious tradition, or none at all, I get who you are. My message is for all people, not just the faithful establishment. You’re welcome here. Welcome home. That’s certainly what I would want to hear.
And what does Jesus actually say? Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life will lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoa. I’m not sure this is what the Greeks expected after traveling a long distance to seek out this controversial Hebrew teacher.
Here Jesus predicts his death—‘tis the season—and also says something about his purpose and our purpose. He came to bear much fruit, and to show us how to do the same. He doesn’t say: I am a grain of wheat….he speaks in the abstract; he speaks for all of us about God’s purpose and our purpose. Bear much fruit.
He makes a connection between bearing much fruit and death, which probably isn’t any more welcome news to us than it would have been to the people listening to him at that Passover festival centuries ago. Aren’t there other fruit-bearing images Jesus could have used that don’t involve the death of the one who bears the fruit? Has he never heard of renewable resources?
But something has to die in order for us to bear the kind of fruit Jesus preaches, the fruit of the reign of God, where all are healed, housed, and fed, where the world is transformed into a place where all are welcomed home. When Jesus says those who love their life will lose it, he is talking about so loving our own agendas that such love keeps us from nurturing the fruit of the reign of God.
Someone once said to me: It’s important to get your loves in order.
In other words, it’s okay to love your car, a great meal, football, your husband or wife….the point is to love God more, to love God’s kingdom and God’s call to us to proclaim the kingdom, more.
When Jesus talks about hating our lives in this world in order to keep our lives in eternal life, he’s not asking for a bunch of disciples who are miserable because they hate their lives so much. He is asking us to get our loves in order.
Remember the story of Jacob, Rachel, and Leah? Jacob loves Rachel more than anything, but he is given her older sister Leah as his bride. He has to work seven more years for Rachel. Scripture tells us: Jacob loved Rachel and hated Leah. Well, Jacob and Leah had seven children together and he cared for her for many decades in what was considered, in those days, a healthy, happy marriage. But he loved Rachel so much that anything other than Rachel felt like hate. This is the kind of love Jesus wants us to have for God. This is the kind of love with which Jesus wants us to work for God’s reign.
Strangers visiting our church asking to see Jesus might find him in each one of you who is willing to hold loosely the things of this world, to die to your driven self in order to build the Kingdom of God. This is eternal life, life lived to the fullest.
Before I close I want to go back, back 600 years before Jesus’ promise of a grain of wheat bearing much fruit when it dies, to the prophet Jeremiah. Jeremiah blesses us with his promise of a new covenant to be written on our hearts. Someone once asked a certain Rabbi: “why did Jeremiah talk about God writing the words on our hearts? Why not in our hearts?” The rabbi’s answer is that when our hearts break, the word of God can fall in. Two weeks from now we will be celebrating God’s promise of renewal and new life through the resurrection. It is in hearts broken open that the word of God takes root.
These last weeks of Lent call us to cling to God, rather than to what is safe and familiar, so that we can experience new joys. During these last weeks of Lent I pray that you may hear the promises of God in ways that allow those promises to blossom in your hearts, that, as our collect says: among the swift and varied changes of the world, our hearts may surely there be fixed where true joys are to be found. Amen.
Foolhardy Kind of Love
26 Mar 2012 Leave a Comment
It was lovely, as always, to see the wonderful faces at St. David’s yesterday morning. Here’s the text from the sermon I preached, after our readings from the 3rd Sunday in Lent. Blessings on the way, and hope to see you all again soon!
Good morning, its good to see you. I bring you greetings from the St. David’s family in New York City, Kerlin, Jordan and Aiden send their regards and are doing well, and we’re all enjoying a bit of spring break right now. It has been a pleasure to be able to follow along with your Lenten journey here with the blog and facebook posts, and I’ve been thinking about some of the questions you have considered together thus far. What do you hear God saying? What is our mission? What proclamations will possess you on the other side of the desert, and where is God suffering in the midst of our own suffering. The question I’d like to add into the mix today concerns God’s foolishness. Where have you been foolish for the message of God? Where have your words failed to explain why you are here, or what have you stopped yourself from saying out loud for fear that it simply wouldn’t make sense to anyone who hears you? “For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to those who are being saved it is the power of God.”
There are two things that make me wince in our scripture readings this morning. The first is this idea in Paul that proclaiming the message of the cross may be foolishness to those who hear it. It just so happens that I spend a great deal of my time trying very hard to not sound foolish, especially when it comes to church. I’m getting a degree in not sounding foolish about God right now, actually. Paul’s attitude here seems to be “you either get it or you don’t, and at the end of the day there’s just no use explaining.” Now, words have certainly failed me before. I know well the particular stare of a colleague, friend, or partner who is looking at me in the midst of some perfectly rational argument of mine as if it were springing from a hole in my head. “I don’t think you’re hearing me,” is a favorite response of mine in times like these, which is a polite way of saying, “I’ve explained this to you in three different ways already and still somehow you do not understand that I am right.” Paul certainly wasn’t making things easy for himself. He was in love with a savior whose chief power was in giving it all away, a Messiah who had not only come already but had been humiliated in the process, and most Greeks and Jews simply weren’t buying it. For anyone who has spent any time wondering how in the world you’re going to begin telling another human soul about the startling revelations God has unveiled somewhere deep down in your own, the rejection is difficult to watch. “Very well then,” Paul says, “if it is foolishness, at least it is God’s foolishness, and in the end, no words will suffice to convince you of its truth, the faith to understand our message will come from within you by God’s salvation only.” The sentiment is a poetic stroke in favor of human intuition that transcends the confines of logic and language, and at the same time, it is an easy way out of the conversation.
The second thing that makes me wince this morning is a likely candidate, the unruly Messiah himself. I cannot hear the story of Jesus “cleansing” the Temple without being reminded of my teaching days. When I was finally put in charge of my own classroom I spent a good week before school started getting everything ready, arranging all the best books in a tidy display, organizing the supplies by kind and size. My classroom was pristine, a physical, actual display of what I thought teaching should look like. Then of course, the students came in. In particular, one student came in whose learning had been diagnosed on the autism spectrum, and this was a first for me. Within 5 minutes he had pushed over every book, taken out every supply, and flipped over every box that he could get his hands on. My world was turned upside down, literally. And this happened every day. It took the full school year for his mother and his therapists to work with me to develop the kind of adaptive response this student really needed, which was not the classroom I had planned at all. In the end, this was a clarifying experience; this student was showing me what was really important for my teaching. Is this what Jesus is doing in the Temple? Does Jesus come into the religious structures we’ve worked so hard at developing to start trashing the whole thing? The teacher in me is still wincing. It was the Passover, religious Jews were coming from all over to make the appropriate sacrifice in Jerusalem; they were purchasing animals in the Temple square to avoid having to lug them along on the journey there, and depending on where they were from, they had to exchange their currency to do so. They were being observant and reasonable, and Jesus throws a wrench in the whole thing. And for what? What remains in our vision of faith when the materials are stripped away? Which tables is Jesus flipping over in our tidy life together?
So this is where God has me this morning. Stuck between a very strong desire to not sound like a fool when I’m talking about what matters most and a Savior who seems determined to unsettle every bit of logic I’ve carefully prepared to make sure that doesn’t happen. It is not an unfamiliar place for me to be stuck in. In New York, the ongoing Occupy Wall Street protests get me there every time. The responses they garner are the epitome of Paul’s “you either get it or you don’t” attitude. Folk who walk by either seem to leave convicted and inspired that someone out there is finally giving voice to an outrage they have harbored silently for a while now, or they roll their eyes and ask what the meaning of any of this could possibly be. I feel absolutely convicted by the outrage, the message, and the street theatre, and yet I have a real resistance to writing down what I actually believe with permanent marker in 15 words or less and literally standing behind it for all the world to see. I prefer more ambiguity than that, I prefer a via media, I’d prefer the other side to know that I can relate to where they’re coming from and that maybe we could have a conversation about it. I’d prefer that someone not pass me by and think that I am wrong without leaving me a chance to prove myself to them. Of course, the result of all these preferences is often that I avoid saying anything at all, and the potential conversation escapes the possibility of even happening.
The good news this morning is that we follow one who would appear in no way to be so hesitant. Christ is moving forward into a kingdom of God’s peace on this earth that would radically shake the tidy structures we have prepared to their foundation. We know what it looks like. Widows, orphans, poor folk of every stripe and nation, every human soul who has been trod under the injustice of this world lifted up and welcomed in to the feast prepared for all at the foundation of the world. So where is the tension for you? When does your voice tremble because you know you have to say something that might not come out with just the right words attached to it? Where has Christ kicked over a table set up in the temple of your best made plans? If you aren’t sure, try this: begin a sentence by saying, “I know this sounds crazy, but…” and then finish it with something about God. If we are willing to sound foolish for the sake of saying it out loud, we may be surprised to find the risk we take in speaking is precisely the place where the conversation begins. The good news is that we do not have to worry about being right, only honest, and God, speaking in the hearts of those who truly hear will take care of the rest. In the end, it may not be about whether someone else is really hearing us at all, but about whether they hear the Christ who speaks through and among us when we are willing to lend our voices to the truth he most wants to say. And as a rule, if what comes out sounds like it belongs in permanent marker scrawled out on a piece of cardboard, we’re likely headed one step in the right direction. Here’s hoping for the courage to speak all the foolhardy words we’re most afraid to say, and strong faith where the logic of this world begins to fail.
The Way of Suffering
04 Mar 2012 Leave a Comment
Then Jesus began to teach his disciples that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected, and be killed, and after three days rise again.
Last week, I ended my sermon with the question: What wonderful proclamation will possess you on the other side of the desert? The teaching from today’s gospel may not be exactly what we had in mind for a wonderful proclamation.
We don’t want to hear about Jesus’ suffering, certainly not on this day when we celebrate our patron saint, David—this is supposed to be a happy occasion! Happy because it is our feast day, because we share this time with friends from Bryn Seion and the Welsh Society, because of the wonderful feast of creativity happening across the hall in the form of the SE Portland Art Walk, and—never last nor least—the grand re-opening of our history room upstairs. It is also a bittersweet day, because for the first time in a long time, we are celebrating the feast of St. David without Tom Owen, who died a tragic and untimely death a few two weeks ago.
I like to think that Tom is celebrating St. David’s Day this very moment with St. David himself, surrounded by leeks and daffodils, and perhaps enjoying a glass of something beyond David’s self-imposed diet of bread and water.
My sense from what we little we really know about what kind of a disciple Saint David was, leads me to believe that he would not have had a problem hearing about suffering and death.
Jesus teaches his disciples—and anyone else who happens to be listening—that part of what it means to be the Messiah is that he must undergo great suffering, and rejection, and be killed. This is not the kind of messiah the disciples have signed up for! This is why Peter takes Jesus aside and rebukes him. “Ah…with all due respect,” Peter might say, “ we were kind of expecting a savior who planned to kick out the Romans, and become a great king, maybe like David, and all of us, well you know….we could all be your top advisors.”
“Whoa!” says Jesus, loud enough so all the disciples can hear, “You’re talking like you’ve been listening to someone else besides me—Satan even! God’s plan is not about that kind of worldly power!”
To define discipleship as picking up one’s cross would have been a shock for Peter and his motley companions. We’re used to it. Crosses are all around us, in churches, on bumper stickers, around our necks, or tattooed on our shoulder. Crosses are how we mark ourselves as disciples of Jesus. So we often don’t think about what this really means.
When Jesus said to the disciples that if anyone really wanted to follow him, he must take up his cross, no one knew that this was the way that Jesus was going to die. They certainly knew what a cross was, and how the Romans used it, but hearing this from Jesus would have been new and shocking information. Have you ever found a new hero—a great boss or a wonderful professor or an amazing musician or political activist who makes you say: I’d follow that guy anywhere! Imagine that person saying to you: If you really want to learn from me, be prepared to die a miserable death. I wonder how many of us think about this when we hang a cross around our neck.
When we are called as followers of Jesus, we are called to die, over and over again. Not necessarily the same miserable, bloody, and painful death that Jesus dies, but we are called to die to our own needs and expectations, die to our own agenda, die to our own idea of how things are supposed to turn out, just as Peter must die to his idea of what a Messiah is supposed to be.
We are called to lose our lives as we conceive them to be. This kind of loss, this kind of death, can be excruciating.
Five hundred years ago Martin Luther talked about two different theologies. Remember that “theology” is an intimidating word that is simply shorthand for the question: “What is God up to?” The theologies Luther articulated were the theology of glory, and the theology of the cross. The theology of glory is built on assumptions of how God is supposed to act in the world. God rewards the good with riches, good health, and long life. God punishes the wicked, God brings strong, right-thinking people to power and prosperity. Those who do not succeed, or who fall victim to loss and failure, have surely done something wrong, or simply do not matter in God’s eyes.
The theology of the cross says that what God is up to is that God reveals himself to us as Jesus rejected and suffering on the cross. That where there is suffering, loss, disappointment, abandonment, and unspeakable grief, that’s where God is. God suffers with us. God is present in our suffering when we rage against him for inexplicable events, when we mourn the loss of a loved one, or when we suffer as the result of our own inability to hold our lives loosely for the sake of the gospel. God suffers with us when we suffer, and God suffers with us when we should be suffering but aren’t, when we aren’t seeing the poverty and heartache around us, because we’re too busy looking for signs of God’s glory and triumph.
Well, this is a cheerful message this morning, isn’t it? I do think it’s good news that God is a suffering God. To the extent that as we, as disciples, are willing to suffer with and for God, God suffers with us.
The other good news is the part of Jesus’ teaching in today’s gospel that none of the disciples pick up on: the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected, and be killed—we got that part—and after three days rise again. After three days rise again. When we are willing to let go of everything we think we are, everything we think we’re supposed to have and supposed to be, God transforms our loss and suffering into new life, just as he raises Jesus from the dead. Just you wait and see.
The Way of Dispossession
26 Feb 2012 1 Comment
The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe the Good news.
I love the gospel of Mark. Mark is the first of the four gospels to be written, and the evangelist takes us on along the express route through the high points and low points. In seven short verses, Jesus travels the long day’s journey from Nazareth to the Jordan River, gets baptized, gets named as God’s beloved, is driven out to the desert, encounters Satan and some non-specific angels and wild beasts, and preaches his first sermon, a sermon which in equally spare language announces his mission in the world: The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe the good news.
In these seven short verses, we get pairs of seeming opposites that make up the full-ness of the gospel: baptism and the wilderness, angels and wild beasts, repentance and the good news. Both and; both and.
Jesus is, as I have said before, a man on a mission. God on a mission. On the move.
What drives Jesus? Today, we get one answer: after Jesus’ baptism, the spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. Remember Jesus’ baptism, that sublime moment we heard about weeks and weeks ago, and again just now, the spirit descending like a dove, and a voice from heaven saying You are my Son, the Beloved. With you I am well pleased. Before Mark even gives us time to digest what that all means, immediately Jesus is driven by the Spirit into the wilderness. What drives Jesus? It is the Spirit that drives Jesus.
Gee, thanks, Spirit. Thanks a lot.
What happens in the wilderness? In Mark’s gospel, much is left to our imagination. We know nothing about how Jesus was tempted or with what. In the parallel temptation stories in Matthew and Luke, the devil tempts Jesus with power, property, and prestige. If Jesus were sent out into the desert today, what would Satan say to him?
Dude, there’s a whole lot of hungry people in the world. If you swear allegiance to me, I’ll give you the keys to the Fred Meyer warehouse in Clackamas. I’ll teach you to grow pizza on trees. Good pizza. Even some gluten-free, vegan pizza. I’ll make you Chair of the Federal Reserve. You want to impress people? Follow me and I’ll show you impressive.
In the first centuries of Christianity, the desert fathers would go out into the desert to conquer demons, sort of like a medieval knight going on a quest to slay a dragon. They failed to see that the devil is in the wilderness of our own hearts, and we need not go out into the desert to search for him. The temptations to power, property, and prestige are often inside us: the temptation to be someone other than who we are and whose we are.
This first-Sunday-in-Lent “temptation gospel” is not about the specific form that the temptation takes, but the pattern: God announces that Jesus is his beloved, his chosen, and then drives him out into the wilderness.
We have all had our own encounters with the evil one; I wonder how often these encounters happen at times when we have just had our own experience of the Holy, of being claimed as God’s beloved. Often we are tempted, pulled away from our sense of self, our purpose, just after we have been called to something good, discovered a new passion, or dedicated ourselves in some new and life-giving way. We fall in love, we get a great job, we find something we’ve always wanted to do, we move into our dream house, we find a church we love, and a voice says no, you’re not good enough. You’re too fat, too short, too tall, not strong enough. You’ve never been able to stay sober. That’ll never work. You’re not a good parent. You don’t belong there. It’ll never last.
The old good angel/bad angel on the shoulder routine is every real for most of us. I can do this. No, I can’t. Yes, I can. No, I can’t.
We would do well to see our desert time as part of our own mission—part of how we get formed as little Christs, to continue Jesus’ ministry of preaching, teaching, and healing in the world. The Spirit drives Jesus into the wilderness, and is with him and in him when he comes out of the wilderness to proclaim the Kingdom of God. Remember what he says after his time in the desert: The kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe the good news. The Kingdom of God is almost here. To enter the Kingdom we need to repent—turn around—and believe, trust the Good News of God’s healing, reconciling, accompanying love.
In the poem, “East Coker,” T.S. Eliot writes: In order to possess what you do not possess, you must go by way of dispossession.
What is your desert? How will it be for you a way of dispossession, of emptying yourself of your own agenda, those things you think you know or expect about yourself and the world around you? What wonderful proclamation will possess you on the other side of the desert?
Yes, I am willing
16 Feb 2012 Leave a Comment
Barbara Brecht, St. David’s vestry member and William Temple House board member preached this fine sermon on Epiphany VI, February 12.
So, this could be part three of the homilies Sara has given the past two weeks. Kind of like a chapter series. So, when we ended last week, we were left with these questions:
What is our mission? Jesus message is a message on a mission, a message of liberty and abundant life, good news of healing and hope. How do we proclaim our message of liberty and abundant life? For what good news are we willing to be all things to all people, to get up and serve when we’d rather be on the couch? When are we willing to give our all, because we know God is working through us?
Well, No easy answers to any of those questions. But wonderful questions to help stir our curiosity about the unseen, and sometimes unrecognized opportunities, that really do exist around us if we are willing to see.
Today’s Gospel is very familiar to us. A leper is in need of healing and takes the risk of telling Jesus about it. The leper then states “If you choose, you can make me clean.” And Jesus response is pretty pure Jesus: an immediate sense of compassion, a desire to help and capacity to answer the request in a positive manner on the spot.
As I sat with this passage, thinking about what it may be calling me to be or do now, I was strongly reminded of a past experience that has been very formative in my life. And how it has contributed to my understanding about how, as a follower of Jesus, “mission” emerges or is discovered.
I dropped out of college after my second year and moved from the Midwest to Boulder, Co., one of the major destinations in the early 1970’s for young adults on their quest for what life was all about. The allure of the Rockies was irresistible. My dormant Christian faith became activated at that time and I found myself living with a group of women about the same age, some in college, some working, some pondering and all of us invested in following Jesus and allowing the Holy Spirit to guide and lead us. We were very naïve, but also truly engaged. Word was out that Christians lived in our house and folks came to hang out, crash for several nights, use our phone for long distance calls, have a meal, etc. It fit what we thought was our mission well.
Then, one day we had yet another knock at the door. The woman standing there was very tall, very slender, with long black, unkempt hair and had a blanket wrapped around her. Her name was Beverly. She swayed back and forth and then stated, “I want to be baptized. Will you help me?” We were somewhat taken aback and I know I was a bit anxious with her presentation. There was a moment of hesitation, but then we invited her in. In a halting manner she began to tell her story. She had suffered from mental illness for years and did not want to have to be hospitalized any more, if possible. She had a working relationship with a psychiatrist, religiously took her medication and described what situations could lead to her having psychotic symptoms. Beverly felt if she lived with people who would value her and help her if and when her psychotic symptoms emerged, she would be able to move toward longer term stability and healing. Beverly also had become a Christian and, having always felt unclean and like an outcast, she longed to belong somewhere and wanted to be baptized.
One person in the house, who is still one of my heroes, immediately embraced her and said we could all probably figure out how this could work. And it did over a three year period.
It was extremely complicated at times, fun at times, moving at times and frustrating at times. Beverly did have several psychotic episodes which lasted about five days each time and required 7/24 care. None of us had the training at the time for this sort of work, but we worked with her psychiatrist and were able to keep her safe in our community until the medication adjustments kicked in and she was able to function.
Beverly did get better over time. She procured a job. She was a very talented artist who later illustrated two children’s books which were published. She became such a source of wisdom in the house and helped us all to see the world in some wider ways than most of us had experienced. She truly wanted to follow Jesus and found some of the most creative and kind of quirky ways to allow his presence to be known. It was a privilege to have lived with her.
She also allowed the community to discover how important connection was for so many disconnected folks. We began to have more folks show up who needed a place to be seen, to connect and to be valued. Soon we needed a larger house for people who were coming, and we found one. We also were discovered by a whole group of older women (at least old to me at the time, in their fifties) who had long been marginalized due to mental health issues and some came to live in the community. It was extraordinary to see what it meant to them to have a place to be, to be seen, to be valued, and to have their contributions recognized and honored. It was an amazing place to be. And, although it has moved, it still is in existence as one of my heroes is still inviting folks who need a place to be to join this community.
Mission was discovered in that place. Through impulse, prayer, taking risks, messing up, laughter, tears, Jesus healing presence was evident in this community. Without focusing on it, we practiced courage, compassion, and connection. And without being consciously intentional, we tried to live into our call to be all things to all people. We had discovered a mission in response to the question, “I want to be baptized. Will you help me?”
I look back at that time now with great gratitude. I am currently reading a book wonderfully titled “The Gifts of Imperfection”. I can relate. It endorses that we are more able to live in a more wholehearted, congruent manner when we embrace our imperfections. As we acknowledge our imperfections and practice courage, compassion and connection, we are more able to be open to many possibilities in regard to mission. Discovering mission is so much about the willingness to stay curious, engaged, and willing to consider possibilities with a bias toward taking action.
And there is action in our diocese which we celebrate today. Our Bishop has declared today “William Temple House Day in the Diocese.” I serve as a Board member and have seen the excellent services being provided through the House. You have the brochure in your bulletins which gives information about the services offered. I chose to become involved as William Temple House is one of the last, if not the last, agencies in town that offers free counseling to those in need. Father Abbot, the founder of WTH, recognized the need for the working poor to have access to counseling services as they fell between the cracks of coverage: too poor to be able to afford health insurance, and too high of income to be eligible for Medicaid. Dr. Susan Bettis heads the counseling services and is recognized throughout the professional community as providing outstanding supervision and oversight to the interns who work there. I so appreciate her dedication for over the past 15 years in making these services increasingly professional and useful to the community.
As you can see from the brochure, the House also provides food and clothing to our friends in the community as well as some financial aid for very specific needs. WTH takes no government monies and is completely funded from donations as well as proceeds from the WTH Thrift Store. And if you have never shopped there, consider it. It will be worth your while.
You also see the many opportunities in which we can choose to participate in this mission by “paying it forward” as a volunteer. And volunteers are always needed and greatly appreciated. It is worth considering from a perspective of curiosity and a bias to act.
At St. David’s we also support WTH every week by giving the loose change that we receive in the offering plate to the House. (Baggie) It is a great idea to emulate some of our parishoners who frequently drop a baggie full of coins, like this, in the plate. We can all be grateful for the work of WTH.
As we continue to consider mission here at St. David’s, each of us can enlarge our capacity to practice courage, compassion and connection. Paul’s admonition in today’s reading encourages practice, practice, practice as we further develop skills in ministry. Through the hot meals program, Rahab’s Sister, UpStart PDX, Monday night Food not bombs, our community partners, and hopefully on and on, mission can be seen, embraced and enlarged. New opportunities may be seen through “Spirit Spotting”, a chance for all of us to intermittently meet together and consider and share where we think God’s spirit may specifically be moving in and through our congregation.
For example, This past week several of us noted an article in the editorial section of the Oregonian. It discussed community partnerships between “JOIN”, an organization that assists homeless families in staying in a home once one is found, and religious congregations. Through financial, social and other supports, this appears to be an opportunity for some congregations, perhaps ours?, to be part of a larger mission in supporting our community and saying “yes” to Jesus’ call to be attentive to those with little voice or resource. It is just one such possibility.
What is our mission? It is manifold. It is not a demand to get the right mission, or the only mission or the most hip new mission or, etc. It is the joy of open curiosity coupled with courage, compassion and connection that allow us to joyfully consider and act.
We are in a partnership with Jesus and hopefully we are developing his likely response to most requests: Yes, I am willing.
Freedom, on a mission
05 Feb 2012 Leave a Comment
Holy, living One, give us the liberty of that abundant life which you have made known to us in your Son, Jesus.
What do you hear? This is how I ended last week’s sermon: can we hear past the familiar voices of authority and hear Jesus’ new teaching? What do you hear?
What I hear this morning is a phrase from today’s collect; the one that we don’t have in our bulletins but I hope you’ll keep it in your hearts: give us the liberty of that abundant life which you have made known to us in Jesus.
We had a great discussion during last Wednesday’s Following the Way class on the subject of sin. Our conversation drove us to the catechism in the back of the prayer book, and we found in the section on sin several references to freedom and liberty. The catechism defines sin as choosing our own will instead of God’s will, and thus distorting all of our relationships, including our relationship with God. How does sin have power over us? the catechism asks. Sin has power over us because we lose our liberty when our relationship with God is distorted.
What is redemption? the catechism asks. Redemption is the act of God which sets us free from the power of evil, sin, and death.
I promise this is not a sermon about sin.
The liberty of that abundant life for which we pray is partly reflected in our faithful response to redemption. When we are no longer distracted by our own will and our own agenda, and instead realize we are living in a state of grace and abundance, we are free.
I know this all sounds great—what’s not to like about redemption and freedom? But I know it also sounds really abstract. Here are three examples:
The first example is St. Paul. Paul is so blessed by the freedom—freedom from sin, freedom from self—he has experienced in his encounter with Jesus and his understanding of the Good News, that he becomes all things to all people. This is such an interesting concept the way we hear it from Paul, because we’re used to thinking of being all things to all people as a burden, rather than a freedom. When we’re feeling put upon, either as an individual or as a church, we say “well, I can’t be all things to all people.”
What’s important about what Paul says is that he has become all things to all people for the sake of the gospel. Paul is willing to be a religious pluralist for the sake of the gospel. To faithful Jews, he will remind them that he, too, is a good Jew. To gentiles, he says that he, too, is outside the law, like them. To the Corinthians with their food sacrificed to idols and to the Athenians with their statue of an unknown God, Paul finds a way to communicate the Good News. This is how he understands the grace that has been shown him, that he can function in a whole lot of different religious milieu, because for him, all of these different religions point to the great freedom that is the Good News.
The second example of someone’s response to the good news is Simon’s mother-in-law. When the fever left her, she began to serve the disciples. I know she always cracks some of us up. Would it kill her to stay in bed for a day or two while she recovers from the flu? Apparently not in Capernaum in the first century. But what if she gets up to serve them not because that’s what was expected of the lady of the house in those days, but because her encounter with Jesus made it easy for her to get up and do what needed to be done as an act of thanks-giving and freedom? Many of you serve this household in that same spirit, and you’re a walking witness to the Good News.
The last example I want to share this morning is someone I encountered the other day, at New Seasons. I went to their “Wok Bar” for lunch—something I never do—and the seating area was very crowded. There was one guy getting ready to go, so I hovered around his table as unobtrusively as I could, but close enough to snag the table when he was about to go. He picked up his trash and put it in the nearby can and then came back to wipe off the table, very thoroughly. I mean, very thoroughly. I’m standing there with my tray and I’m thinking: Oh, he’s got issues….
I moved in as soon as he picked up his coat and hat off the chair. We greeted each other with a smile and he asked: “Are you a nun?” No, I said. I’m a priest.
“That’s interesting,” he said. And then went on to tell me a story. “I was listening to pastor so-and-so”—a radio evangelist whose name I forget—“and he was talking about how when he gets ready to preach a sermon, he prays to God to speak through him. He is responsible for saying what God wants him to say….So I figure that I’m responsible for this table. I’m the only one who’s going to clean off this table when I’m done eating off it, and I have to do it the very best I can. God is working through me to clean this table.”
Wow. It may not have been true that no one else would’ve cleaned up after him in that setting, but it was definitely true that no one did such a good job. I loved the way he connected a sense of mission, of God’s work, with that simple, mundane task. And he did it with such a sense of freedom, and abundance.
What is our mission? For what Good News are we willing to be all things to all people, to get up and serve when we’d rather be on the couch? When are we willing to give our all, because we know God is working through us?
Jesus’ message is a message on a mission, a message of liberty and abundant life, good news of healing and hope. How do we proclaim our message of liberty and abundant life?
Calling All Heroes
24 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment
Much thanks to Heather Lee for preaching the following sermon this past Sunday, January 15!
I’ve known my husband a long time, and the whole time I’ve known him, he has collected life lessons. There are quite a few of them now, but the first one, from before we were even married is this, “the hero is the guy who just wants to finish his beer and go home.”
I believe that this life lesson just might explain why Jonah is his favorite story in the bible. Because Jonah was a guy with a good job as a local prophet, when God called him out to do something extra ordinary. Something he really didn’t want to do. In fact, it took being vomited out of a fish for him to finally, grudgingly, do what God asked.
So, being left with no choice, he proclaims destruction on Ninevah.
You will note, Jonah does not preach repentance. He does not evangelize. He couldn’t care less about the Ninevites, he is just trying to finish the job so he can go home. And yet, through Jonah, the kindgom of God draws near. The Ninevites believe God, they believe this cranky disgruntled prophet of God and their instinctive response is towards sackcloth and ashes. Towards repentance. And what happened? “When God saw what they did, how they turned from their evil ways, God changed his mind about the calamity that he had said he would bring upon them; and he did not do it.”
I bet you didn’t know Jonah was a hero. Unless you’ve been cornered by my husband at coffee hour, you might never have considered a hero in quite that way. We tend to think of heroes as doers, as people in charge of a situation, people who get things done. People who solve problems. Heroes are people who know that “any minute now, I am going to be called to be more than I am.” Clark Kent, awkward reporter, Peter Parker, inept photographer. But at a moment’s notice, Superman. Spiderman. Hero.
The disciples are heroes of this sort. The sort that make mothers and fathers and spouses fear for their sanity. Jesus wanders along the shore of the Sea of Galilee, and I imagine he says this to everyone he meets. “Follow me and I will make you fish for people.” I have to wonder if the gossip got ahead of him. “Some crazy man is walking along the beach looking for help netting people. I sure hope my kids don’t get any dumb ideas.”
What were Simon and Andrew thinking? Did Simon have a fight with his wife that morning? Was he already wondering, what if I just dropped this net and walked away?
What did Zebedee say to James and John, when they jumped out of the boat? Did he call after them, reminding them that this was their inheritance they were walking away from?
How did Simon and Andrew and James and John know that this minute was the minute they were being called to be more than they were?
How did they know, that this call was the call, the one worth walking away from what they had, what they knew, what they were? Like those fishermen, we are always facing choices that are bigger than we can really grasp at the time. Do I take that job? The one in a different state? Will it be good for my family? Will it change the world?
I believe we all want to change the world, we all want to do something that is bigger than ourselves, something that will leave a mark. That’s not the same as famous or popular or rich, although that is what it means for some people. I don’t want to be famous, but I’d still like to be a hero, even if I’m the only one who knows that I’ve done something heroic.
As Christians, we want to leave the world a better place than we found it, create a place that looks a little closer to the kingdom of God than we understood it, for people we know and for places we will never go. That’s what those fishermen did, even thought they had no idea, not in the moment, how it was all going to turn out. Still, somehow, by some faith, they knew they were being called to change the world.
Jesus is calling heroes. God is making heroes whether they want to or not. Are you already a hero? Or is there something holding you back? Is it the fear that you might have to leave everything behind? Do you believe being a hero is only possible if you go on a long perilous journey against your will or if you abandon your family to follow a man in strappy sandals?
Sometimes the most world changing thing we can do is stick around, to stay home, to keep on doing the right thing, the thing right in front of you, even if it’s boring, or frightening, or completely lacking in glamour and prestige. Sometimes staying in relationship with someone or something impossible is absolutely the most heroic thing anyone ever did. Sometimes, it’s letting someone go.
Sometimes the most heroic thing anyone can do is look at the present situation as though it were, in fact, part of the kingdom of God. It’s easy to say the future is going to be better, (or worse), than the present. It’s easy to look at the past, and imagine it could have been something else, it could have been perfect. It is often really difficult to look at the present and say, this is what it is, this is where I am, this is where God is doing great things. Even if we can’t see anything heroic about it.
This is what I think Jesus said to those fishermen. “Leave those fish for people who can only see fish. The kingdom of heaven has more than fish. I know you. I know you can see more than fish. Bring all that you are, all that you can see. It’s going to be more important and more useful than those fish.”
Jesus wasn’t looking for fishermen, because he wasn’t looking to catch some fish. He was and is looking for some visionaries, for some heroes – the kind who want to stay home and the kind who want to fly. He is looking for some people who can see the kingdom of God, and who can show other people, right in this present moment, that the kingdom of God has drawn near. Repent. Believe in the Good News. For the kingdom of God is here.
You talkin’ to me?
15 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment
And Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.”
One of my favorite books is Tattoos on the Heart. The author is Fr. Gregory Boyle, who founded Homeboy Industries in Los Angeles to provide a whole lot of life-giving opportunities to gang-involved youth. The book is inspiring and poignant, and so funny in parts it makes you laugh out loud. One of those parts—at least for me—is when Fr. Boyle—whom everyone calls “G”—meets with a young man for an initial intake conversation. It’s just the two of them in G’s simple office and he starts out by asking the young man:
“How old are you?”
The guy answers: “Me?”
“Well, yes, you,” answers G. There’s no one else there.
“Oh, I’m eighteen.”
Then G asks: “Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
This story of Fr. Boyle trying to start a conversation with this particular homeboy reminds me of today’s story of God trying to start a conversation with Samuel. The difference is that that Samuel knows someone is talking to him, but he doesn’t know who.
Both stories—the one from Tattoos on the Heart and the one from Samuel—capture a thread running through all of our lessons today: We don’t always understand the implications of being in relationship with God, a relationship spelled out so beautifully in Psalm 139. You trace my journeys and my resting places/and are acquainted with all my ways…You yourself created my inmost parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
Nathanael is a good example of someone who doesn’t entirely understand how God is speaking to him, or what it all means. Nathanael is completely captivated by Jesus’ having recognized him from an earlier encounter under a fig tree. There’s more too it than that, Jesus says.
And there’s a lot more I could say about Jesus and Nathanael from this morning’s gospel, but then I would just be avoiding the reading we just heard from the Letter to the Corinthians.
We enter a conversation already in progress, between the good people of Corinth and the Apostle Paul, in which Paul has some choice words for his readers:
The body is meant not for fornication but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body, he writes. Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ? Shun fornication! Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you….you are not your own.
These were not popular sentiments at the time of Paul’s writing, and I’m guessing they’re not popular sentiments now.
The city of Corinth was known as a licentious place, a bustling seaport full of people trading in money and power. In the city there was a temple dedicated to Asclepius, the ancient Greek God of healing and medicine. But the Corinthian version of this temple had a reputation for functioning more like the spa at an exclusive country club than a temple, and people who frequented it were used to having their own way in style and comfort, meeting their bodily needs at the expense of slaves and prostitutes.
Many of the Christians in Corinth understood that being Christian meant that they could continue to do whatever they pleased with their bodies, because all that mattered was their spirit. Their soul belonged to God, while their body belonged to them, to do with whatever they wished. Right? By no means! Our bodies are members of Christ, and are not our own. Our bodies belong to God because our whole self belongs to God. Remember the psalm? You yourself created my inmost parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb
For centuries, we have assumed that basically our identity as sexual beings, with physical bodies, is something that we should split off, separate from our lives with God. What Paul says here is that as people who strive to live in union with God with our whole selves—which is the only way to be in union with God—our sexuality is as important as any other aspect of who we are, more important even. The moral teaching here is not about the evils of sex, but rather that our sexual ethics must reflect our relationship with God. The word translated in this passage as body is soma, which actually means the whole self, body and soul. The body is not something we have, but something we are. This is why the Body of Christ is such a rich and multilayered metaphor. When we separate body and soul, we often don’t care for our bodies in the same way as when we see ourselves as body and spirit, body and soul.
When Paul writes about the evils of fornication, and uses the example of union with a prostituted woman, he is not calling her evil, but rather saying that physical relationships that do not include a whole, spiritual union, take us away from relationship with God.
We were bought with a price, Paul says, and God dwells within us. God is present in all of our encounters, not just the ones that we might think are appropriately holy. In order to be the body of Christ, the church, we need to think of all of our relationships as spiritual union, and shun relationships to which we cannot bring our whole selves.
All of our relationships? Really?
I had an experience the other day, a minor thing that I hope helps to illustrate what I’m talking about. I was driving around on the West side where I always get lost, looking for an Office Depot. By the time I found it, I was tired and hungry and disappointed that they didn’t have everything I wanted. I was checking out, paying for the things I did find, and I was really not nice to the guy behind the counter. I know some priests who I just know are nice all the time and I really wish I were one of them.
Then suddenly, in the last 30 or 40 seconds of our transaction, by some miracle of God’s grace I saw myself from the perspective of the guy behind the counter, I thought a little bit about his job, and I thought: I can do better than this. I made eye contact, I smiled, I thanked him for his help, and I told him to have a great day. I’m not saying this to point out how great I am, but because later when I was reflecting on this passage from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, I kept thinking about that guy at Office Depot and how, as brief as it was, I had a relationship with him, and I needed to bring my whole self to that relationship. Not just my credit card and my crabbiness. When I was able to make that little shift, I could feel for a moment that the Holy Spirit was indeed dwelling within me, just like the Good Book says.
*
Samuel said “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” Sometimes I think we are more like the young man in Tattoos of the Heart who says “who, me?” We don’t think that we are candidates for God’s grace, for hope, for union with the Holy. But we are. We are the ones God speaks to. We are the ones God wants. Each one of us, with all of our whole selves.
Random Orchids
09 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment
in Doing Church
Enough of serious posts like sermons and other deep theological reflections. Ponder this random orchid instead. Held by Matt. Matt who is on the altar guild at St. David’s. Matt who lends his wisdom, his grace, his good humor and his height to the deeply spiritual and deeply mundane tasks of preparing our space for worship. Matt who has that great gift so many of us envy, of being deeply serious and deeply unserious at one and the same time. Perhaps it’s the orchid that does that to a person.
