Sermon Christmas Eve 12.24.06

Merry Christmas! How’s the season been for you--so far? . . . I don’t know about you, but I’ve found it to be perhaps more hectic than usual. On Friday afternoon I thought to drive to Petaluma—that was a silly notion. I couldn’t even get on 101, and then I tried Stony Point and Petaluma Hill Road… no dice. I finally just did an illegal U turn and went home. I can’t even testify to what the malls were like. I managed to avoid them all—but I did participate several times in that incredibly slow Santa Rosa Avenue parade. One of my granddaughters told me she actually visited with Santa in one of the malls. She sat on his knee and when asked what she wanted for Christmas she told him, “A bell from Santa’s sleigh… and a box of crystals.” I tried to imagine his face—the one behind the beard—when she requested one of the bells from his sleigh. . . I’m not sure she will get what she wants this year. You and I may have spent a good deal of time trying to make sure our Christmas gift giving matched the wants of those we love. I watched this week as the women of the Living Room—our day center for homeless and at-risk women and their children—I watched as many of them worked to earn credits to make their own Christmas gift purchases for their children and loved ones. We have a Christmas shop here stocked with hundreds of donated toys and gifts and staffed by volunteers. The women work hard just like the rest of us to be able to give their children what they want for Christmas. They are proud of the way they can provide for them this way. It’s a beautiful part of Christmas here at Incarnation parish. But, of course, the truth is what we celebrate here tonight is really not centered on our wants—it’s really not about the things we want, or even the things our children want. God is not Santa Claus. I know that’s a shocking thing to say out loud—but here in this place I think I can dare to speak the words. God is not Santa Claus. God in Christ is smaller than Santa—and God is also more enormous than the largest Santa. We can start right there. God is smaller than Santa and larger too. Santa may in fact still hold up before us some echo of the beauty of St Nicholas—in his care for children and his gift-giving. But Santa Claus in the mall is a far cry from St Nicholas—and he is certainly not God. Not the God who has acted in this old familiar story we just heard. And our wants and the wants of our children generally pale beside the desire, vision, and passion of God. Oh, its quite possible that my granddaughter was really asking for Truth when she asked for a bell from Santa’s sleigh, and maybe she was asking for Beauty when she asked for the box of crystals. I’m not sure. But in our consumer-driven economy most of our wants for things at Christmas are far removed from our deepest desires—our holiest aspirations—our truest longings. You can see this just a week or two after Christmas when so many of the toys around the tree are of little interest to anyone. Usually we have not dared to ask for those things most precious—most-life-giving: healing, love, relationship, forgiveness, joy, peace, freedom. Those we haven’t asked for perhaps out of fear that Santa won’t or can’t bring them. Those aren’t among the things made in his workshop. That’s why it’s such great good news that God isn’t Santa Claus. Really. The birth of the child in the manger—born dependent on his parents as all babies are born. This little birth in a tiny out of the way place in the simplest of surroundings. This birth is NOT about fulfilling our tiny little list of wants. It’s about God’s wants. God’s wants to be with us—to be among us—to invite us into transformation—into all those most precious things we haven’t dared ask for. I read somewhere that on the island of Patmos where John wrote his Revelation there is an Orthodox church that has a painting of the nativity. Mary and Joseph and the babe in the manger. Only in this painting the manger is a sarcophagus—a coffin. The manger is a coffin. Jesus is lying in a little coffin, wrapped not in swaddling cloths, but in burial cloths. Oh, my God. What an image. It’s almost more than we can take in-- this image of the nativity. So powerful is it to consider that this birth might mean not just new life created in the kind of ordinary way of a mother giving birth. But, this birth is about the triumph of life over death. It is about God-with-us in vulnerability—God-with-us in our deepest longings and desires—God-with-us in the truth of this season which so often is filled with sadness and grief as well as laughter and joy. It is about the shock and surprise of God’s creative energy at work in our own world. Bringing life where there was no expectation or hope for it—bringing life where there was only barrenness. Bringing inconvenient life—life that upsets the rhythm that we had organized. The patterns, the laws, the smallish expectations we had of how things are going to be—how they will play out. The story of the birth of Christ is so well-known by us that it is hard to grasp the shocking nature of it. The image of the baby in the sarcophagus can help us perhaps as we try to grasp the dimensions of the gift of Christmas—so far removed is it from the jingle bell rock and the mall Santa Clauses. So predictable are they. We forget the freedom and otherness of this God who has come among us—this beyond our comprehension flow of love and light that has chosen to enter our lives in the tiniest spaces we’ll offer—whether the manger or the tomb. There is no place where God isn’t—no one God doesn’t journey with—no impossibility so great that it can’t be surpassed. Rejoice! Again I say, Rejoice! God is not Santa Claus. Your deepest longings and wildest hopes don’t hold a candle to God’s. And God is here among us—still at work in the nooks and crannies of our lives—offering new life—inviting us to dive deeply into our own lives to find both truth and beauty—and so much more. We are NOT in this alone—the One who is both smaller than Santa and larger—so much larger—has deigned to come in the flesh. This evening we celebrate his coming as an infant—like all infants inviting us to become more than we have thought ourselves to be—inviting us to reach out in love, in concrete acts of love—inviting us to turn from our own wants to the needs of others. Inviting us to join in the greatest of all adventures. Indeed, I tell you, that wild and outrageous grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all. AMEN

Sermon 1 Advent 12.03.06

Jeremiah 33:14-16; Psalm 25:1-10; 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13; Luke 21:25-36 So, how do you read the signs of our times? What sense did you make of the tsunami? Katrina? the earthquake in Pakistan? What do you make of oil prices? the melting ice caps? Darfur? Russians dying of radioactive poisoning? the wars in Palestine, Lebanon, Iraq, Afghanistan? Are you filled with fear and foreboding? How do you read the signs of our times? The signs in the stars and the heavens, the signs in our Anglican communion, in mainline churches, in our community? the detours, traffic delays, road closures… How do you read the signs of our times? Holiday sales, jingle bell rock, plasma tvs, stock market ups and downs, and ups, housing market downs, and downs and downs. How do you read the signs of our times this Advent? Jesus suggests that the signs are as easy to read as the signs of spring. When we see the buds on the fruit trees and the leafing of the vineyards… those he says are as easy to read as the signs of unraveling: the roaring of the seas, the earth in distress, people fainting from fear and foreboding of what is coming. The decomposition of what we’d always assumed was composed. The dis-ordering of what God had once ordered in creation. This is one of those apocalyptic texts. The apocalypse: the great time of unveiling.. the unveiling of the truth—the unveiling that comes in just that kind of distressing time. Right then. “Stand up. Raise your heads. Your redemption draws near.” One of our Education for Ministry class members reminded us the other night about “duck and cover,” that famous advice given to school kids by our government in the 50s and early 60s I think--in the event of nuclear war—we were instructed to duck under our desks and cover our heads—and all would be well. But, Jesus says, “Stand up. Raise your heads. Your redemption draws near.” This is not easy is it? I can read the budding of the fig tree and the leafing of the vineyards. But in times like ours I have to fight my instincts (or my early training) to duck and cover. I am so often faint with fear and foreboding. Advent is the season of anticipation of the known and the unknown. Strange isn’t it? We await the coming of the Christ child so well known as to be embedded in the depths of our hearts…….”In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus. . . “ “. . . she gave birth to her first-born son and wrapped him . . “ And, then there is the unknown coming of God: on a cloud no less in the midst of these signs… Some would tell you that these words of Jesus are just about the end times: the END TIME, capital E-N-Dand his warning to us so that we are not LEFT BEHIND… But there is more to this text—more to Jesus’ words than that. For us these centuries later these beginning of Advent texts are about how God comes to us—to us—not just in in the memorized heart embedded Christmas story of a long time ago—and not just at the End Times capital E capital T, but most especially, in the not-yetness—in the surprising displacements. The disruptions, the unsettledness, the fainting, the fear, the foreboding, the losses… of our own days. The signs of the times are described by Jesus to call us into daily living that opens us to receive the one who comes in the here and now in our lives. These texts and others like them in the Bible were written and preserved by the faithful at times when the threat of end time oppression was vivid—palpable. Last week Fr Matt preached a sermon warning us of the danger of taking Christ the King as license to judge those who don’t share our faith—or those who don’t share our own particular brand of Christianity or Anglicanism for that matter. I would not argue with him—our world is replete with evidence of the havoc wrought by those who believe they have all the truth about God and that their God is King. But, one way to understand Christ as King or even this image of Christ coming on the cloud—is to understand that for those who wrote the gospels these images were ways to describe a power different and more real than the “powers that be.” These metaphors may not be have lost their oomph today when kings are more likely to be presidents or drug cartel bosses and jet planes swoop across the skies with regularity—but the conviction that God—the God who filled Jesus—was always present and at work bringing newness where there was only oldness—life where there was death—that is an understanding at the heart of our faith—even today… in the midst of the signs of our own day These images also invite us to come closer to the millions who live today with the harsh realities of the oppressive powers-that-be and with the ever-present possibility of the end of their own times. I think here of civilians caught in the cross-fires of Iraq, the women and children in Darfur, even the homeless wandering the streets of our American cities. These people live with an understanding of the fragility of their lives and with their relative powerlessness against the powers that be. That’s an understanding we sometimes lose track of—until something reminds us. Perhaps a sudden death, an accident, an image on tv, the onset of an illness, the birth of a child, an encounter on the street, something. . . brings us face-to-face with the fragility of life—with its disruptions, with the power of the powers that be—and then—just then these words of Jesus make sense in a way they perhaps didn’t before. “Stand up. Raise your heads.” says Jesus, “Your redemption draws near.” Just when it is your instinct to duck and cover, Jesus says, stand up—expect God. God is in this very moment of fragility—of loss—of upside-downess. Advent signs of the times are so much about crises. And crises have one thing in common: they have a way of uncovering. A way of revealing the truth. You know how it is in a crisis: things are laid bare. Go into a hospital room where the family surrounds the loved one—and you’ll see unveiled the truth in a way you’d never see it during business-as-usual time. Work in the Living Room for awhile and you’ll see strength and fortitude you’d never believe—you’ll come to know tragedy—weakness, fragility, pain—and you’ll see courage and love and caring that you wouldn’t have guessed. Crisis has a way of revealing who we are and who we have become like nothing else. Jesus tells us to be ready for God in the midst of the crises—and the times of unsettling disruption— Just when we might be overcome with fright and tempted to duck and cover—when we’re most aware of our fragility--he suggests we ready ourselves and live into hope. When the truth is unveiled whatever it is, it will be the truth of God’s presence. Sometimes the unveiled truth is hard to look at—consider the truths unveiled by Katrina or the war in Iraq. Consider the disruptions, the crises in your own life—in that of your family—perhaps there have been times when what you have seen of yourself or others has been almost more than you could bear. But, Jesus says, “Stand up! and look!” Live in the expectation of God’s coming. There is no truth that escapes God’s love, God’s presence, God’s capacity to bring new life. How do we live into hope? I suspect that Advent with its quiet traditions of small acts focused on the tiny coming of this surprisingly birthed King of Kings gives us direction. Rose Marie Berger in a little article in Sojourners calls us to “yoke ourselves to disciplines that generate hope.” The Advent wreath is not so much about counting the days until the presents appear as it is about proclaiming the light of God in the midst of darkness. Advent practices of prayer, doing good, offering hospitality, choosing to be forgiving when we could be condemning. All of these are practices of hope. Serving those who live on the edges in fullness of their fragility—entering the truth of our own fragility. These are Advent practices. I think of the signs of death in mainline churches and our own commitment in this place to reach out to those who are not here on a Sunday morning—our small effort to bring the good news to people who have not thought to seek it in a church. I think of those who read the signs in their own families and reach out in compassion rather than judgment. Those who read the signs of our wounded environment and choose the little way when they have every power to choose the extravagant—the resource-devouring way. The parents-to-be who set out on the journey ordered by the earthly king, and the child born almost unnoticed in the midst of the signs of distress in his own day call us to lives of courage and hope—where we choose to stand up and look for God’s transforming presence. Where we dare to open ourselves to that reality—be changed by it and become channels of it. This is our faith and our practice. Our Advent faith—our Advent practice.

All Saints Sermon, November 5, 2006

Isaiah 25:6-9, Pslam 24; Revelation 21:1-6a; John 11:32-44 Yesterday at about 11 AM, Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori knocked three times on one of the doors of Washington National Cathedral. The door was opened by the Bishop of Washington and the Dean of the Cathedral. Bishop Jefferts Schori was presented to be our 26th Presiding Bishop. The 25th Presiding Bishop Frank Griswold greeted her with these words, “Katharine, Bishop in the Church of God, we have looked forward to your coming with great joy. In the name of Christ, we greet you.” “I hope to serve among you in Christ’s name and in the joy of the Spirit,” she said. Only God could have imagined this. The first woman in Anglicanism’s 5-century history to serve as presiding bishop. The first-ever woman primate (primates in Anglicanism are the species who head up our communion’s 38 member provinces). Only God could have imagined this. At a General Convention anguishing over the proper response to the Windsor report. Struggling to figure out how to honor the criticism coming from parts of the wider church of our decision three years ago to approve the ordination of a gay bishop in New Hampshire. In the midst of that came this unlikeliest of elections of our Presiding Bishop. God moves in mysterious ways. Ways that so often defy our wildest imagination. This woman, former university professor, oceanographer, airplane pilot, ordained not that long ago, and Bishop of one of the smallest Western dioceses in our church for five years. . . Talk about Daniel in the lion’s den. Here she is—cheered by thousands at the Cathedral, but 7 American dioceses have requested alternative oversight from the Archbishop of Canterbury—because they can’t bear to have this woman as their Presiding Bishop. Here she is—heading off to meet with her fellow Primates—some of whom refuse to be in the same room with her. . . . Only God could have imagined this. “Katharine, we have looked forward to your coming with great joy. In the name of Christ we greet you.” “I hope to serve among you in Christ’s name and in the joy of the Spirit.” “Unbind him and set him free,” Jesus tells his friends after calling Lazarus out of the tomb to new life. Those words sum up our hope and our calling. The hope and calling of all who have sought to follow Christ. The hope and the calling of the saints who surround us— This is All Saints’ Day—and as our new Presiding Bishop takes her seat at Washington Cathedral for the first time, we gather to celebrate the saints, those who have sought God in their lives by following along the Way. We come here to give thanks for the famous saints like Francis, and Martin, Mary and Mother Teresa. We come here to give thanks for other lesser known saints—people in our own lives who have loved us, forgiven us, challenged us, nurtured us, taught us, shown us the way. In little ways and big ways. The saints are a motley crew. The famous ones—if you’ve read about them or come to know them--are a weird lot. Some did outrageous, crazy things, they fasted forever, wore strange clothes, and occasionally, no clothes, some spurned marriages, gave away fortunes, marched into coliseums with smiles on their faces and songs in their hearts only to be ripped apart by wild animals. Some were scholars, some were big deal politicians, some were almost unnoticed in the annals of history, they washed dishes, fed the poor, said their prayers, and visited the sick. Some were geniuses and some you wonder about. The same might be said for the ones we’ve known personally—the lesser saints you might call them. The people of faith who have impacted our own lives. Our grand mothers or fathers, aunts, cousins, a parent, a teacher, a frail child battling a big disease, neighbors, friends, elders, youngers. A few of them well-known perhaps. Most not. Yet to us—they are saints. Only God could have imagined them. Consider for a moment: God’s imagination: God’s wild dream and promise—that banquet table where all are invited, all are fed—no one’s full stomach the result of someone else going hungry. That place where peace is found—not the peace that comes when the guns stop firing—but the peace that is found when all are set free—when all are welcomed home—when all know deep in their bones that God’s love and forgiveness, God’s wild abundant table is set for every last one of us. None are left out. That’s the dream and the vision. The new heaven and the new earth. The home of God is among mortals. God dwells with us and we are God’s, and God will wipe away every tear from our eyes. Yours and mine. The tears you’ve cried, and felt like crying, the ones you’ve choked back, the ones you dare not start crying because you’re afraid that if you do, you’ll never stop. Those tears. Tears for yourself—your losses, your own brokenness. Tears for your family and friends—for broken relationships and a lack of forgiveness. Tears for our cities—for the homeless-for the mentally ill who roam our streets—and for families one pay check away from being on the streets—tears for the elderly home alone, and hungry—tears for that man on the corner begging--tears for the world—for the people killing each other—for innocent victims—for refugees and migrants. Tears for the earth, for the ways we’ve damaged it, for the animals and the forests, and the air and the water. Tears. Jesus cries too. In this story about the raising of Lazarus Jesus begins to weep. Tears. The tears that God will wipe away. Jesus weeps. What do you make of all of this? The promise of God—the dream of God—and our reality—that brings us to tears and makes it so hard to hold onto the promise—to entrust ourselves to it. The reality that stunts our thinking and shrivels up our imagination. leaves us expecting the worst, and the least. We’re fearful and numb. No hope. No imagination here. Only tears. Jesus tears were maybe frustration—his imagination was so hooked into God’s dream that it was hard for him to be surrounded by people so focused on death. The gap between God’s dream and vision and the fear and the numbness of the people was maybe almost more than he could bear. My tears are not like Jesus’. I am not like Jesus. I’m much more with Martha at the tomb focused on the smell of death. I am often in the fear or the numbness. So overwhelmed by bad news that I’ve stopped my subscription to the PD——I’m so consumed by this culture of consumerism and my own sense of complicity in the forces of death that I just shut down and do nothing. I’m so numb I’m like Lazarus--the walking dead. Other times, I’m so fearful of all the things I’m told to be fearful of that I forget the dream of God. When I act out of that fear, I act in very unimaginative ways—judging others, rejecting, blaming. You know what I mean—small-minded. Unimaginative. Saints are people with imagination. They have a hold of the dream. That wild imagination of God that is always at work bringing life out of death—reconciliation out of division. Freedom out of imprisonment. They are ones who entrust their lives to the imagination of God. They refuse to see as others see. They see beneath the superficial—and they dare to act on what they see. They dream impossible dreams and act as though their dreams were realities. They go about unbinding others—sharing the dream of new possibilities. Some of them do big deal things—others maybe those in your life just held on to their dream that you could be more of a person than you imagined, saw you through God’s eyes and loved you with God’s heart. Wiped away your tears. Where is God’s dream, God’s imagination or one of God’s saints calling you out of your fear or numbness? Calling you to unbind another and set him or her free? Calling you to join in God’s raising of the dead—calling you in your daily life to reach out to serve, to love, to reconcile, set free. Look at you! Only God could have imagined you! [You can’t argue that point!] Only God could have called you, loved you, forgiven you, enspirited you. Only God welcomes you home. Who can imagine our church in the years ahead? Could its future be something we haven’t yet imagined? Perhaps only God can imagine the people of God. I don’t know, but I do know one thing: As God has called Katharine, God calls us—you and me. We share in her calling and her hope. The dream—the vision—held deep in our bones--assures us of that. We are in this together. And, so I greet you this morning: “We have looked forward to your coming with great joy. In the name of Christ we greet you.” And, in your hearts, you say: “I hope to serve among you in Christ’s name and in the joy of the Spirit.” AMEN AMEN

SERMON OCTOBER 15, 2006

Amos 5:6-7, 10-15; Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 10:17-31 I think it was Kierkegaard who remarked that Jesus has many admirers, but few followers. And no wonder. After Amos blasts the comfortable people of his day and us with the sad truth of our sins—our pushing aside the needy at the gate, and the author of the Letter to the Hebrews reminds us that the word of God is piercing and active, sharper than any 2 edged sword, here comes Jesus looking with love at the rich man—or so the text tells us--and telling him he should sell all he has, give the money to the poor, and then come follow me.” “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Now that’s the question isn’t it? The question you and I are asking in some measure or we wouldn’t be here this morning at all. We’d be home reading the paper, or still sleeping in, or we’d be at a soccer game, or doing the laundry, or who knows what? What must I do to live in good relationship with God and with my neighbor? What must I do to be –not just an admirer—but a follower of Christ? And, if truth be known many of us if not most of us here this morning—don’t need to hear Amos’ ranting. We don’t need to hear it and we don’t want to hear it because we already have some inkling that what he’s saying is the truth. He’s describing some of our reality when he speaks of our evil time. And its not that you or I have been taking bribes or physically pushing aside the poor at the gate—although in truth, there have been mornings when more than one of us has stepped over the body of a poor person lying at our gate here at the Church of the Incarnation. It’s not that we are most rich or most powerful. Some of us have never been wealthy, never had much to let go of to give to the poor. Many of us are just trying to pay our bills, take care of our families, and make good on our pledge. That’s the truth. But in today’s world we also know you and I that we are among the richest people on the planet. My income and the income of most of you who have income is in the top 1-4% of all incomes earned by the billions of people in the world. And, you and I use up and inordinate amount of the natural resources of the world to maintain this lifestyle we enjoy. We know these facts. We know them. And we know that the gap between the wealthiest nations and the poorest nations is getting worse not better—and in our own country the gap between the richest and the poor is the highest of any of the so-called first world countries—highest in the world really with the exception of Brasil. You probably knew that before you came here this morning. If you are like me you know all these facts and they are unsettling. I know that my comfort is built on the hard work and hard lives of people who live in distant countries working for a pittance—many of them in terrible working conditions. I can’t figure out how to buy clothes, electronics, or almost anything these days that isn’t made in China. And when I do I wonder about who made that shirt and what they got paid and what conditions they live under. I think of these folks as the poor at the gate. They join the other poor at the gate who live right here in Santa Rosa. You and I are related to them. Maybe some Christians don’t see any connection between following Christ and these realities of our own evil time. But anyone who is here this morning and has heard these lessons, or anyone who has really read much of the gospels knows that just isn’t the case. The Bible, I’ve heard, has something to say about money and riches more than almost any other ethical issue –and you may be shocked to know that Scripture says much much more about money than it does about sex for example. That’s a pity… when you consider how most of us seem to talk about sexual practice so much and how we avoid talking about money and possessions. Our wealth is something worth thinking about—worth struggling about—worth bringing to God. Wealth to a large extent tends to order our relationships—wealth and class together, which in many ways are so deeply intertwined. Jesus I think here is talking about relationship. He’s telling the rich man to release his grip on his wealth and sell all his possessions and give them to the poor. He’s maybe telling him that by doing so he’ll grow closer to the precious fragility of life and to those who live there day in and day out. Then, he will be able to come and follow Jesus. . . Maybe that’s what he meant…. He’s telling him he will know the fullness of life when he lets go of everything his culture has told him is the fullness of life. I have to confess to you that I’m not sure I trust Jesus on this one. And this is no joke. I read somewhere that if you want to find out if you really believe the rich man should give away all his possessions ask yourself how you’d react if he were one of your children. Let’s just imagine for example, that Francis had been your son? (Francis of Assisi I mean) You are a hardworking and successful merchant—taking good care of your family. So, once when you are away on a business trip, Francis takes your hard-earned cloth out of the warehouse where you’d stored it for sale and he sells it to raise money for some lamebrain effort to rebuild a falling-down chapel over there in Graton I think it is. What if things get to a place where you decide to bring the issue up to your community. So you all gather in the downtown plaza -- all the city fathers and perhaps a few city mothers, and even the Bishop –and there you are and Francis walks down the middle of this group stark naked with his fine clothing (which you’d paid for) in a pile in his hands, and the money he earned from selling your cloth in a little bag on the top of the pile—and while everyone gasped out loud he hands you the clothes and the money and tells you that he’d called you Father for all his life, but now he was giving his life to his Father in heaven. What would you think? What feelings of loss would lie under your anger and embarrassment? What concerns? Would you worry about his safety? His comfort? His health? What about his retirement plan? And to bring it to a more contemporary times. What if you were the mother of Teresa? Mother Teresa. And one day she comes to you and tells you, “I’m selling all my possessions and going to India to pick up the dying by the roadsides and care for them. This will be my life.” What if your child said that to you? What would be your reaction? Your fears? Concerns? Would you trust that this radical act would actually bring her closer to God? Would that make up for the loss of material security? Would you tell her that you are glad someone is picking up the dying along the roads of India but you didn’t want it to be her. Would you ask her to consider the Peace Corps—only a two year commitment. What would that mean—your reaction? Can you trust Jesus’ words for your own child? I’m not sure that you and I really believe we can find the fullness of life by releasing our material possessions. Funny isn’t it? Since of course at the end of our lives we will all do just that. We will do exactly that. Finally perhaps we will explore what Jesus had in mind. A little late though to live into its truth in our bodies. I don’t have the answers. I keep working at the answers for myself and thinking about the answers for us. But I do know three things. Jesus is serious. His words about selling possessions and giving the money to the poor need to be taken seriously if we want to be his followers. His words about leaving lands, and houses and family to follow him are ways of telling us what is most important. Our relationship with God and with others. We are called as Christ’s friends were to let go of the things that separate us from one another and God. This is not about charity. It is not about sending a check off some where. Maybe it’s about talking together about what’s enough. Maybe it is about taking stock, it is about talking to one another—sharing our struggles and our doubts—it’s about wondering together how we can begin to choose life in the midst of the tangled webs of death that are real. It’s about praying together and supporting one another as we make our choices to ungrasp our hands. Jesus loves us. He loves the ones who leave and the ones who are left. He calls us both—Francis and his father. Both of us to leave and to let go. Jesus has called us because he loves us. He looks at us with love—every moment of every day. He loves us and then he calls us. And, finally, of course, the greatest of the goodest news: we don’t have to do it. Grind our teeth and do it. We don’t earn the kingdom—the fullness of life—by divesting ourselves of all our possessions with gritted teeth. We don’t earn the kingdom by clutching at our goods either. We don’t earn it at all. Letting go and opening the gates to our relationship with the poor—to the knowledge of our own poverty—is a spiritual practice that is essential. And for you and me in this time and place that may well be about our material possessions. But God’s grace is what’s at work. Not our doing. Our longing for relationship with him—our longing for meaningful life—here right now—our coming together here to be fed—to acknowledge that our doing is not enough—all of these are honored by the One who came among us in love. Transformation is not easy—never painless. But: no transformation is impossible for God. None. Not mine, not yours. None.

SERMON 9.24.06

A few weeks ago Eric, my oldest son, and Sawyer, one of my granddaughters, and I went to visit my other son and his family in Chico. While we were there we visited a Farm Animal Sanctuary. It was an amazing place—in the middle of farm country in the foothills of northern California. It provides a safe place and care for farm animals who have in one way or another been rescued from industrialized farming and slaughter houses. Sheep, cows, pigs, chickens, and turkeys… As you can imagine part of the walking around tour provided by the Sanctuary is devoted to telling the story of how it is for the animals NOT in the sanctuary—those who are raised for meat. Sawyer, my granddaughter is six. And some of the literature at this place was almost more than an adult could bear to look at. And that’s a fact. We’re not talking family farm here or Native Americans hunting deer. So my son, thinking about all this, went to the tour guide and asked if we could have a tour lite—kind of like a latte—if you know what I mean. We wanted to see the benefits of the sanctuary without dwelling on the horrors of why it exists. Those seemed to be too much and inappropriate to ask a child to live into. And so we got the Lite Tour—and I thought about that when I read today’s Gospel lesson. For it is not Lite. Quite the contrary. This gospel lesson is a scandal. Think about it. It starts with Jesus telling his friends that he will be killed and in three days rise again. This is a private discussion—just between him and his disciples—no crowds, no Pharisees or scribes—no rich young man. Jesus and his friends and he tells them he will be betrayed and killed and rise again. Betrayal and murder—not a pretty picture—whatever the “rise again” might mean. And God knows his friends didn’t seem to have a clue about any of it. And like you and me I venture to say, when they hear these words that lead them down paths they do not want to go they change the subject. They do not ask for clarification. They do not respond at all. They talk amongst themselves not about death, but about something else, anything really—they talk about who is the greatest among them. It is as though they had not heard Jesus at all. Not at all. You know this kind of conversation. We know about this. You and I. We know about how to avoid the ugliness that might lie ahead. So, let us not make light (lite) of these disciples and their argument about the greatest. Let’s not ridicule them. Let’s not comfort ourselves thinking we’d never go down that path. A mother tells her son she is is dying. He talks to her about his business ventures and how well they are doing. A child asks the question, “Where is Uncle Harry? Why isn’t he here this Thanksgiving?” “Why don’t you run along now, go outside and play. We’ll call you when dinner is ready.” The rejection that Jesus faces—from both this friends and the powers that be—stand in such stark contrast to the welcoming of the child. We move from betrayal and killing to a child. It’s a scandal this lesson. Who would bring a child into this mix? The betrayal and killing are of the kind that no adult wants to talk about. They are of a kind that soldiers returning from war do not speak of—except in monotones to fellow soldiers—the horror of it lasts a lifetime. There is no way to put words to it really—not in normal society—whatever that is. Who would bring a child into this? Rejection at the front end—welcoming at the backside. This is Jesus. What are we to make of this? You and I? How could it be that Jesus calls us to welcome a child—the least, the most powerless, the least able to pay us back for our hospitality, the most likely to forget us the minute someone more interesting comes along? What might this mean that we are invited to welcome the child? We are told in welcoming this child we are welcoming God? A child and Jesus. God’s ways are clearly not ours. I mean that’s one thing we can say—can’t we? Our diocesan transition committee has been planning for our new bishop’s ordination in Sacramento next weekend. 20 Bishops from around the country are expected. That’s a lot of bishops. And we’ve spent a lot of time figuring out hw to meet them, greet them, transport them, party them, and honor them. But when someone asked me if we were providing child care I had to admit that we aren’t. And there are a thousand good reasons why not. But the fact remains. This is who we are. This is symbolic of the issue for us. We welcome the ones we perceive to have power. We have forgotten the little ones. God would have it otherwise. James’ irritating little letter continually reminds me of this. The wisdom that comes from above—from God—is not like the wisdom we usually grasp after. You and I –we’re conflicted—right? We’re like those that James describes who get into trouble because their desires are so many and so much in conflict with each other that they run after one thing and another and forget about God. When I get what I want, what will I have? That’s a good question to ponder. When I get what I want, what will I have? So many of my desires—are just mine. Purely about me. James reminds me that desires ordered by the divine always involve others. They are not defined by a heart turned in on itself. No. True wisdom is not just about spouting wise saying and looking holy—or holier than thou. It’s about living into relationship with God and with others. If you want to know how much wisdom you currently have—look to the quality of your relationships. That’s James for you. And I suspect that’s God for you. And, those relationships may involve pigs and children and chickens as well as your husband and wife or your neighbor or your Uncle Harry—wherever he is! How would we organize an ordination of a bishop and make our priority welcoming the children, or young adults, or the homeless or others who are powerless or not usually here—the beneath our radar folk--? How would we organize our business lives to let the least powerful in? Make decisions? How can we open our arms and ourselves to those we are least likely to let ourselves notice? What are we talking about here? This is crazy. The world doesn’t work this way. Which may be the point. God’s ways are not our ways. Somehow Jesus betrayed, and on the cross, and resurrected is the key. How this man—the serenity and spaciousness of his life*—a life not driven by fear of death—how that life could walk into rejection, into the jaws of ignominious death—death so horrific you wouldn’t want to talk about it—not among adults and never with children present. How that death and resurrection act could give us the promise and hope that our own lives are not bound up in fear of death. How that freedom could set us free to enter any place—the farm sanctuary lite, the realities of industrialized farming—the deathliness of our world, wherever: Iraq, Lebanon, Washington, DC, the streets of Santa Rosa, Darfur, the poverty of Oakland and the realities of our immigrants living in the canyons, the child left behind, the empty streets of New Orleans, the pain of marriages breaking apart, of parents and spouses with Alzheimers, the angst of the spiritually rootless. I could go on and on. There is no place we dare not tread. No truth too hard to enter. No darkness too dark. No innocence too precious. No child too vulnerable that we cannot welcome them. To do so is to open ourselves to God. God’s very self. Don’t think this comes in a flash or a moment of insight. It takes some getting used to. There is fear that the promise might not be true. It involves change. It is a slow process this process of attaining wisdom-- of being brought up into being human. This conversion into the truth that you and I were not meant to live as beings bent toward death. Our destiny is to live into the fullness of life. And we do that by drawing near. Like those disciples—God love them—who in spite of their fear, their doubts, and ignorance. In spite of Jesus chastising and challenging them in the most outrageous ways—in spite of all that they kept coming back. Think of it. They kept journeying on. Kept putting themselves in the place where they could be transformed and healed and made new. Draw near to God, God will draw near to you, says James. Here we do the same this morning. God’s ways are not our ways. We long to be transformed and made new. To be set free from the fear of death. We long to learn to live as God calls us. So, somehow we stay put --trusting that wisdom from on high that comes from the lowliest of places. Oink. Oink. ** This phrase and the discussion of the ideas of Rene Girard in “Violence Undone” an interview with James Alison, Christian Century, Sept. 5, 2006.

Sermon September 3, 2006

Song of Solomon 2:8-13; Psalm45:1-2,7-10; James 1:17-27; Mark7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23 “Lift up your hearts” the celebrant at Eucharist invites the people. They stand. “We lift them to the Lord.” …One of the ritual actions of our Sunday worship that echoes Jesus’ teaching in today’s Gospel reading. He reminds the Pharisees and us that it’s not so much what comes into a person’s body as what is within in the human heart that is important. For Jews of Jesus’ day and for Mark’s community the heart was not the source of mushy valentiney kind of emotion—but was the moral center of a person. Your moral ground is your heart. When we stand, lifting our hearts to the Lord we are making a statement. Mark depicts the opponents of Jesus’ as kind of caricatures. Mark’s Pharisees have declared themselves the authorities when it comes to interpreting the law and telling others how to follow it. They criticize Jesus and his disciples for not following the law and for eating food from the market with hands that had not been washed. Gentle Jesus meek and mild, he is NOT. He lashes out at them and quotes Isaiah accusing them of following the letter of the law but in their hearts being far from God. He calls them hypocrites a word that referred to actors on a stage who assume an identity that is not their own and who act to gain the approval of the audience. This is strong stuff—and hypocrites is a word we Christians hear about ourselves a lot. At least if you talk to non-church goers that’s how we are so often criticized—as hypocrites. Pretending to be something we are not. Jesus directs his critic’s attention away from their external actions to an examination of their own interior selves. To their hearts—to their evil intentions. Those he says are what really defile a person, not the failure to carry out some ritual act. Now of course you and I belong to a tradition that puts a lot of emphasis on ritual—we are among the most ritualistic of Christians. We come here week in and week out and pretty much do the same things every Sunday. We stand, we sit, we kneel, we sing, we pray, we give thanks, we bow, we scrape, we, some of us, genuflect, we, some of us, make the sign of the cross, the priest washes his or her hands before celebrating communion, we pass the peace, we lift up the cup and the bread toward the roof (where we are sure heaven is), and then toward the people, we eat the wafer and drink the wine, we clean the dishes and put the leftovers away very carefully, we go out the door into the world. All ritual. Do we do these things to earn God’s favor? or what? What is the relationship between these ritual actions and our hearts? Is it possible to come here every Sunday, do these things, and leave this place and commit fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride and folly? You bet! Are we a people who can get all up tight like these caricature Pharisees did about the letter of the Law and doing things the way we’ve always done it? You bet! Some of you may remember what it was like to revise our prayerbook, or move the altar out from the wall, or have the priest face the congregation during the Eucharist, not to mention women priests. . . . Or, just consider moving these pews to a new configuration, consider a jazz mass at 8 o’clock (AM), consider extemporaneous prayer, consider the acolyte draping the lavabo towel (the what??) over his left arm instead of his right arm, consider acolytes in flip flops. AAAAAAKKKK! What’s essential? Is there only one way to express reverence? Would we rather focus on these matters than the state of our hearts? Your heart? My heart? You bet! As usual, Jesus has a point. Think for a moment about ritual. How it expresses our hearts deepest convictions, how it helps to form our hearts, how it sustains us and bores us, and reminds us, in ways we hardly notice, that there is a God who is stable and loving, and there is a divine order. It’s like teaching your child manners. So what’s the big deal if the little boy eats with his mouth open, macaroni spilling out—or so what if the family never eats a meal together. Or why care if the little girl forgets to say thank you. If she forgets often enough she may forget she has anything to be thankful about. She may begin to think instead that she is deserving—she may develop a sense of privilege. She may. At our best, our ritual actions spring from the posture of our hearts. Toward one another and toward God. Hence we bow sometimes, kneel sometimes, stand sometimes, praise sometimes, bewail our manifold sins sometimes, ask for forgiveness from God and each other, the priest washes her hands symbolically reminding us perhaps of our baptism, perhaps of the fact that no matter how much of a hypocrite the priest is, when she celebrates communion she’s been washed and the people receiving the communion can count on God to do the washing and to be present no matter the state of the priest’s heart (or which arm the lavabo towel is on). The Law—obedience to the Torah—was and is not about hygiene and it is not about earning favor with God. It is about offering a witness to this world of ours—this tired and often chaotic world of ours—that there is a loving God who is dependable. There is order. Ritual action is about defining who you are and to whom your allegiance is. At our best our rituals help form our hearts into the hearts they were born to be. Our rituals and the very ritual of our coming together every week to turn intentionally to God to say thank you-- these help change us from hypocrites to persons of integrity. As the letter of James points out “every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above coming down from the Father of lights”—who never changes. That loving abundance is the gift first given—opening our hearts to receive it is a key to becoming Jesus-people, folks who cannot NOT respond in love to God and to our neighbors. I read the other day that Albert Schweitzer, turned away from his highly accomplished career as a philosopher, musician and theologian to become a doctor in heart of Africa in the early years of the 20th century.* He wrote: ”For years I have been giving of myself in words,” but now, he wanted to walk the talk and live a more authentic life. Or, as he put it, “My life is my argument.” . . . .”be doers of the word and not merely hearers who deceive themselves,” as James puts it. And the truth is that we long to grow up into Christ so that our words and actions, our hearts and our rituals, may be congruent—authentic and real. We aren’t there yet, we’re all hypocrites “playing a role that isn’t entirely ours yet.” Some of us perhaps come here to persuade God that we are worthy. To earn heavenly credits. And, yes, it’s possible to do the rituals, speak the words, eat the bread and drink the wine and forget why we do them. An autopsy might find our hearts shrunken and our arteries clogged. A police report or our own family members might find our that actions speak louder than our words. But we come here because we’ve been invited to the feast given by the God of abundance. We come here indeed to lift up our hearts. And, we come to subject ourselves to the ritual acts, trusting that saying thank you, praising God, passing the peace, asking for forgiveness, eating the bread and drinking the wine will indeed soften our hearts and unclutch our hands and gentle our spirits. And, in the world outside we practice other ritual actions: we practice loving and serving, caring for widows and orphans, forgiving our friends and enemies, standing with the poor and working for justice and healing. We do so NOT to earn our salvation or God’s approval. We do so in response to God’s abundant love, and as we do so, we open ourselves to the flow of God’s transforming grace until we too can say, ”My life is my argument.” * Stephen Bauman, Simple Truths: On Values, Civility, and Our Common Good, Abingdon Press: Nashville,TN,2006, p. 83

Sermon 8.27.06

John 6:56-69; Joshua 24:1-2a, 14-18; Ephesians 6:10-20; Psalm 34:15-22 “Do you also wish to go away?” Jesus asks his closest friends, “Do you also wish to go away?” away—that is—from me? I’ve often wondered about his tone of voice right there. The emotion that might have been in it. Was he curious? A little angry? Feeling misunderstood? Afraid even? I knew a woman once who spent much of her time making it difficult for others to be friends with her. Making it hard to be in relationship with her. By the time she was about my age, she hardly had anyone in her life that she could call a friend. She’d rejected, criticized, mocked, ignored, hurt, almost everyone who came close—even her own children found they couldn’t be around her. On her death bed she told the hospice nurse that everyone had gone away. She was abandoned. “Do you want to go away too?” she asked. The question hung there in the air. After a bit, the nurse assured her that no, she would not abandon her. But later she confided in me that actually she did—she did want to go away—because this woman was so demanding, so critical, so impossible to care for. She was searching for ways to care for this woman without resenting her—to care for her with love. The fear of abandonment runs deep in most of us—almost everyone of us has felt abandoned at some point. It starts early-- in elementary school when the little girl we thought was our best friend suddenly abandoned us for another more exciting child. And, some of us were abandoned in significant ways by our parents—ignored when we needed help, left to fend for ourselves in the face of danger. Others have known the feelings of abandonment that come with the death of a parent or sibling, or with divorce. One of my closest friends was abandoned by her husband who left her and their two little boys when she was 7 months pregnant. She could hardly leave her house for almost two years she was so wounded and at loss. Maybe there was some hint in Jesus’ voice of foreboding—some knowledge that at the end of his life his friends would leave—leave him alone to face death. Maybe there was some fear—some grief in that voice. But, I suspect there was compassion as well. Jesus’ words are spirit and life—but they are hard to understand—hard to accept—hard to trust—hard even to imagine. That was true then—and I venture to say its true now. Today. Right here. ”Whoever eats me will live because of me.” “The one who eats this bread will live forever—not like the bread your ancestors ate—and then they died.” And if that isn’t enough, how about, “what if you were to see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before?” Or, ”no one can come to me unless it is granted by the Father.” Is there a choice or not here? What does live forever mean in the here and now? These are difficult sayings, and it would be preposterous for me to tell you that I fully understand them. But, I have heard Jesus asking me that question, “Pat, do you also wish to go away?” Like my hospice nurse friend I have to admit that there have been times in my life when the answer was yes. Because there have been times in my life when the darkness seemed too dark to be penetrated by God. There was a time when I stood beside a mother whose son had just been brain damaged unto death in a skate board accident. I thought about going away—being somewhere else. I wondered for just a moment if Jesus were there or if we had been abandoned and left to our own devices—that mother and I. “Do you also wish to go away?” How about the times when I catch myself lying—to avoid the truth. How about the times when I refuse to look the man on the corner in the eye. I don’t want to see the face of poverty. How about the times I read the headlines and lapse into fear. I eat the bread of anxiety. Then there are the moments when I let the depth of the ecological crisis into my mind and heart and I want to run away from the truth and live in some delusion. How about those times when I consider the life changes my faith might require of me—or the ones that might be forced upon me—and wonder if I can trust that letting go might actually bring new life. “Do you also wish to go away?” Sometimes I answer yes because I fear that I cannot (or rather will not have the courage) to choose Jesus’ way. Sometimes I get so satiated on the bread of anxiety that fills our televisions, newspapers, radio waves, airports and neighborhoods—sometimes I am so stuffed with that bread that I can’t make room for the Jesus bread. Sometimes, to be honest, I begin to move away because I am not sure I can trust that the bread of Jesus will actually feed when I need it most. “Lord, to whom can we go?” says Peter. “You have the words of eternal life and we have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God.” Believe here for Peter means give yourself to—means give your heart to. Peter says he and his friends—have given their hearts to him and that’s all there is to it. There is no one else to go to. Of course, many of us have probably tried some others—we’ve gone to others in your search for life—for the divine. Maybe we’ve tried drugs, or alcohol, or success, or possessions—or maybe we’ve tried to escape to a fantasy world. Perhaps you’ve tried other faiths, and you may have found solace or prayer practices or ways of understanding the world there that have enriched your life. I know more than one faithful Buddhist Episcopalian. ...But for some reason you are here. Here today in this church. Hoping against hope maybe that here in this someone Jesus you’ll find who and what you are looking for. The hardest thing about Jesus is that the God he proclaims—the Father that he was so in tune with—the divinity that flowed through him is outrageous. Is unthinkable. Is not what we expected. Is so inverted—so paradoxical—so unlikely—that we can’t take it in. Not just the words we can’t quite grasp—but the actions—the life of Jesus. God in the flesh. Incarnate. One of us. Among us. Not the rescuer on the white horse. Not the distant clock maker leaving his clocks to run themselves down and occasionally winding one up. God’s power seemingly weak in human flesh. Vulnerable. Love in its vulnerability risking pain. Standing up before the earthly powers that be—the violence of his day—and waiting in love. Living, breathing, crying, laughing, suffering, abandoned by his friends, ridiculed—you name it. Ascending to the place he came from on a cross. Jesus is --we dare to say in our clearest moments-- God with us. We have come here really because of the question, “Do you also wish to go away?” We’ve come to answer it. And no matter what shape we’ve come in, no matter the quality of our faith or our doubts, no matter how much bread of anxiety we’ve consumed this week—no matter. Our coming here is our answer. Instead of leaving we have come. And, we’ve come because somewhere, sometime in our lives we’ve asked that same question, “Do you also wish to go away?” We’ve asked it of God. We’ve come to believe that in Jesus we know God’s own answer. In Jesus we know we are never alone—never abandoned—never left to our own devices. Standing with the mother and me—in the wounds of the abandoned wife—in the man standing on the corner and with me, my eyes averted. And by the granting of the Father, “the grace of God” we can keep on drawing near—keep on seeking—keep on searching here in this place and in every place we find ourselves—keep on opening ourselves to the depths and heights of the love of God that is at work in us-- setting us free to live as God’s own outrageous, unlikely, unthinkable—really—people. Christians.

Sermon, August 6, 2006

John 6.24-35; Exodus 16:2-4, 9-15 “What is it?” manna—that’s what the word manna means: “What is it?” The people of God were sustained in the wilderness by what is it. Manna that food provided by God that is to be collected only enough for one day—it can’t be saved for the next day. Can’t be flash-frozen. Can’t be salted away. Can’t be packed in barns. Can only be collected for the day. Give us this day our daily bread. What is it? The people haven’t been out of Egypt and slavery that long really. But freedom they’ve discovered has it’s own set of fears. Fear has distorted their memories. They yearn for the fleshpots of Egypt while they criticize their leaders. Fleshpots. I love that word. No, it isn’t beer bellies. And, no it isn’t about strip joints. It’s about pots of meat to eat. In their hunger and their fear the Israelites remember the meat and the bread they ate in Egypt. Their fear distorts their memory. All they can remember is the good old days (of slavery and forced labor). Maybe in your own life you’ve known this way that fear works. To distort the memory.. God hears their murmurings and complaints and sends them quail (fleshpots) and manna (bread). Today we think that manna was probably bug juice—something contemporary Bedouins still collect on a daily basis—flakes of carbs and sugars left by plant lice that feed on the tamarisk tree in the desert. Whatever it was—bug juice or some other kind of bread, the people don’t recognize it as bread. It wasn’t like any loaf or piece of bread they’d ever seen: not like pita even, or doughnuts, or multigrain. . . . I asked for bread. What is this? . . . Their vulnerability has been matched by God’s generosity—but they haven’t a clue—because manna doesn’t meet their expectations. Fear does that, doesn’t it? It not only distorts your memory, but it limits your expectations of what’s coming. It shrinks your imagination—at least of the good. That’s been my experience. How many times have I prayed for deliverance, and then not recognized it when it came to me? How many times have I prayed for help and not liked who brought it? How many times have I prayed sure that I knew just what I needed (brioche)—only to find in retrospect that what I wanted would have been death? There is a level at which we simply must read this story as a story about hunger for food—real food—food for bodies. You need sustenance for your body if you are going to cross the desert. You need: Water. Quail. Manna. When we hear this story and we can’t help but think about the millions of people starving to death in our world today. Not back sometime in the distant past. But today. I’ve read that ¼ of humankind is living in abject poverty this Sunday. That’s about 1.3 billion people. 33,000 children starve to death every single day. What is it? What about them? The truth is that there is enough food to feed all the bodies on the earth right now. The food is here. But we humans who have enough to eat haven’t been willing, or able, or imaginative, or courageous enough to get it to those who need it. And, of course, as I say those words I can hear your mind—coming up with all the disastrous long-term consequences of such distributions, preparing your remarks to deliver to me as you leave this place this morning—to remind me of the political and economic realities of our world—or perhaps you are merely shrugging the shoulders of your mind and saying, “not me, I couldn’t make that happen. I’m not responsible” But, you and I know one other thing: God’s generosity calls us to feed the hungry. But to read this story as only a story about bread—literal, physical bread: brioche, sour dough, or muffin—is to do it an injustice. That’s made perfectly clear in Jesus’ interactions with the seekers who come to him asking for bread—just after he’s fed the 5,000. They keep talking about bread and manna, and he keeps pushing them deeper, or higher, or wider, or more fantastically, or more truthily. It’s a travesty really to only read Scripture literally. Those who do so expect they are going to find the truth—but at least in today’s Gospel story, it’s clear that the physical, literal level of these feedings yields only a hint of God’s truth to be revealed. Jesus keeps pointing to something else. What is it? What is it that we seek? Physical hunger is real. That’s the truth—but everyone, whether they are starving for food, or so overfed that they are stuffed---everyone hungers. Hungers for meaning, hungers to be called to their best selves, hungers for relationship, hungers for new life, hungers for God. “Don’t work for food that perishes,” says Jesus, “work for the food that endures for eternal life.” The food that sustains the fullness of life. Just recently I heard a real-life story about a young man I know. When I last saw him he was pursuing the American dream—wife, child, house, bigger house, bigger house, money, more money, most money. Necessary things, desired things, things beyond your wildest desires. Then there was a divorce, a trip to a foreign land, visits to temples, with monks, tears, dark nights, letting goes, finding himself—his art, long ago left behind. His generosity—not practiced for a long time. Tuning his eyes to see the manna along his path—like nothing he’d ever seen before. Tiny. Nothing he’d looked for or imagined. He’s been born again. There is creativity and joy. Relationship with his child. Peace. Connection with the divine. What is it? He thought he’d lost it all. Family, possessions, job, reputation, whatever. Manna came to him in loss. in vulnerability. In sharing. In giving up the hoarding, the grasping, and storing, the plotting and planning. In emptiness. Bug juice. What seems like loss can contain a gift. God works that way sometimes. You and I know that. “Sir, give us this bread always.” God love them. God love us—we who seek. We who think we know what we need. Give us this bread. Always. Gimme. Gimme. Gimme. The bread we seek is always being offered by the God who loves us. But, when it is offered, our question is, “What is it?” Because we’d imagined it the way we imagined it. Not the way it comes. We’re used to taking care of ourselves, providing our own bread. Storing it up, protecting it. Keeping it for a rainy day. There are those who are starving for bread and meat—literally. We are related to them. Most of us here have more than we need. Maybe just maybe. The manna that is coming our way today, in this place and time is the manna of the small, the beneath us, the manna that requires our letting go. The manna that invites us to slowdown. To collect for only one day. To depend on God in new ways. Acknowledge our vulnerability, live into our dependence on God and our interdependence—our most desperate hunger for connection. As I drove my car through town the other day, I looked at all the other cars at the intersection. Each one had one person in it-- individuals isolated in their cars—all of us heading to our own private destinations. I thought about how Jesus told the seekers, “I am the bread. Believe in the one that God has sent. Believe in me.” To believe is not some act of the mind. To believe in or into Jesus as John puts it is to commit to, to be in solidarity with Jesus. Words like loyalty, abiding, love, being faithful to—those are words that describe believing in Jesus What is it? We hardly recognize it any more--this bread that invites us into relationship. . . . Give us this day our daily bread. This bread that invites us to the table to be fed—and calls us and enables us to go out into the world to share. Just today. Every day.

Sermon, July 2, 2006

Mark5:21-43; Wisdom 1:13-15, 2:23-24 I got a call from a chaplain not long ago to go visit a woman who is under the care of hospice—a woman who is dying. I went and took communion with me. After communion, I offered to pray for her and asked her if she had any special requests. I waited in the silence, holding her frail hand in mine. She asked me to pray for a friend, who is ill, and for her daughter. That was a holy moment that moment. From the lips of a woman near the end of her own life came prayer requests for others—that their lives might be blessed by God. Our little reading from Wisdom this morning affirms that God created all things that they might exist—have life. It sings the praises of the generative forces—of creativity and tells us that God takes no delight in the death of the living. And, in our gospel reading we come face to face with Jesus the healer, whose energy for healing can be tapped from behind and even by one who is sick unto death. This generative force in Jesus—a sign of the in-breaking of God’s kingdom is in evidence throughout Mark’s Gospel. Jesus goes about his ministry healing all kinds of people—of all kinds of disease. Today’s story interrupted by another story is all about healing and faith. The faith of the woman who reaches out to touch Jesus’ cloak—and the faith of Jairus the leader of the synagogue, whose daughter is ill. Both of them fall down at Jesus feet—they are made one in that. In their need, in their desire for healing, in their turning to Jesus they are united. It gives you a picture really of one way in which we are made one in Christ—this image of the two people—so different, one a leader, highly respected the other a woman who has suffered much and lost all her resources in her frantic search for healing. No matter their differences—in their need for healing they are made one—at the feet of Jesus. In their humility we see their unity. Perhaps you have experienced this kind of unity with others in an emergency room—a place in our society where those in urgent need come together in their hope for healing. In an emergency room you find yourself sitting next to others who may be very different from you. But all are there in their common humanity and need. Not all are healed—not all have their diseases cured. You and I know that. Life is fragile and people get sick and die. And the power of medicine—whether Western or Eastern or any other kind seems to go only so far. And when we look out on our world today if we’re honest I think we’d have to say that there are days when we’re not so sure that God’s power for healing, that generative energy for life—is at work. There are moments when we consider our world and we have to wonder: and its not just the wars in Iraq or Afghanistan, in Palestine, the Sudan or Colombia, or the condition of the environment. . . it comes closer to home than that—when we consider the divisions and sickness in our own lives—our country, our cities, our families, even in our Episcopal church these days—so much in the news. If healing is about wholeness and unity then you have to wonder—you have to wonder. Like the folks who laughed at Jesus when he said that the girl was not dead, just sleeping—we have to laugh. Who is he kidding? We mourners—we know death when we see it. We know death. Whether it’s the death of the little girl or the living death of the woman who had bled for 12 years—we know about death. You and I. We know its ways—and we can see it clearly. We know what it’s like to be the bringers of the sad news: “Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?” How often have you seen death, identified death, and given up hope? Have there been times when all seemed lost? In your own life—in the life of a loved one? Some things just seem intractable and we aren’t at all sure that there is any power on earth that can change them. Most of us have known such times. Known losses that make us wonder if we can go on.. “Why trouble the teacher any more?” These stories about Jesus and the woman and the little girl—one sick for twelve years, the other born just as the woman’s illness began—are not just stories about healings. Surely they are reminders to us about the deepest of all truths—the one the Wisdom passage hints at. They are stories about Jesus—about his suffering, death, and resurrection. Biblical scholar Amy-Jill Levine says that “Women’s bodies in this story provide a model for the body of Christ.” Their suffering is a model for Christ’s suffering, their healing a model for his resurrection. Like Jesus’ own death, the little girl dies surrounded by commotion and mockery. And at her healing the people are “overcome with amazement.” The word in Greek is ekstasis—the word used only one other time in Mark’s Gospel—at the end --when the women at the tomb are told that Jesus has risen from the dead. And if the stories provide a model for the body of Christ surely they are a model for us as the body of Christ. Here’s where the rubber hits the road. Here on a Sunday morning when we come together in our need to fall at the feet of Jesus—you might say if you were an evangelical. Here on a Sunday morning when we come to kneel at the communion rail to be fed—here we are made one in Christ. And here week in a week out we travel the path on the border between life and death—breath and stillness. Here we bring our deathliness to the source of life—praying, hoping against hope that the generative energy of God will heal us—make us whole and give us a new beginning. This meal first celebrated when Jesus was at the very edge of his own life—facing into the certainty of death—is the meal we turn to for life. It is grounded not only in his dying, but in his rising. That is the ground of our being. The ground of our hope. That dying and that rising. And perhaps you and I find ourselves here because we in some sense—in some part of ourselves—are like the little girl. We are dying or have died. Our losses have overwhelmed us. The breath has been knocked out of us—our hopes have been dashed. We wouldn’t think to bother the teacher, really. In our hearts we might laugh at the notion that life could come out of death. Yet, here we are: you and I. Maybe it’s just habit that brings us, or maybe it’s our longing. Our longing to hear those words, “Talitha cumi.” “Little girl get up!” Czelaw Milosz, the Nobel prize poet once wrote a poem after attending mass on this very day in the liturgical year. A reading this Sunday from the Book of Wisdom About how God has not made death And does not rejoice in the annihilation of the living. A reading from the Gospel according to Mark About a little girl to whom He said: Talitha cumi! This is for me. To make me rise from the dead And repeat the hope of those who lived before me. Like the woman I visited who is dying—you and I live at the edge of life and yet we live into hope—that precious life-giving hope of resurrection. This is who we are. AMEN

Sermon, July 16, 2006

[I invite you to stand in the silence this morning and greet the person to your right and to your left by bowing, with your hands together like this in front of your chest—your heart. Greet one another acknowledging the divine in each of us. Take your time. Now greet others who are around you this way…] 2 Samuel 6:1-5; Mark 6:14-29 When was the last time you danced with all your might? Or, whirled with all your might? When did you let go and let your body express your joy in dance? In our society dancers tend to be young people—and dance isn’t always an expression of joy—if you’ve ever been near a mosh pit, you’ll know what I mean. At my younger son’s wedding a few months back we joined in circle and folk dancing after the meal. It was late and the dancing was short, but there is nothing like that feeling of your whole body moving to the beat of the music, and the interaction with others as you take hands and dance your joy. I was on retreat last week learning and practicing healing prayer and meditation—and we began every morning by moving our bodies and dancing together. Not in couples—in community. We even danced to Stevie Wonder one morning. We spent a lot of time during the week in quiet, meditating—so it was especially good to be able to pray every morning with our bodies moving. David dances with wild abandon—whirling with all his might as the Ark—the symbol of God’s presence in the midst of the people—is brought back from the Philistines to a united community—to the City of David. He expresses his joy, and no doubt the joy of the people, by dancing. There are songs and lyres, and harps and tambourines and castanets and cymbals. Just imagine that! As if that weren’t enough, there was loud shouting and the sound of the trumpet! And David was leaping and dancing. [This clearly was not Episcopal worship!] Although David’s wife Michal might represent the thinking of some higher Anglican-types—she despised him in her heart—and later complained of his unseemly behavior.] Dancing is considered a normal expression of joy and praise to God in Hebrew Scriptures. And in Jewish custom and in the early church—in fact in the church throughout the Middle Ages dancing—circle dances, processional dances—was a part of worship. Of liturgy. Clergy and laity alike danced. The people of God danced. They didn’t just pray with their minds, and their words—they prayed with their bodies—by dancing. I suppose the remnants of this kind of worship can be found in our stately processions, and in the bowing and kneeling and other bodily gestures we make—with great Anglican restraint. What happened to dancing? Did you notice that at our Big Event—our parish party last year—not many people danced—many more watched from a safe distance than danced. Why are so many of us embarrassed to dance—find the notion of dancing in church to be so foreign—so something I could maybe watch—but not do. I can’t dance. “Liturgical dance when its done professionally,” we say, “is fine—once in awhile. But—don’t involve me—not me.” How was that this morning when you greeted one another with a bow? Honoring the divine within them? How is that different from just nodding to them? How is that different from nodding at them, or smiling, or saying perhaps, “God bless”? What happened to dancing? . . . Oh, yes, Herod and his wife and their daughter. Oh, yes, them. Feminine wiles—suggestive dancing—Salome (or Herodias perhaps). Manipulation—trickery—death. Gruesome death—laid at the feet of dancing. That must be it. Dancing is dangerous because when women dance it pleases men—and then you know what happens next. . . dum de dum dum. As time passed and clergy became the doers and the laity the watchers in the liturgy—and as the effort to control grew—then dance had to go. And its dangers were tied to stories like this one—an abject lesson if there ever was one. About the dangers of dance. And of girls and of women. Poor Herod. Poor poor Herod. This is not a story about dancing. It is a story about power and its abuse—or it’s a story about the cost of telling the truth to power—or it’s a story of how the ghosts of the past can rise up to undo you—or maybe it’s a story about how the powers that be may blow out a candle but never manage to put out God’s fire. And, of course, it’s a story about Jesus—and about who he is. It’s the longest single story in Mark’s gospel and it comes just after Jesus sends his disciples out to preach and heal, and just before they come back to report on their successes. John’s already dead at this point—but word of Jesus is spreading and that brings John back to life, you might say. People are asking, just who this Jesus is—is he a prophet? Is he Elijah? Where does his power come from? Herod who has killed John thinks John must have come back to life. He apparently can’t bear to think that there could be two such powerful folks roaming his territory. And Mark tells us that Herod actually liked to listen to John—but he threw him in jail because he’d dared to speak the truth. John told him and his wife Herodias—who happened to be divorced from his half-brother Philip—that their marriage wasn’t lawful—not under Jewish law. No doubt this was something most folks had figured out for themselves. But probably not many spoke the words out loud—not to Herod’s face. Herodias, the wife, sees how this truth-telling could be damaging to Herod’s honor—not to mention her own. It’s a sick little story this one—and it’s about the powers that be—for those gathered for the birthday celebration are the court nobles, the army officers and the leading Galileans—the inner circle of power (you know, government officials, military and business leaders—those types. It’s a shameless story about how living a lie catches up with you—and how the decision-making in this circle of power results in the death of one already silenced, just so that the face of the King can be saved. Imagine being one of those in attendance. Imagine yourself sitting through this debacle. What would you be thinking when Herod makes his ridiculous offer to the girl—who may have been around 10 or 12—Imagine what you think when she comes back. When he orders the guard to execute John. When he returns with the head on a platter. When it is given to the girl. Just imagine. What it is like to watch this tragedy unfold. Do you suppose anyone dares to speak? Does anyone dare to make a joke? Applaud? Is anyone sick to their stomach? Who turns away and pretends it isn’t happening? So many morals to the story. Find the silent party-goer in yourself watching quietly as the powers that be save face through killing. Find the Herod in myself more concerned about what people think of me than anything else. Find the Herodias in yourself still a child but thrilling to the power given you for the moment. Find the wife in you—trapped in the consequences of living a lie—so afraid of the truth spoken out loud—that you lash out to silence it. Find the John in you punished for speaking the truth, powerless before the powers-that-be. And then of course, there is the Holy One. Find the Holy One in you. For this little story is a part of a much larger and much deeper story. Mark reminds us of the cost of following Jesus—by reminding us of the cost paid by the one who came before him. Jesus and his followers will not have an easy time of it when it comes to speaking the truth to power. There is a cost to exposing the truth. To living lives that provide evidence of God’s resurrecting power at work. This story is a prologue to the story of Jesus’ death and Jesus’ resurrection. Death never is the final word. God’s new order comes—and no King can change that. Herod uses his power to protect himself from the truth. He doesn’t really have a clue about who he is dealing with. He’s been attracted to John—but he hasn’t come close enough to let his message work its transformation. The Ark—that presence of God in the midst of the people. Who is this Jesus? For us, he is the Ark. His life, death, and resurrection full of God’s Godness in our midst. Mostly people didn’t notice. Or they are intrigued, but keep their distance. They didn’t dance. They don’t whirl. Years ago I watched the New Year’s dances at Taos Pueblo just before dawn with the temperature just about 0—the boys and men danced—dressed kind of like David in his linen ephod—hardly clothed at all. We who watched wore long underwear, parkas, and wool pants, and stomped our heavy boots just to keep our feet from freezing. The dancers just had moccasins and some were bare footed. They whirled with all their might—and in their ecstasy they praised the Holy One and gave thanks for the gift of life. It’s one thing to watch --and another to dance. To dance is to know the resurrection in our bodies. To find the Holy One in you is to dance. Dance then wherever you may be.

Sermon June 25, 2006

Mark: 4:35-41 I’m struck by all the silences in this little story from Mark’s gospel. I imagine Jesus and his friends at dusk—that time when the sun is setting, and there’s that mixture of dwindling light and dawning darkness. He’s told them to take the boat across the Lake. They’re heading to the other side—the place of the Gentiles—outsiders—a place of discomfort. They’re tired too—it’s been a long day—and so I imagine them setting out with a good deal of silence among them. And, Jesus even falls asleep—maybe just then you could have heard his sleepy breathing in the silence of the dusk. An in-between time and an in-between place. Years ago when I was still a teen-ager, I spent a couple of summers up on Lake Huron visiting a friend and working as a maid in the resort on an island. Every week we took a break from our chores to participate in a sailboat race. The only race I can remember was really exciting. The 3 of us who usually raced together were often late to the race—this time was no exception, we jumped in the sailboat, got it ready kind of on the way to the starting line. We made excellent time too I might add—for the wind was nice and strong. At the starting line I noticed that all the other boats had four or five people in them—one even had six. This was unusual but I didn’t think much about it. At the sound of the starting gun we were off—and I mean off—our sailboat flew across the lake—and we were a busy threesome, As the wind picked up we had to put our bodies more and more over the side just to keep the boat from tipping over. We were definitely winning this race—far ahead of all the other boats—they were weighed down with the extra crew members. We were holding on for dear life, our bodies so far out over the side of the boat that I thought I was holding on with my toes. I glanced back at our skipper—and noticed her face was very white—underneath that summer tan! I was beginning to think I knew why the other boats had more people in them. We flew up to the buoy where we were to turn. “Ready about” the captain screamed, and then “coming about…” the boom flew from one side to the other, and then just as we moved to the other side of the boat. . .the mast cracked—it broke into two pieces and the sail enveloped us in white. No one was injured. After we crawled out from under the sail, we simply watched as the other boats sailed past us. After the race a friend came to retrieve us, he towed us in--past all the other boats. I think of this race when I hear this strange story from Mark. I think of how impossible it is to believe that anyone could actually sleep through a storm on a lake. I think of how I would have been screaming at whoever was in the back asleep—screaming at him to wake up and do his part. H-e-e-e-l-p! Don’t you care? Don’t you care about us? We’re drowning. And you know when we come to that moment in the story. When Jesus’ friends so filled with fear cry out to him, “Don’t you care?” A second silence falls—the silence before the storm is stilled. This one is a silence in the midst of the uproar—the winds howling all around them. Jesus asleep. In their fear they cry out the question that all of us—faithful and faithless cry out when things are tough and God seems absent. Like the three teenagers in their ignorance maybe the disciples with their experience have sailed their boat out onto the lake sure of their skills. There is one thing they know and that is how to sail a boat. But this storm that comes up suddenly it seems, challenges their skill. They try everything they know how to do—and the waters are in the boat now. And one thing sailors know is that the lake doesn’t care. When the winds and waters rise the lake doesn’t care. So maybe this is a place you’ve been in—or maybe you are there right now. And maybe like the friends of Jesus you’ve dared to utter that question, “Do you care?” “Where are you?” and there is silence. . . . In our story, Jesus rises and speaks from his own silence—to quiet the winds. “Peace,” he says, and there is peace. And another silence I imagine. What sailors call a dead calm, perhaps. No sound. No movement. Stillness. . . . Jesus himself seems amazed at their fear and what he calls their lack of faith. Their lack of trust. The way they forgot their center maybe—in their fear and reliance on their experience and training—they forgot who they really were and that he was with them. This may be the crux of it all. The way we forget who we are and who God is—we forget that no matter how absent God seems or how fearful we get—we are not alone in the boat. The waters are dangerous. Not all trips will end happily—there is the real possibility of death. And when we’re up against that kind of moment we so often turn to our own devices—until they don’t seem to be enough. I sympathize with the disciples. I’ve been there—done that—more than once. My parents raised me to be self-reliant. And there are times when there is so little evidence that God is in the boat at all. This issue for Mark wasn’t so much that Jesus calmed the storm and the waters. Waters were considered mostly to be the realm of evil and anyone who could control them would be a powerful person indeed. For Mark though, the moment of truth comes after the calming, when the friends of Jesus ask the final question, “Who are you?” “Who is this?” Who is the man who acts in ways no one would expect. He’s just a carpenter you know—he’s acting way beyond his place. We don’t know where to put him. Mark’s whole gospel focuses on this constant question, “Who is this?” And in the boat, the awed disciples I rather imagine ask their question, and then fall into silence. . . . Who is this? Mark’s readers probably would have known. Only God could calm the waters. But the story ends with the question. And the silence. . . . This is how it is for us. We are ones who ask the question—live into that question. Others have never asked, or gave up asking long ago. But we come here week in and week out pondering the question—living into it. Oh, there is a level at which we know the answer—you and I know who this is—at least something of who this is. And we know that we have been called into the boat with Jesus to go to the other side—where folks are different, where we are challenged as Paul puts it to open our hearts wide. The journey itself can be challenging—even the folks in the boat with us challenge us to open our hearts wide. Sometimes we live as though we’ve forgotten the answer to the question. We get fearful. We rely on our own devices. We hate it that death and danger are real. We keep trying to turn the boat around and go back—go back to the shore, to the comfort of the known—but somehow in our faithfulness and our faithlessness, we keep on. And we are never alone. The One who is with us, who from the calm in his own heart can calm the storm—is the One who bears his own scars of the journey. God-with-us. The scars are important—but they aren’t the last word. Whatever this story is about—most surely it is about this journey across the lake—the journey of the church (after all you are sitting in the nave right now—the boat—just look up at those rafters and their shape. And, yes, you are sitting in the boat upside down—which may give you pause ). It’s about the journey of our own denomination to the Other Side. Its about the journey of our own little lives. Yours and mine. Our calling to venture out into the waters toward the Other Side. Maybe you can discern the movement of God in your own life today calling you to leave the comfort of what you know and to journey into the unknown. This is the journey of faith: this living into the questions. In it we are transformed and set free.

VACATION

Hey, I'm on vacation and I'm three sermons behind in posting. What can I say,except I'm sorry--for not posting sooner--not for the vacation. I'll be back in a week and get at least up to date before I'm off again for some continuing ed and more vacation. Thanks for your understanding, Pat

Sermon Trinity Sunday 6.1.2006

I went to see Al Gore’s movie this week: An Inconvenient Truth. It’s about global warming. And I urge you to see it, no matter your feelings about Al Gore, no matter your political persuasion. It presents the facts about the state of our world today and the impact of our living on the world. The truth it presents is not only inconvenient—especially to us living in this country—but it is a hard truth in many ways. But it is not a movie that leaves you hopeless. Not at all. It left me thinking not only about my own life—and lifestyle—but about the Trinity. Just imagine that. Today is Trinity Sunday—the one time a year when we focus on a doctrine --a teaching of the church about God—the nature of the God we worship. As you might guess from our lessons this morning, the word Trinity does not appear in Scripture. Here we have lessons that range from Isaiah’s encounter with God (and those magnificent six-winged seraphim singing the song we now call “Sanctus”), to Paul’s reflection on the movement of the Spirit in our lives, to that wonderful and mysterious conversation between Nicodemus and Jesus that ends in one of the most quoted lines from Scripture. “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Creator, Redeemer, Sanctifier, Beloved, Lover, Love, God Beyond, Among, Within, or as one contemporary writer describes it: Source, Wellspring, and Living Water. This is a mystery—not a puzzle to be solved. At least that is how I think about God. No words are adequate to describe God. All of our efforts merely point toward—represent—hint at the Holy One—and today I want to focus not on thinking about God so much as on the question of what difference does the Trinity make in our daily living. How’s that for a question? How is your life different everyday because of the Trinity? Whoa. You and I come here week in and week out to worship God, to hear the stories that shape our lives, we pray together, praise together, and leave this place hopefully a little more connected, a little more transformed, a little more equipped to live out our lives as people of faith in the world outside. This morning we will baptize a baby, Cameron—we will pray together that Cameron will grow up into the stature of Christ. The truth is our prayer is that not only Cameron but that we ourselves will grow up into Christ. Grow up into the fullness of who we were created to be. And that’s really where the Trinity comes in. In that growing up we are called to. Our prayer is that by God’s grace we will be taken up into the divine life and fulfill the destiny we were created for. The Trinity is not something we Christians just think, the Trinity is something we live into. Whatever the Trinity is about—this triune God—it is about how three are one and one is three. This is a paradox—but one we know something of. The Trinity is about relationship—it is about a complex web of mutuality and activity. It is about participation in one another’s lives. It is about radical equality. It is creativity, on-going creativity. We tend to get caught up in thinking about God in static terms. And I must confess the words in our liturgy don’t help us to break out of this thinking. The Father (the first), he’s up here at the top, the Son, the Child (the second), he’s next right about here, and the Spirit (the third), . . . he or she or it maybe is right here, hovering in the lower realms. We put them in a hierarchical order that never changes. We forget perhaps the movement we know in our own lives between parent and child. We forget that you can’t be a parent without a child. Any parent here no matter ow authoritarian knows the truth. The child gives way to the parent yes, but, the parent also gives way to the child. There is nothing static, nothing is fixed in concrete. You can’t be the beloved without a lover or without love. And love isn’t love without a lover or a beloved. You can’t be a lover without love or a beloved. There is mutuality here, and interconnectedness. Particularity, yes, but the trinity and we are woven into a web of life. What we say about God is that God is community. God is relationship. God is mutuality, energy, creativity, give and take, --movement, of relationship. The otherness of the three—their particularity as Creator, Redeemer, Sanctifier—is not cause for division or violence, but is cause for what we could call polyphony—that’s a musical term—and the musicians among us might correct me here—but I believe that polyphony is when simultaneously more than one note is sounded. That’s a good word for the trinity—polyphony. Difference that makes music—not war. This means something. This means something in our lives. In our daily living. God who is polyphonous community calls us to live in community—to recognize that who we are is not just isolated individuals—looking out for number one—as our culture tells us. I am a particular person, yes, but I am who I am most truly in my relationships—with you, with my family, with others, with this world—its features and creatures—and with God. You are you, there is no doubt about it—but you are who you are in relationship. Your difference from me is not a cause for me to judge you or reject you or even pick up a stone and fling it at you. Quite the opposite. The way of the Triune God calls me to recognize myself in others, and others in myself. We live our lives in a web of interconnection. That’s why I left the film about global warming thinking about the Trinity. How the Triune God—God’s threeness and oneness calls me to remember that I am related—I participate in the life of this planet. And it in me. I am one with the people of New Orleans, those in Myanmar, the people of Iraq and Sudan and Guantanamo. I am even one with the polar bears. The polar bears. We are connected. A couple of weeks ago I ran into an old friend who is a deacon in our church—in another diocese. She told me she was doing premarital counseling with a young couple who were to be married by her parish priest. The couple wanted to light a Unity Candle at their wedding, but the priest refused to let them do that. If you’ve never seen a unity candle lighting, it’s where the couple take two candles representing themselves and light one candle representing their new life together (the two shall become one) and then they blow out the two candles. Some priests don’t like this symbology. It implies that the two individuals disappear into oneness—(and of course it isn’t in the prayer book—so we Anglicans are almost positive that God doesn’t like it.) My friend asked me to come up with some reasons why the priest should go along with their request. The truth was that the couple only wanted to do it because their parents had done so. Ahh, tradition! I think perhaps the best thing to do would have been to let them light the candle, but keep the other candles lit, and preach about it! The oneness and the threeness. The ways in which we are constituted by those we are in contact with—especially with those we are most intimate with. The ways in which we participate in each other’s lives and the ways in which the music is made richer by our playing different notes at the same time. Last week on my day off I picked up my granddaughter Sawyer at school and we had a meal together. I’ve spent time with her once a week for just about all of her 6+ years. We call these days her Mamaw days. (The day her other local grandmother picks her up is her Mimi Day.) She told me over burritos in that way that children do, that love is something that lasts even when a person dies. I nodded. She explained that when I die she’ll still know I love her. And then when she dies, she will find me in heaven, and we’ll resume having our Mamaw days! Now I have to confess I don’t know exactly what heaven is like. But I do know that at 6, Sawyer like many—maybe most—children her age--has a piece of triune truth. Relationship is at the heart of God. . . I’ve learned much of what I know about love from loved ones who have died. I have watched them let go of everything—jobs, possessions, dreams, control, hobbies—the last thing to let go of is love—relationship. We need to pay attention to this. Whatever heaven is—who we are when we get there is who we have come to be in relationship—and whatever heaven is—it is community with the One in Three and Three in One. The Trinity makes a difference in our lives—our everyday lives. Holy, holy, holy God. Source, wellspring, living water, God beyond, among us and within. Amen. 1 My pondering for this sermon was informed and enriched by David S. Cunningham, These Three are One: The Practice of Trinitarian Theology, Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 1998. I commend the book to you.

SERMON 5.21.06

The Episcopal Church is in the news these days—as we prepare for our General Convention next month suddenly the media is taking an interest—in the possible split that could happen in our church. A split precipitated by the consecration of Gene Robinson as Bishop three years ago. The shock produced by the General Convention’s approval of a gay man as Bishop was an echo I think of our story from Acts this morning when the Spirit of God shows up in a totally scandalous way—at least to the Jewish followers of Jesus who had come with Peter to visit Cornelius—a Gentile. The Spirit falls on the Gentiles just as it had on Pentecost to the friends of Jesus. “Can anyone withhold the water for baptizing these people who have received the Holy Spirit just as we have?” I can only imagine the silence that filled the room. Silence in the face of the unrestrained activity of the Spirit—clear even to the ones who least expected it. And that question of course has continued to reverberate through the history of the church. “Can we withhold the water of baptism?” “Can we draw a circle around God’s wild activity that seemingly seeks always to draw us out to meet the other?” Dare we? Institutions like churches seem to thrive on trying to do just that: contain and demarcate. And you and I aren’t so bad at that either if we are honest. We’re always noticing and judging who is in and who is out. This isn’t Pentecost yet, you know. We’re still in the season of Easter—the time when we celebrate especially the gift of new life—the resurrecting power of God at work. So, we hear this little bit of a great story about the early church –and about the wild and senseless love of God—the Spirit of God—that crosses surprising boundaries—[And, I’ve heard a rumor—it’s just a rumor mind you, that the Spirit can even scale very tall and very long fences !]—wherever it moves, it brings people together.—people that by rights shouldn’t be together. You know what I mean. Gays and straights, progressives and conservatives, American and African Christians, men and women, grandparents and teens, fundamentalists and new agers, you and your son-in-law! Funny isn’t it. The juxtaposition of the story from Acts and the portion of John’s gospel we read. One about the boundaryless activity of the Holy Spirit—the other about abiding-- a small group of friends who are told to abide. To abide means to remain. To stay put. To be at home. You are my friends. Abide in my love. Last weekend I was away at my son Chris’ wedding. Chris is a Quaker and the wedding was a Quaker wedding. No need for a priest or officiant. The couple sat in a circle surrounded by their community, family & friends gathered in circles around them. Then they got up and said their vows, exchanged rings, and signed their marriage certificate. The blessing of the marriage came as they sat down and we all entered into silence. During the silence some people stood and spoke—as the Spirit directed them. At the end, we shook hands with one another. Jesus calls his disciples friends. No longer servants, he says, I call you friends. The Society of Friends is who Quakers are. A society of friends. In weddings at our church, there is always a point when the officiant asks the congregation “Will you do all in your power to uphold these two persons?” And people say, “We will” promising to support the marriage. Chris and Carin vowed to love one another and be faithful to one another as long as they both should live. And in the marriage certificate which was read aloud, the San Francisco Meeting of the Society of Friends agreed to take their marriage under its care. The community took the marriage of Christopher and Carin under their care. Not the individuals. The community. It makes you think.. John V. Taylor wrote a book about the Holy Spirit. He called it the Go-Between God. The God of connection. The God fluttering between Chris and Carin as they made their promises to one another. The God hovering over the circle of Friends gathered there. The God falling upon Cornelius just as the Spirit had fallen on Jesus’ friends at Pentecost. God bringing Jews and Gentiles together. The Go Between God. The God calling us out of our zones of comfort and connecting us always to the other. It all begins though in the abiding. in the abiding—remaining—staying put in God’s love. The love of friends—or of husband and wife—or of partners—the love of Christians flows out of that deepest of truths. God’s love for each of us. Abiding in that is what sets us free to love each other—sets us free to be friends. John’s Gospel pays a lot of attention to God’s incredible attachment to us—to humanity. God’s bondedness to us you might call it. Love is not about a feeling or emotion. Affection even does not seem central to John’s understanding of love. Central to love is attachment. Abiding in. God in Jesus. Jesus in God. and Jesus and God in us. The Go-Between God perhaps the bonding agent. When I’m abiding in God’s love—life is very different than when I lose track of it. A lot of the spiritual journey I think is really about learning ways to keep ourselves open to that ultimate truth. We are loved. Before anything. We are loved. No earning it. We are loved. No deserving it. We are loved. No manipulating it. We are loved. Just abiding. Being present. Breathing in and breathing out. I heard an interview on the radio a few days ago with a man who had grown up in North Carolina. At an early age he’d been taken by the State from his mother, because she, a white woman, was living with an African American man. He was torn from his mother’s arms and put in foster care. He had a tough time of it. He got into fights, was always running away to visit his mother. Finally he was taken 200 miles away and put in a Boy’s Farm. There he finally got his life together—finished high school and became a leader. He told the interviewer that what made the difference for him was that unlike many of the other boys at the Farm, he knew he was loved. He said, “A day didn’t pass when I didn’t know I was loved.” His mother—absent all those years in the flesh—had given him the gift of love. It was his bedrock. The place where he abided. He was attached and he knew it. He was under the care of his mother even though she wasn’t there. Abiding means letting go of the distractions. Forgetting to be self-preoccupied. Turning our attention away from all the bad news. All the fears we have. This little boy who grew to be a man had a lot to be fearful of. I read somewhere that the opposite of joy isn’t sadness—it’s anxiety. And Jesus reminds us in today’s reading that his goal is joy. Joy whatever it is-- is pure gift—and I think it brings together both the abiding—the staying put—and the Go-Betweening—the moving toward. Joy comes from a place of deep vulnerability to the fact of God’s love. Joy isn’t happiness—it isn’t something you can make happen or clutch either. It is maybe like music. It touches you in your body and opens you in surprising ways. It is transcendent. It’s deep knowing of your connectedness to others and to God. Think about your own experiences of joy. . . . Deep realization of oneness—ecstasy is perhaps an overdose of the Go-Between God. It takes you out of yourself. Henri Nouwen says it is always a movement toward a shared life. “It leads us to a place where new life is discovered among us.” Perhaps that’s why our lectionary puts a little Pentecost in our Easter season this morning. You are I, like our Quaker friends, are called to be friends. To be friends of Jesus and of one another. God’s love for us is what brings us here on a Sunday, and it is what centers us. It also is what calls us out into the unknown. God’s great attachment to us is what allows us to be free—to take one another under our care—God’s great attachment allows the Spirit to carry us to places we never dreamed we’d be—to celebrate our oneness with the most surprising folks.