SERMON, June 29 7 Pentecost

Genesis 22:1-14; Matthew 10:40-42

The Binding of Isaac. One of the most horrifying of Old Testament stories—When you come to church it isn’t to hear this kind of story, is it? For some people this kind of lesson is just what made them leave the church, never to return. This picture of a sick God who demands the death of a precious child is a scandal in an age when we are more than ever aware of the rampant abuses of children in our own country and throughout the world. This picture of Abraham—the so-called father of our faith—accepting the words from God, “Take your son, your only son, Isaac, whom you love and get you going to the land of Moriah, and offer him there….” accepting these words without argument. Abraham, who once argued against God’s determination to punish Sodom—argued and argued that God’s proposed actions were not really very Godish! Now without argument he takes his son and starts out on the journey. It’s enough to make you throw up—or run screaming out the doors. What kind of God is this? What kind of faith is Abraham’s? Is God a God who tests us? Is God a God who would call a person to kill his own child? What on earth does it mean to be obedient—to be faithful to God? How could I trust a God like this one? Good grief.

The Bible is a strange book. There is no getting around it. And Hebrew Scriptures have some hard stories in them—very hard stories. Especially hard if you are a woman, for example. There is violence. There is judgment. There are things described we’d rather not see—not hear about. And so some Christians I know just don’t read the Old Testament. They find everything they need to know in the New Testament. Others quote the Old Testament injunctions about morality—picking and choosing the parts they find significant. They read the Old Testament to find guidance for behavior. Others find some passages worthwhile (some of the psalms, the story of Ruth, the prophets perhaps…) but generally they judge the Old Testament to be morally deficient somehow.

In truth the New Testament cannot be read or understood without the Old. Not only was the Old Testament Jesus’ Bible and the Scripture he quoted, but Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection, his teaching and healing, his life were interpreted—were understood by his friends and followers in the context of the Old Testament. That context, those stories, those poems, those insights formed the bedrock on which the story of Jesus was told. Jesus’ feeding of the 5,000 couldn’t be described without people remembering the manna in the wilderness. His healing of the little girl-- without the image of Elijah coming to mind. His calming of the sea --without the parting of the sea. His crucifixion --without this hard story of God and Abraham and the binding of Isaac.

But to enter stories such as this one requires us to get past our emotional horror I think. I can get stuck there. And I have, let me tell you. Stuck thinking about this horrifying God who would ask such a thing. Stuck being terrified that God might ask such a thing of me. Stuck wondering what about Sarah—wasn’t it her only son? Stuck wondering about Ishmael—Abraham had just sent him away to the wilderness because Sarah asked him to. What is it with Abraham anyway?

This story and others in Scripture don’t answer all my questions. They never do. They raise a lot of questions—and they make me uncomfortable. They leave me on the precipice. Maybe they are meant to do just that.

To get anything out of a story like this one—to connect it to my own life and our corporate life today requires a lot from me. It asks that I read it slowly and ponder it in context. It requires that I accept its strangeness. Its remoteness. That I be willing to ask if indeed it can have anything of value for me. Can it tell me anything about what it’s like to be involved with God? To be in relationship with God? Does the God of Abraham have anything in common with the God of Jesus?

One thing we can say about this story is that God is a God who tests and a God who provides—both. Abraham is caught somewhere in the middle of that tension. It reminds me of the Lord’s Prayer. Jesus taught us to pray for God’s provision “Give us our daily bread.” and also that line about “lead us not into temptation—which is also translated as “do not bring us to the test.” Don’t bring us to those moments where we have to choose. I talked a bit about this last week—all the choices that fill our days and how they relate to the underneath it all choice of whose dream do we choose? God’s? or some other. God, for Jesus, is a God who tests and provides. Both.

Isaac represents the person, the dream, the promise that Abraham had been seeking for some 25 or so years. He’d had another Get you going call from God that started his whole involvement with God. “Get you going from your country, your kindred, and your father’s house and to the land I will show you.” That was perhaps the first test—and no light thing either. This leaving of center—life then found its meaning in family and place. And Abram got up and went, just as he does now. Isaac represents God’s promise of descendents numbered like the stars. “ I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.”

This test perhaps is not about whether Abraham will kill his own child, but about whether Abraham has come to love the gift more than the giver. We do that—you and I. We all of us have gifts we’ve received that we come to believe we cannot live without. Family, spouse, partner, home, power, wealth, reputation, job, children, life’s work—it’s easy to forget the giver and focus on the gift. Maybe this story is a reminder to me that there is really no gift more important than the giver. The One who provides. I forget sometimes—and begin to think and live like I am the provider. Me.

Part of the shock of God’s testing of Abraham is that God needs to know something God doesn’t know. This is weird isn’t it? We like to think of God as knowing everything, but in this story God tests Abraham and at that crucial point in the story the angel blurts out (on God’s behalf) “Now I know!” words that escape our lips when we’ve seen something revelatory—figured out something we didn’t understand before. “Now I know that you fear God since you have not withheld your son, your only son from me.” Fear here doesn’t mean scared of—fear is the respect, the honor, the awe one has for the divine. To fear God is to put God at the center.

The whole story starts with the strange words, “After these things…” which we can’t be sure what things it’s referring to, really. Maybe all the ways in which human beings since creation have been drawing back from God—from the garden, to the murder of Abel, to the events after the flood, the tower of Babel—you name it. Those were things to remember. Or maybe the things are Abraham’s actions all these many years, keeping the faith, and doubting, trusting God and trying to do it his own way, trying to please Sarah, all of it. Maybe after all these things God wasn’t quite sure that pinning divine hopes on this one human being was such a good idea after all. The covenant with Abraham was built on love really—and love is a risky thing. God is vulnerable in this story—just as Isaac and Abraham are. God’s provided and tracked all this way with Abraham and God wants to know if Abraham has given himself to God.

Which brings us to Jesus. There are references in the New Testament to how Jesus crucifixion was like this story of the binding of Isaac. How God did not refuse to give even his own son to death. The danger of these comparisons I think is that we get stuck again in the notion that God demands the death of a child. This is not what the crucifixion is about. The story of Abraham is not so much about the death of a child as the willingness to recognize that whatever the gift is it is not the center—the giver is. And whatever is let go off, God is still to be trusted as making provision for us.

The crucifixion is NOT about God demanding the death of a child. It is about God’s love risking all to be with us. The place where the comparison speaks to us today is I think in the vulnerability of God. God who tests Abraham, not knowing. And the God in Christ Jesus virtually naked--vulnerable to human choosing and abuse. These are images that stretch our comprehension and imagination. God so vulnerable as to enter life to its very depths death on a cross. God so loving as to risk our response in the flesh.

Perhaps this is why Jesus in the gospel of Matthew celebrates those who give even a cup of water to his followers. "Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me," he says. God awaits our welcome. Always.

___________________ See the following: Brueggeman, Walter, Genesis, John Knox Press, 1982. Davis, Ellen F. Getting Involved with God: Rediscovering the Old Testament, Cowley Publications, 2001. May, James L., "'Now I Know' An Exposition of Genesis 22:1-19 and Matthew 26:36-46" Theology Today (I don't have the issue).

SERMON, June 22 6 Pentecost

Jeremiah 20:7-13; Romans 6:1b-11; Matthew 10:24-39

I read somewhere not long ago that most Americans have as their real dream the satisfied self. This hasn’t always been the American dream—but for many today it is. The goal of living has shriveled to this: leading a life that brings experiences and feelings of satisfaction. The satisfied self can find fulfillment in a variety of ways: material possessions, power, love, sex, food, drink, drugs, religion even. To this way of thinking when a person looks back over their life they can congratulate themselves when they see that they have been personally satisfied. It’s worth pondering really, what is my dream for a fulfilled life? What is yours? As death approaches what measures would I use to judge the quality of my own life?

The American dream of the satisfied self and the lessons we have heard today could hardly be further apart.

It’s probably a good thing that today is not Bring a Friend to Church Day or Evangelism Sunday. The other day I was talking to a young man who explained that he had been raised in a family that had no spiritual practices or church related experience. When it came to thinking about spirituality he had no thoughts at all. It hadn’t been part of his universe. He’d never thought about faith at all. It would be hard for a person with that kind of upbringing to walk into our service and hear these lessons. In fact, if we are honest it’s very hard for us—we who have been here more than once—who fancy ourselves to be followers of Jesus. It’s painful.

This isn’t the sweet and compassionate Jesus we like to think of. He isn’t gathering the little children to his side to bless them. He isn’t reaching out to raise the little girl up to new life or to tell the woman who’d touched his robe that her faith had healed her. This is a Jesus telling his friends and us that both promise and trouble lie ahead, there is hope and there is painful division. He’s calling them and us to single-hearted dedication. We hear the words about God’s counting the hairs on our heads (and depending on how much hair we have) we are comforted. We hear his promise to acknowledge all who acknowledge him, and we hear his words urging us to have no fear. But those words are enmeshed in a picture of life as a disciple that is filled with pain and loss.

"I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. "That’s where it really hurts. And, it seems so unchristian really! Christ the non-violent one, who stood silent before Pilate, and carried his own cross to the hill.

One translation I read of that line reads: “I have come to bring neither peace nor sword.” Neither peace nor sword—but the truth. And that’s where the sword comes in. The truth cuts deep—cutting us off from our comfort zone, cutting us away from the life of the satisfied self. Disrupting our ways of thinking and acting. Upsetting families, workplaces, communities. God’s love come among us is always “doing violence” to the status quo. Think about it. The truth of God’s love come among us offering us a choice. To choose Jesus’ way is to choose freedom and fullness of life that is deeper and richer than the wildest dream of the satisfied self. And harder too—in some ways. Because the choosing to be and become who our baptism claims us to be; choosing day by day to live a little more deeply into our identity as God’s beloved—God-bearers--this can be daunting and it can set us apart. Cause those divisions Jesus describes.

Perhaps some of you here today have known those divisions. Perhaps your faith has caused others to judge you—to step away from you. Perhaps you have made ethical decisions that have flowed from your faith—and these have caused disruptions to the way things “normally are.” I know people who have paid these costs for their faith—sometimes in the workplace. Many times the highest cost has come within their own family of origin.

One way I can understand Jesus’ use of this metaphor of a sword is that I know that love always brings risk. Loving another person will necessarily involve sacrifice—giving way to the other’s needs. There is no escaping it. To be a loving person is to put yourself in harm’s way. To love is to be vulnerable to another. To love another is to want the best for the other—to listen deeply, to serve faithfully, to take joy in your lover’s joy and suffer in your lover’s suffering. When I counsel young people for marriage it is clear to me that their love for one another will not only bring them to their knees at some point—each will no doubt be brought to their limits—they will someday somehow know pain as well as joy, loss and well as gain: these are connected. And, there will be separation. Their love for one another, their commitment to one another brings changes to their other relationships. Family patterns—say for example around Thanksgiving and Christmas or even the 4th of July will be disrupted. “My son who is expected to be here and always has—is now somewhere else with his wife’s or his partner’s family…” you know the story. Love brings sacrifice, separation, and new order of things.

Jesus is God’s love come into our world—offered to us. Nothing can remain simply as it was. To love in return will bring with it the risks and pain, the comfort and joy that love always brings.

The hardest part of Jesus’ words today is I think the call to single-hearted, single-minded devotion to God and to living our lives as God’s people. If you are like me you want to live more and more integrally as a Christian. You want yourself to be transfigured more and more deeply by God’s grace. God’s spirit at work in us. But in the everyday I find myself confronted by so many choices, so much that entices me to live more like a person in search of self-satisfaction than anything else. What to buy and how much of it? Where to live and how big a place? How much of my wealth can I give away and to whom? How much do I overlook of what goes on in my workplace that is unjust? How do I find time for quiet and prayer when I have a job and family and, and, and… ? Am I called to forgive my sister-in-law for what she did to me? Do I speak up when demeaning jokes are made? All of these little choices are related to the underlying choice. Whose dream do I choose?

In truth I live much of my life in a multi-tasking way. I am often distracted. I get snookered into things that I know aren’t worth my time. I walk around thinking a thousand thoughts at once. I find it hard to choose the path less-traveled—often I choose to pursue my own interests. I long to lose my life for Christ’s sake—but in truth I keep hedging my bets and trying to find my own life—fill my own desires for self-satisfaction. This leads more to death than life—and I know it.

Perhaps in my two-mindedness you find an echo of your own. In this I can only throw myself on the mercy of the One who died with forgiveness on his lips and rose from the dead forgiving his friends. I trust that Christ’s grace exceeds his demands. God come into the world is more than the world can contain—more than we can grasp. The meaning of Jesus life, death and resurrection is something I can only faintly comprehend. His call to me to live beyond fear—to live with single-minded devotion and fearlessness—is a call I yearn to say yes to. over time I have said yes. And I have been changed as I have done so. I have tasted the true fullness of life. But I know I fall short—I domesticate his words—I take the easy way. This is who I am. When we say the confession together that “we have not loved God with all our hearts nor our neighbors as ourselves”—I know how very true those words are.

The good news is that as Jeremiah’s lament so clearly shows us, and as Paul’s description of baptism tells us: the mission is not mine to choose. The mission has chosen me—chosen us. We have been claimed by God—enticed by God—God is the one. God’s grace is already at work in us—enabling us to live into who we are—setting us free to become more and more God’s holy people. We are called to the fullness of life—not paltry lives of self-satisfaction—but lives where we lose ourselves only to find that we are forgiven, loved, and embraced. “Alive to God in Christ Jesus,” as Paul puts it.

--------------------------- Described in the book The Real American Dream by Andrew Delbanco as discussed by Miroslav Volf in “Sharing Wisdom” Christian Century, July 1, 2008, p. 37.

SERMON, June 15, 2008 5 Pentecost

Genesis 18:1-15 [21:1-7], Matthew 9:35-10:8 [9-23]

Consider for a moment this gospel. Jesus sends his friends out to proclaim the good news, to heal the sick, raise the dead, and liberate those bound up. This is their mission. Innocuous you might think. Doing only good. Bringing healing and good news and freedom to folks. All of it good—all of it central to the good news of God’s in-breaking kingdom—that realm of God Jesus always said was in our midst—happening now.

And yet, and yet. . . it’s clear as he gives his instructions to them that he expects not just a warm welcome, and thanksgiving. He expects trouble. With a message of good news, with healing and liberation they will get into trouble. I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves. Think of that image for a moment if you will. Sheep in the midst of wolves. Beware he says they will hand you over to the authorities and you will be flogged, and dragged before the powers that be—because of me. Because of my teaching, my healings, my liberating work, because of the good news of God’s love and forgiveness there will be trouble. Big trouble. Betrayals—brother of brother, parents of child, and children of parents. You will be hated by all.

What’s to hate here? What is it that makes us reject the good news? What is it inside us that makes us want to earn God’s love rather thsn receive it under the divine no-merit plan? What is it that refuses to accept forgiveness? What is it in me that wants to set higher standards than God apparently does about forgiveness? What is it? Is it that I am not ready really to accept the wrong I have done? Am I still blaming others, or am I just plain unwilling to look at the truth of what I have done? Or, maybe I’m so overwhelmed with my guilt that I can’t allow myself to accept God’s forgiveness. I prefer to live as unforgiven—there’s a certain comfort in that—I don’t have to move on. What is it?

What is it that keeps the alcoholic in denial? What is it about me as a young adult that made me refuse to hear the words of my own father when he spoke to me of his concern about the choices I was making and their potential to bring harm to my family? What is it?

What keeps us locked in prisons of our own choosing? What is it that makes it so hard to believe we’ve been set free? What is it that makes it so hard to accept the hand that reaches out to us to help and to heal? What is it that makes us shut our ears to the word that will set us free?

What is it that makes us laugh in derision like the mourners in last week’s gospel lesson who stood outside the young girl’s home—refusing to believe Jesus when he said she was alive. Refusing to believe he would lift her up? What is it that makes us laugh like Sarah, who denied it, and like Abraham himself a bit later—laugh not in joy but in dismissiveness because we know better what is and what isn’t possible.

What is it? What is it that makes human beings turn on the one who comes proclaiming the good news? What is it about healing, about setting free, about raising the dead that is not to embrace?

I can’t fully answer my own question. But I have some clues. The good news always brings with it one thing: change. And change is something we seem to have a hard time accepting. Even when it’s for the best. Even when it sets us free—heals us—calls us out of our self-imposed prisons—even when it raises us from whatever death we’re living in.

Healing always involves change. Liberation means change. Raising the dead is big change. Proclaiming God’s love and forgiveness right here and right now means change.

Change means letting go. I have to let go of my illness when I am healed. Let go of my clutch on the past to move into the future. Let go of the known to step out into freedom. Let go of guilt or let go of resentment to accept forgiveness—to live as a forgiven and forgiving person. Let go of my fear that the good news is too good to be true. Let go of my fear of being disappointed, perhaps—maybe that’s where the laughter came from.

Letting go is risky. Of course not letting go is risky too—but somehow we convince ourselves that the known is safer than the unknown. So we clutch. We try to keep things the way they are or the way they were—who knows?

To proclaim the good news is to upset the powers that be. Even the very little powers that be. Because their job is to keep things under control—keep their power and their order and their structure. Love and forgiveness have a way of piercing through structures—a way of unsettling things we define as normal. We get afraid when newness comes our way. Fear can make us react in all kinds of destructive ways—betrayal of people and our own values—judgment and rejection of others—stopping our ears—running away—all these can be the fruit of fear. Hate. Hate can also be a fruit of fear.

Ultimately to be able to let go of our own efforts to control things—we have to be able to trust. And trust is not that easy to come by in our world today. Our institutions and leaders haven’t given us much reason to trust. Our culture pretty much tells us to trust ourselves. So, it’s hard to put our trust in the God who is in our midst—who is about the work of healing and restoring, freeing and reconciling—the One who brings new life. It’s hard really in our day to day lives to trust God.

Abraham and Sarah are great exemplars of the life of faith. In fact they are held up by all three Middle Eastern faiths as kind of our parents in the faith—Judaism, Islam, and Christianity—all three turn to Abraham and Sarah for inspiration. Even they laughed dismissively at God. They are really very human—very human exemplars. Both of them tried to keep the faith—to trust God and God’s promises—but from time to time they couldn’t do it. They took matters into their own hands and tried to make things work out by their own efforts. If you haven’t read their story recently I commend it to you. It reads like a good novel. It’s hilarious in parts, tragic in others. There is jealousy, lust, betrayal, rejection, manipulation, scheming, laughter, and oh, yes, trust. Our little snippet from the story this morning reminds us that after a slew of times when Abraham himself got in the way of God’s plans, now neither can trust God any longer because Sarah was just too old to have a baby. They knew about these matters. They were informed and consenting adults!

So they laugh dismissively when the angelic visitors tell them of the baby Sarah will bear. And later, when the baby is born they name him Isaac—which means laughter. Not dismissive laughter but the laugh of pure surprising joy! God’s laughter maybe. Isaac. “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” Indeed.

That’s one final point about the good news. It is wonderful. And it exceeds our pitiful tiny imaginative powers.

One thing lies underneath all our human reluctance to trust God. All the “what is it” questions I asked. Underneath all our fear, our efforts to control and make it happen our way, our stopping of our ears to the good news, our unwillingness to let go and to change—underneath all of that is amnesia. Really. . . it’s amnesia. We’ve forgotten who we are. We’ve forgotten whose we are.

The Eucharist is our most precious reminder. In the Eucharist Christ invites us to come together to remember who we are, and who God is, and how God loves and forgives us. No matter what. No matter our fear, our clutching, our guilt, our stuckness, our deadness—no matter our reluctance to trust. We are loved. God dwells within us. We eat the bread and drink the wine and inside our bodies goes the remembering—goes the truth of God with us.

Eucharist. Thanks be to God. Our calling is to live into the truth of who we are and to entrust ourselves to God’s grace—that we might open ourselves to receive the gifts of healing, forgiveness, love, and freedom and share them with others. AMEN, may it be so.

SERMON, June 8, 2008 4 Pentecost

Genesis 12:1-9; Romans 4:13-25; Matthew 9:9-13,18-26

All three of the three great middle eastern religions: Judaism, Christianity and Islam find their deepest truths in the story of Abram (who became Abraham)—all three hold Abram up as the model of faith—the man who left home in his old age for no good reason except that he trusted God’s call and God’s promises to him. This morning we hear just a snippet of the story from Genesis—how God spoke to Abram telling him to leave his home and his kinfolk—his father’s land which would have been his place, his identity, his future,--and go to the land that God would show him. I will bless you, and you will be a blessing to all nations—to the Gentiles would be another way to translate that word nations. So, the story says, Abram went—with his nephew, his wife, Sarai, and all their possessions and persons. Abram journeyed on by stages we learn in the last line.

And if you haven’t read the story recently it’s a good read. Worth your time—and saying that he journeyed on by stages is putting it mildly. Fits and starts, faith and doubt, belief and unbelief, trust in God and trust in self, acting nobly and with duplicity, sometimes waiting on the Lord and sometimes not—sometimes just trying by any means possible to stay alive and make the promises come true on their own—that was Sarai and Abram’s journey by stages. It has all the components of a good novel: jealousy, violence, trickery, suspense, sex, dangers seen and unseen, threats from without and within. It was a very human journey of faith. Very human. These are our parents—the models of faith for us-Christians, Jews and Moslems.

Paul uses the story of Abraham to remind us that the same God who gave life to the dead and called into existence the things that did not exist for Abram is the same God who raised Jesus from the dead. The God in whom we put our trust—our faith—the one to whom we give our hearts. This God who gives life to the dead and who brings new things into being is indeed good news for us—we who so often find ourselves near death of one form or another.

But, it’s radical stuff. This God and this faith. And these little stories from Matthew’s gospel make that clear—more than once. The good news about God is always breaking out of the box—creating an uproar, daring to go where it isn’t supposed to be, and companioning the ones who by all rights shouldn’t be at the table. The God who set Abram and Sarai moving into the unknown future that held promise not just for them, but for all the world is the same God who came among us in Jesus. Calling us out into the unknown, urging us to leave behind the comforts of the past, the comforts of home even to dare to trust the radical energizing making new love of God.

I love the way Jesus sees in these stories. First, he’s walking along and he sees a man called Matthew sitting by the tax booth. You’ll notice there is no judgment here. He sees a man called Matthew sitting by the tax booth. He looks him in the eye, no doubt, and says, “Follow me,” and he does just that. Later, when they’re eating a meal together along with others, the Pharisees see, and what they see is “tax collectors and sinners.” Bad people, whatever their sin is. It isn’t something you want to be around. That’s what they see. Jesus apparently sees disciples—followers. He reminds the Pharisees that what is essential is mercy, not sacrifice—mercy not, temple ritual. Mercy not even tithing. Mercy. He’s come for the sick he says—not the righteous—I suspect in that context he means self-righteous. Those who have it all together and know it. You know some of these people.

At any rate, what happens next is that a synagogue leader comes to him begging him to come and touch his daughter who is dead so that she will live. (There’s that definition of God again—the one who gives life to the dead). On the way there a woman who’s been bleeding for years and is ritually impure touches the fringe of Jesus prayer shawl and he turns and sees her. Who does he see? A ritually impure woman? No, he sees a woman of faith. He celebrates her faith and she is healed.

Risky kind of faith she had—it led her to do something that she shouldn’t have done—cross a boundary—this reaching out and touching. She put her faith in the God who brings life to the dead.

When they get to the synagogue leader’s home Jesus sees again. This time he sees the flute players and the crowd making a commotion. Folks mourning the dead. Really into death were they. Jesus dismisses them—sends them away. In spite of their derision, he knows their presence is not needed. It’s inappropriate. For God is the God who lifts up the little girl children and others who are of no real account and calls into existence things that did not exist. He reaches out to her and lifts her up to new life.

Simple little stories really—but all about how Jesus sees folks for who they are—not the way society sees them—and how seeing them he brings new life where there isn’t any. That new life is shocking though—it stretches the boundaries of decency and breaks the ways society is constructed. From the Pharisees who can’t accept that God would have a teacher sit companionably at a meal with outcasts and sinners—to the healing of the woman who was considered unclean—to the raising up of the little girl—this is God acting in ways that unsettle.

And you can’t help but wonder what this God might be doing among us today. In what ways might God be disturbing the waters of our complacency, challenging the boundaries of what we’ve always believed, been taught, accepted. It’s easy to sit from our vantage point and criticize the Pharisees, and the mourners at the little girl’s house—but not so easy to admit to our own rigidities and easy acceptance of death. Not so easy for us to handle the radical call of God’s mercy in our midst in our own lives and communities. This may be the central issue facing our Anglican communion today.

With whom would Jesus be eating today? Where? What sorts of people would he be seeing for who they really are, and calling to follow him, raising them up to new life? In what ways does the good news of God’s mercy challenge us to move out into the new thing God is doing?

I recently read Desmond Tutu’s book No Future without Forgiveness about the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa—and I can’t help but think of how radical an act it was for the leaders of that country to embrace a new way of living together in which truth and mercy came before justice really. There was a justice of a sort, but not the kind we traditionally think of it. There could be no reparations really for all those decades of apartheid. No eye for an eye justice was possible—so they dared to trust something new.

What radical acts of mercy and love God is calling us to here—calling you in the community of Cloverdale, me in Santa Rosa. Us in this poor hurting, divided, judging, violent world of ours. To what acts of mercy and healing is God calling us in our families? In our neighborhoods, among our friends? In what ways is it time—God’s time—for barriers to fall—for us to see one another with the eyes of Jesus—and to know each one as a beloved child of God period. If we are honest, you and I are ourselves poor, hurting, divided, judging and capable of violence—aren’t we? God looks at us too, with eyes of mercy—always.

It is not left up to us to make it happen on our own. Our calling is to entrust ourselves to God—God’s mercy—God is the one who brings life where there has been death, unity where there seems to be only division, the new thing where none is imaginable. Like Abram and Sarai we are meant to be a blessing to our world—through the grace and mercy of God. So, let’s hold on to Matthew, the synagogue leader, the woman with the hemorrhages—all of them gave themselves over to that mercy, and were able to step out in faith from what was familiar into God’s unknown. No doubt, like Abram and Sarai, they journeyed on in stages. This is good news. Indeed.

SERMON, June 1, 2008 3 Pentecost

Deuteronomy 11:18-21, 26-28; Romans 1:16-17; 3:22b-28; Matthew 7:21-29

Years ago I worked at a retreat center in Southern California. Every year a group of Jewish women would come on retreat. One year they asked if they could nail a mezuzah on the doorpost of the main entrance to the retreat center. Perhaps you are familiar with mezuzot. Tiny parchments usually in a special little case (ours was ceramic). On the parchment is the Jewish prayer the Shema: “Hear O Israel, the Lord your God is One. Blessed be the name of his glorious kingdom for ever and ever. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your might.” That mezuzah was a sign of blessing—and of commitment too—to the One God. It stood at the threshold of the retreat center. People passed by on their way in, and on their way out as they left the retreat center and returned to their daily living. Anyone knowing what a mezuzah is upon seeing it, would immediately know that it contained those words—the words of God that God urges the people to put in their hearts and souls—bind them as a sign on your hand and on your forehead says the text.

Decades ago it wasn’t that strange to find an open Bible in the living room or dining room of a home. Children memorized scripture and knew the stories from the Bible. I knew a woman once whose house was full of little snippets of the Bible. Some of them were ceramic renderings of certain biblical passages—others were simply handwritten on post-its or pieces of paper taped to the mirror in the bathroom for example “ Jesus said, I am the light of the world” or “God sent his only Son into the world not to condemn it….” or on the refrigerator “Father, forgive them.” These little notes were everywhere, you couldn’t avoid them if you went into her house. It seemed a bit much to be honest. But, there was no doubt that her home was filled with words of God and about God. In Hispanic cultures where I grew up most families had pictures of the Virgin of Guadalupe, or Jesus in their homes, as well as some little prayer space or home altar—visible to those who entered.

You and I—most of us-- live in a different world today—and mostly in the homes of Episcopalians I visit there aren’t many open Bibles on display. And few children I meet these days can quote passages or even tell stories from the Bible very well—many adults can’t either for that matter. Many of us weren’t raised that way—immersed in the word of God--having our imaginations inspired by Biblical narrative.

And, while I have known folks who can do a lot of quoting of Scripture but not much living the life of a Christian—[sometimes it is all show and no substance!] I wonder if we haven’t lost something worthwhile. Our passages form Scripture this morning certainly emphasize how important it is for us to be steeped in the words of God. But, even more vital is the call to a living faith—a living relationship with God. In Deuteronomy God urges us to choose—choose life or death—both set before us. Real life—the fullness of life—is found in obedience to God’s commandments—and that word obedience means to listen deeply and hard. Listen intently and responsively with ears turned to the divine word. Death results from our following other gods.

This sounds like a good strong dose of divine judgment—My Way or the Highway, says God. But really, I think the words are more about the results of our choosing to be in relationship with God (Hear O Israel, the Lord your God is One…. Love the Lord with all your heart….) contrasted with the results of living with our ears attuned to other gods—and our minds and lives given over to their ways. Life and death. In another passage God says, “I have set before you life and death, choose life.”

It seems so simple really—but in truth, most of us have tasted both life and death through our choosing. Life when we are attuned to the One God—death through our listening to, attending to, following other gods. These gods are multiple today as they were in the days of these Israelites living in Canaan. Think of them: the god of consumerism, the god of success, of work, of achievement, of having it my own way, of control, of addiction, the list goes on and on. The little gods that entice us into their worlds and following them we come up empty, hurting, longing for the real One and with our fists full of something more like a virtual reality—ultimately empty.

Jesus too has some hard words for us—calling us to consider our lives—not just our words. Whereas in Deuteronomy we’ve heard how important God’s word is, now we hear that our words, even when they are “Lord, Lord!” may mean nothing when it comes to a real relationship with God. We know of course that real intimate relationships cannot be built on words alone. Someone who says, “You know I love you,” and then hits you, or ignores you, or shuts you out or betrays you is not a lover—not someone in a loving relationship. Furthermore, Jesus says, doing spectacular deeds isn’t enough either to build a loving relationship. This is perhaps like the husband who forgets his wife’s birthday and then a week later sends her a dozen roses and offers to take her out for dinner—in three weeks when he can fit it in his schedule. Or the wife who gives her husband an elaborate surprise party when what he would really like is an intimate dinner for two.

We know all this about words and the real work of relationship—and we know that beneath showy deeds and events there sometimes lies a relationship in trouble.

Our beliefs do shape our practices. What we really honestly deep down believe does form us as persons and forms our choices too. If you want to know what you really believe—not just what you say you believe—consider your own behavior—your choices, your actions. Those will tell you what you really believe and trust. It’s a good thing from time to time to take stock of our lives—and our relationships and see how they reflect the faith we proclaim. How much does what I do flow from my belief in God—my giving my heart to God? How much flows from fear, or habit, or “the ways things have always been in our family,” what my boss said, or a word from one of those lesser gods.

This is heavy stuff. All this emphasis on our actions –how we live our daily lives—as what’s most important. It’s a bit scary. If you are like me, you know you don’t measure up as a very good follower of Christ. I do things every day that show me that I haven’t really trusted the One God or the ways of Jesus. I make judgments of others, live less generously than I might. I get distracted and forget who I am and that I am loved by God. I forget that others are too. Sometimes fear is my little god of the moment. It’s no wonder that the mezuzah goes on the doorpost—that place of transition—of moving from one place to another, one life to another—one world to another. Those are so often the places of anxiety and stress—the transitions—when I get exposed for who I really am. There maybe more than anywhere else I need to be reminded of the Shema.

So where is the good news in all this? The good news is very good news indeed—as Paul says in that remarkable line: “I am not ashamed of the gospel: it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith.” The good news is the power of God. What Jesus is talking about is how the actions of our lives will flow out of our inner selves—our inner lives of faith. How our love of God will naturally be reflected in our lives—our lives will honor God as we let the power of God—the love of God—into our innermost selves. We don’t need perfect faith or perfect lives to be loved by God. And God’s love when we open ourselves to it—will do the transforming work. Remember, scripture is full of people like Peter who failed to keep the faith and yet was transformed by the power of God to become the rock of the church.

The words of God are important. Knowing them, having them in our hearts and on our lips and foreheads and hands is to live marked by that central relationship. Loving, speaking, thinking, serving flow then from our insides out. God’s power is what we put our trust in. Our actions—and the house built on rock—flow out of that relationship. It is all that matters. We have come here this morning to be fed—and as we eat the bread and drink the wine, let us remember the God who is One is with us—within us—at work even now. Tell your children, write these words on your gates and doorposts. The gospel is the power of God for salvation. That’s the good news. Indeed. --------- Mezuzah painted by Irina Smilansky @ ir4uk82@walla.co.il with the Hebrew letter shin "Shomer dlatot Israel" "Keeper of the doors of Israel"

SERMON, May 25, 2008

Psalm 131, Isaiah 49:8-16a; Matthew 6:24-34

I begin with a confession. Years ago I remember a day, when shortly after my second child was born I drove to the market and back home. The baby fell asleep on the ride home. When I got home I got Eric, the toddler, out of the car, all his gear, and the groceries and went into the house. I’d been there for several minutes when suddenly I realized that I had forgotten the baby! I’d left the baby in the car in the driveway. I’d forgotten I had an infant. I picked up Eric and raced outside. Chris was still asleep. I was embarrassed and ashamed of myself. I was a mother who’d forgotten her child.

God speaks through Isaiah to us to assure us that as hard as it is to imagine… even though a woman (some woman) might forget her nursing child, God will not forget us. The whole description of God in this passage is comforting. God addresses his servant—we’re not sure who that is—but in any case God speaks of bringing the people home out of exile—you have the image of the shepherd leading the sheep along the highway—protecting, caring, guiding—bringing them home. The passage comes out of the time of exile and the people who hear these words of comfort are still not at all sure they can trust them. After all they are far from home and it’s been a long time. Just where has God been? They’ve felt forsaken really, forgotten. “Sing for joy, O heavens and exult O earth!” for God is the One who comforts the people and has compassion on them. This is who God is. No matter how hard the times—no matter how absent God seems. God is more dependable than even a nursing mother!

Psalm 131 echoes this imagery. The one who prays to God is humble—not striving for things beyond his or her capacity. Not trying to make the world go round by his own power. Not trying to fix everything by her own determined effort. No, “still my soul and make it quiet, like a child upon its mother’s breast my soul is quieted within me.”

What could be more foreign to our lifestyle? I mean really. We are a nation of get up and go! Make things happen! Takin’ care of business! How often to you see an image of someone quieted—someone with a soul quieted within? Our heroes are take charge types. Control is the name of the game in our culture. Do, do do. Achieve, achieve, achieve. Get while the getting is good. Earn your place. Grab as much stuff as you can and then protect it. Insure it. Put it in the bank. Install gates. Hire a guard. Add on another garage.

Which of course brings us to Jesus and his discomforting words from Matthew’s gospel. You know the words where he suggests that we can’t serve two masters at once. Just the metaphor of serving—of slavery—is enough to cause us to shut down. We have been raised to view ourselves as having no masters. Or, perhaps we understand ourselves to be the masters of our own fate.

And then all those words about the birds of the air and the wild lilies in the field and about how we can stop worrying about our needs for food and clothing. God will take care of us. I’m reminded of that old song, “Don’t worry. Be happy!”

If you are like me you have a hard time swallowing these words. Because I have other images—images of refugees, hungry children, diseased children, people walking across deserts in rags seeking refuge. People are hungry all over the globe right now—the price of rice is skyrocketing. The new world order has some painful realities. We know about this. So, what could it mean that God will take care of our needs? If that’s the case, where is the evidence? That’s the kind of thinking I get into when I hear this passage.

I forget the context of these words. They are part of Jesus sermon on the mount. After the beatitudes—come these words, and they are focused on those first words—the ones about serving more than one master. When I let myself ponder those words I know that as foreign as they sound in my 21st century American ears—they are truth.

I knew a man once who worked in a business that was owned by a couple—and the poor guy could never figure out whose orders to follow. The husband would tell him one thing, he’d start to do it, and then the wife would criticize what he was doing and tell him to do the opposite. He found other work.

I think of the woman I knew who left her job to be with her partner who was dying.

I think of the man and wife I know whose marriage fell apart when each was more attuned to the master of their separate careers than to their relationship. Addictions become our masters.

The image of a slave with two masters is so vivid. It seems so foreign to us. But in truth its something we deal with everyday. What are our priorities? To whom do we listen? Who gets our attention? Whose songs do we hum? Whose images pop into our brains? Whose words do I quote? What is most important? Really?

I think of the way that my own money and possessions burden me—weigh me down—occupy my thinking. Some years back I sold my two-bedroom house and downscaled. I moved into a small condo and at the time I got rid of lots of things—books, furniture, clothing, kitchen stuff I hadn’t used in years, having to care for the yard, maintain the roof, you know the endless stream of responsibilities. I remember one day when my garage door opener got stuck with the garage door in the up position. When I went to work that day, I worried that thieves might grab all the stuff I had lining the walls of the garage—or who knows, might even enter the house. When I moved, I had to make decisions about what was important to keep and what was I clutching for reasons I had long since forgotten—or for no reason at all except habit. I got rid of many things. And I discovered an incredible freedom. I hadn’t realized what a burden all that stuff was. I live a leaner life now—and it’s a lot freer. I can put my attention and energies elsewhere now.

Some of us don’t have a lot of stuff. Some of us with stuff or without stuff spend most of our time worrying about how we are going to pay our bills—meet the mortgage, pay for food, gas, prescriptions. Can I get a job that will give me medical insurance? How could I possibly live on social security? These are realities—even in the world’s richest country. Worry itself can become our master.

Jesus’ words are not really telling us we can just kick back and wait on God to pick up the tab at the pharmacy. Rather, they are an invitation to enter into a relationship that transforms our lives—that sets us free. These words about the two masters are true. Jesus’ relationship with God was the central commitment in his life. You know how our relationships form us. The voice Jesus heard, the images he saw, the words he spoke—were God’s. God the center – the one master to whom Jesus listened. And this relationship is what set him free to live in the real world with all its ups and downs, its scary moments, its hardest of times—times of abandonment, pain, suffering, loss, ridicule—you name it. That one relationship is what made it possible for Jesus to live the loving, caring, compassionate life he did.

The issue is trust really. Who are we going to trust? Ourselves to do it on our own? The government to take care of us? Business to take our interests to heart? Buying more things to fill the void in our souls?

Psalm 131 suggests that we trust the Lord. We wait upon the lord. Think of that. Waiting. Quieting our souls, listening for God, waiting on God, as we rest securely in the arms of our mother—The image of the infant at peace, richly fed, caressed, warm, serene on her mother’s breast—is so intimate—almost more than we can bear. But this is the invitation: I can stop trying to make it happen, I can stop trying to worry myself into security, we can stop trying to control the universe—do not occupy yourself with great matters!

We can’t do this all at once. My struggles to live free from the binds of consumerism—the burdens of stuff continue. Everyday I have new choices to make. But the promise is that as we turn to God—to that relationship—over time we will be transformed—made a new people—a people knowing who they are and whose they are. Not free from everyday challenges and problems—not free to forget that we are connected to others who have far less than we do—not free to forsake God’s creation as though it were not a part of us and we of it.

But here is the good news: You and I are tattooed on God’s hands; we are in God and God is within us. Our center is there. When we live from that center the fullness of life is ours.

SERMON, May 18, 2008 TRINITY SUNDAY

Sermon preached at the Spring Retreat for the Associates of the Sisters of the Transfiguration "Forgiveness: Seeing with the Eyes of God"

Today is Trinity Sunday—the only Sunday in the year devoted to a doctrine of the church (for which we can no doubt be grateful!). I know priests who do what they can to leave town on Trinity Sunday, but I have to confess that I was overjoyed to see the lectionary readings for today—the closing day of our retreat. Father, Son, Holy Spirit; Creator, Redeemer, Sanctifier; Beloved, Lover, Love; God Beyond, Among and Within. The Trinity is a mystery to be entered, not a problem to be solved. The Trinity is not something we Christians just think, the Trinity is something we live into. And it is really the central reality that calls us into lives as forgiven and forgiving.

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 co-equality. It is creativity, on-going creativity.

We tend to get caught up in thinking about God in static terms. The Father (the first), the Child (the second), and the Spirit (the third). 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. The child gives way to the parent, the parent 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 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. (1)

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. 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.

These lessons remind us that God’s threeness and oneness call us to remember that we are related—we participate in the life of this planet and in the divine life. In fact, in the gospel of John, you get such a picture of the intimacy of relationship among the Father, Jesus, the Spirit, and Jesus’ friends that we have a theology not of Trinity so much as perhaps quadralinity (if there is such a word).

I quoted Maggie Ross yesterday who claims that the texts and the context matter—and she is right. (2) Our consideration of forgiveness and its centrality to our faith has been filled with texts—from Scripture and from the lives of people of faith. Our context has been this deep silence in community, and our rituals have embodied something very important: how we know who we are in community. From birth this is so—even as infants we look for a loving face that tells us who we are. Always we are learning who we are and becoming more deeply who we are in the context of our relationships.

As you anointed one another last night, you affirmed the truth of who you are—deeply loved, the beloved children of God, forgiven, and connected to God and to each other. You put the shawl, the symbol of Christ, on one another and you blessed each other. You were made new in Christ.

We are on this journey together. At the contemplative Eucharist each of us came forward and broke our host into the paten. Offering ourselves, our souls and bodies, to God. This is who we are. Individuals yes, but in community. Forgiveness is all about relationship. Its ultimate goal is the restoration of relationship—the acknowledgement at a profound level of the oneness of God’s creation—the oneness we all share in God.

Our faith communities can be the most important context for us—helping us to live ever more deeply as forgiven and forgiving people. Helping us to open ourselves to receive the movement of divine grace that seeks to repair and unite. Within them we hear the texts—they become part of who we are. We share in the liturgy: Baptism and Eucharist help to re-member us and form us into God’s people. Confession offers a path into living more deeply into truth and into God’s forgiveness. Prayer and people of faith who model lives of forgiveness – these support and encourage us. The spiritual practices of our tradition have gifts to give us.

I grieve that so often in our Sunday church we fail to experience these riches of our faith. The church I believe has suffered along with our culture in a cheapening of words. There is a tendency to avoid speaking of hard truth. Yet people wander into church often because they are dealing with very hard truths. Our churches have often become more concerned with a kind of consumer-driven faith than one grounded in the great gift of the gospel. We structure our worship so that people will enjoy it and come back—not drift off to see what the church around the corner or near the freeway has to offer.

At our best though the church can be the community where we are graced to live as forgiven and forgiving people. Where we remember our calling and the forgiven-ness in which it originates. The Trinitarian life is our destiny really. Pray that by God’s grace we be taken up evermore deeply into that divine life of mutuality in intimate relationship.

I close with a story told by L. Gregory Jones in his book Embodying Forgiveness. It is the story of the Palestinian priest Elias Chacour and his congregation in Ibillin, Israel in 1966. He and his people suffer greatly in the midst of the conflict there, and he soon discovers that the congregation itself is bitterly divided. He goes about the village preaching ecumenism but gets no response, except one note that asks him to “Begin first to reconcile brothers, sisters, families together.”

As he celebrated the Eucharist on Palm Sunday he could see that there were so many people in the full church who were at odds with each other. He felt enormous grief about their divisions and inability to truly live into Christ’s peace.

At the end of the liturgy, he walked down the center aisle, closed the doors and locked them, keeping the key. He walked back up the aisle and told the people that he loved them and he was saddened to find them so filled with hatred and bitterness. In the midst of a stunned silence he told them that in the liturgy he had found someone who was able to help them: Jesus Christ. Here’s what he said: “We are gathered in his name. . .”

So on Christ’s behalf, I say this to you: The doors of the church are locked. Either you kill each other right here in your hatred and then I will celebrate your funerals gratis, or you use this opportunity to be reconciled together before I open the doors of the church. If that reconciliation happens, Christ will truly become your Lord, and I will know I am becoming your pastor and your priest. That decision is now yours. (3)

He sat down. There was a long period of silence. No one said anything. The people sat there together in the silence. Finally one man stood up and asked forgiveness of everybody present and offered his own. Then he asked for God’s forgiveness. The church was filled with embraces, forgiveness, and tears. There was a sharing of Christ’s peace. After a time Chacour declared that it was no longer Palm Sunday, but Easter. There had been resurrection; he unlocked the doors and the congregation went about the village from home to home singing the resurrection hymn.

Now of course this isn’t the end of the story. The people of that community had to live into the day to dayness of their forgiveness. But it’s a story that speaks deeply of the truth of our identity and calling. Perhaps it would be a wonderful gift to our church if when the Bishops gather at Lambeth in a few months—they would be locked in a room with Jesus to sit in the silence. AMEN

(1) This musical metaphor for the Trinity I first read about in David S. Cunningham’s These Three are One; The Practice of Trinitarian Theology, Blackwell: Malden, MA, 1998.

(2) Maggie Ross, unpublished paper, posted in online course The Uses of Silence, Church Divinity School of the Pacific, 2008.

(3) L. Gregory Jones, Embodying Forgivness: A Theological Analysis, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995, p. 181 Note: The image is one of the trinitarian images from the Rothschild Canticles; a medieval devotional manuscript from around 1300 located at the Beinecke Library Yale University.

SERMON, PENTECOST May 11, 2008

Acts 2:1-21; 1 Corinthians 12:3b-13; John 20:19-23

Years ago I knew a man—a Christian—who was an attorney. He had been a young man during the Civil Rights movement in the 60s—in his twenties. And in those years he worked for the church. He preached once about one of the moments in his life that he treasured as God-filled—one of those moments that comes to us by surprise in which we become more than who we are and find ourselves deeply connected to God and God’s creation. Here’s how I remember what he told me. He’d been sent into a jail in the deep South somewhere to bail out some black people who had been arrested for participating in a sit in. He was nervous—young and nervous—not that long out of law school, white and from the East. He stepped into the jail, and all along one wall he could see the cells filled with black people, some young some old. He wasn’t sure quite how he would be received by anyone—black or white, but he’d been sent there to try and secure the freedom of those in jail. As he stood there, he was amazed to hear an elderly woman from a cell in the corner, shout out, “Here comes the church! Praise God! Here comes the church! The church has come to us to set us free!” By the time I knew him some 40 years had passed, but he never forgot that moment—when he’d been recognized as an apostle—one sent out into the world. An apostle.

Today we celebrate Pentecost, the coming of the Holy Spirit to the church. We read these two very different accounts of how the Spirit came to Jesus’ friends—his disciples, his followers. There is the Acts account so vivid with its images of fire and rushing wind—the disciples pouring out into the streets speaking the languages of the people there—witnessing to God’s actions in Jesus in words that everyone could understand. So ecstatic was their behavior that some people thought they were drunk. Peter tries to explain that no, they are not drunk. These are the last days he says, and he quotes the prophet Joel to say that what has happened is the first sign of God’s promise to pour out the divine spirit on all flesh. He tells the people gathered there that what this is all about is that everyone who comes to know Christ and call on his name will be saved. The disciples, the followers of Jesus leave the confines of the house where they’ve gathered to go out into the world to share the good news.

In John’s gospel we hear a different account of the coming of the Spirit. This is a much more intimate event. The disciples are in a house, the doors are locked and in the midst of their fear, Jesus comes to them, shows them his hands and feet—the wounds—and as they rejoice in seeing him—he breathes on them. Like God breathing into human beings in the creation story—breathing into the dust of the earth to make the first human; echoing the Spirit that moved over the deep and brought all things into being. This creative, energizing breath of God. And, it echoes a defining moment in Jesus own life—you’ll remember when he read the text from Isaiah in the synagogue in his hometown, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me….” The people there reacted by trying to push him off the cliff when he told them that he had been sent not just to them but to others—others whom they rejected. He reminded them that the prophet Elijah had been sent to the widow of Zarephath, also an outsider. The freedom of the Spirit to go where it will was more than his people could take. God’s vision was too radical for them.

In John’s gospel Jesus comes to his friends and says, “Peace be with you.” He says it twice. This to his friends who had betrayed him. “Peace be with you.” And then, “as the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And, with that, he breathes on them, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”

Two very different accounts of the Pentecost experience. Both corporate—in community—both life-changing. One spectacular in its immediate results: sending the disciples out to become apostles almost before they can take a breath. The other intimate, grounded in personal relationship with Jesus, equipping the disciples to go out—sending them out as Jesus himself was sent by the Father. It could be that these stories were written down so we would know about these ways the Spirit can manifest itself. One fiery, the other in peace.

Both result in the same sending out. Some people refer to Pentecost as the Birthday of the Church—and there is a sense in which this is so. But more deeply I think Pentecost is about the friends of Jesus, his followers, being transfigured into apostles—those sent out into the world. The Good News is for the world. Not just for the church. Not just for the believers. It is for the world: all flesh.

It’s worth thinking about. Our own sending out. Our own being sent as Jesus was sent. What is the difference from being a disciple—a follower—of Christ or being an apostle—one sent out by Christ?

When I think about being a disciple I think about trying to live my life following Jesus’ teaching, looking to his ministry—his healing, his feeding, his comforting and discomforting of others, his praying, his forgiving, his modeling of intimacy with God. I’m his follower when I let his life form my life. The other day I watched as a small boy followed his dad down the sidewalk. He was a couple of steps behind him and he was imitating his father’s stride and swagger. He even moved his arms as his dad did. He was a keen observer of his dad, and a follower. A disciple you might say.

And of course we are called to be followers of Christ. “I am the way said Jesus.” Follow me to God. Find in me that truth that God is within you, “The kingdom is within you.” Follow me into freedom.

But at Pentecost we learn once again that we are called to be more than followers. We are called to be apostles—oh, not “THE APOSTLES,” we all know that—but those sent out into the world nonetheless. And the measure in which we go out is I think the measure in which we are secure in the Peace of Christ. The measure in which we know ourselves to be loved and totally secure—no matter what the world may have said to us yesterday, or this morning, or what it will say tomorrow—we are God’s beloved and we rest in that reality. The intimacy of that breath of God breathed into the disciples is ours today. Each breath we take can be a reminder to us of that. Breathe.

I think of that young man who dared to go into the jail so long ago, not knowing really how he would be received or how he could use his newly minted attorney skills—knowing only really the breath of God within him—sending him out—the peace of God within him that passes all understanding that grounded him for the journey. He was an apostle. In his young self he enfleshed the love of God come to those in prison—those in need—those bound up. The woman celebrated who he was when she shouted out, “Here comes the church!”

You and I are not just followers of Jesus. We have been sent out to witness in our day to the love of God that sets us free. The breath of God that is Spirit. The peace of God that grounds us. Think about your days—and the places and people to whom God is calling you. A friend told me recently about how one of her dearest friends is dying and living now with great pain. He is far away but everyday his wife writes a line or two in their blog and friends can write back. The thing that has most impressed her she says is that in his time of greatest pain friends have surrounded him and his wife. These are friends that have been called out—sent—into just that kind of place many of us fear to go—a place of pain and dying. And perhaps they were fearful too—like the disciples in the room when Jesus came to them and breathed on them.

Signs of the Spirit’s presence are unity, forgiveness, communication, the capacity to stand with each other—a witnessing most often without words to the truth of God’s love come among us. During the Eucharistic prayer I will ask the Holy Spirit to come upon the gifts of bread and wine and to come upon us. The bread that we eat and the wine that we drink have divine breath on them. So do we. This is the gift of Pentecost. God’s Spirit is for all flesh—for the world.

SERMON, May 4, 2008 7 Easter

Acts 1:6-14; John 17:1-11

I was talking with a friend not too long ago. She works at a university (not anywhere near here). She was telling me how stuck some of the faculty are there. Stuck in the past and unwilling to move into the present (much less into the future). One department’s entire faculty signed a declaration that they would never offer a single online course. Never. . . . I thought about that department when I read our lesson from Acts. And, to be honest, I thought of myself and how often I get stuck in my comfortable patterns with my images of how things are supposed to be.

Jesus in this passage is the resurrected Jesus who has been with his friends for sometime now. They’re gathered outside of Jerusalem and they ask him the same old question. Is this time when the kingdom will be restored to Israel? When you will take care of the Romans? …They keep trying to comprehend the new thing by putting it into old boxes. “It is not for you to know,” Jesus tells them. “Not for you to know”… and then he is taken up into the heavens—he ascends out of sight—leaving his friends with the promise of the Spirit and the charge to become his witnesses. Who has words to explain this mysterious return of Jesus to the Father described here as his being taken up into heaven?

What on earth might his friends have thought when he told them that they would be his witnesses to the ends of the earth? They just stand like this, there looking up to where they last saw him—the sky. By their question you get the impression they are looking backwards—to their old dreams and hopes. By their actions they are staring up into the empty sky.

Emptiness and absence. Know this and “not for you to know.” Paradox and mystery at the heart of our faith.

Jesus who was once with them. And then was crucified, dead and buried—gone--absent. Then he rose from the dead and appeared to them, journeyed with them. Now he is gone again. They are alone. In Luke’s accounting this is kind of a time of stillness between the ascension and the coming of the Spirit. A time of emptiness—waiting and aloneness. A time of living into the promise given, but not comprehended, a time for giving oneself over to unknowing. Living into the unknown that is God. This is the kind of time that makes Americans very uncomfortable. Our ethos is so much about knowing and controlling.

Have you ever stepped out into the unknown? Felt you were being led in a certain direction, but really having little idea of where it would lead you? Perhaps you have made a journey or two like that in your life into the unknown. Actually if you’ve ever loved, you’ve made that journey. I think about that when I meet with young couples coming to me for premarital counseling. They love each other and want to build a life together—but really they have no idea where that life will take them—where their love will lead them. Any of you who are married or living in a long-term intimate relationship know this. These young people haven’t a clue. Love is like that. It takes you into the unknown. You have to entrust yourself to it. Give your heart to the beloved.

Jesus’ friends—once they stop staring up into the heavens wishing Jesus was still there—wishing he was with them as he had been—wishing, wishing no doubt that things had maybe turned out differently—scared maybe of what he said to them about their being witnesses to the ends of the earth… wondering about the things that would remain unknown, Jesus’ friends devote themselves to prayer. Constantly. That’s what they do. They don’t pack their bags; they don’t google “the ends of the earth,” and plot their path; they don’t run away and get busy hoping they won’t feel or notice the absence. They pray. Mary and his brothers are there and so are certain other women.

Let’s pay attention here. Because prayer is about relationship; it’s about an encounter with the beloved. It’s about creating a spaciousness within to meet the divine. The divine that dwells somehow mysteriously in each one of us, and is here too among us. We have come here to this place to pray. To turn ourselves toward God—the great unknown and unknowable—to spend sometime offering ourselves to this relationship that gives all other relationships meaning. Sometimes in the busyness of church life, and even the noisiness of the community as it gathers for worship—we forget our primary goal: to be with God. To be in touch with the divine.

In John’s gospel Jesus is finishing up his last conversation with his friends before his death. It’s a time perhaps like those times when the family and loved ones gather around the bedside of the one who is dying, hoping from a word from the one they love. Perhaps they are already filled with grief, anticipating their loss. Jesus has promised them the gift of the spirit, told them he would not abandon them (they must have wondered what that could possibly mean)—that somehow in his absence he would be present—and he’s washed their feet. Now he prays for them. What a sweet way to end this last time together. Jesus prays to God on behalf of his friends.

Imagine yourself on your deathbed. What would be your prayer for your loved ones? Long life? Prosperity? No suffering? Reconciliation? Health? Faith? What would you ask of God on behalf of those you love?

Jesus prays for God’s glory to be manifest. Glory is a word we say rather often in church, we sing or say the Gloria, we use this word—often perhaps without thinking much about its meaning. In scripture most often glory is God’s presence. Beholding God’s presence. Beholding is not just a question of seeing as in through binoculars from a safe distance; beholding is both to see and to know—know in a sense beyond the ordinary. Know deep down inside yourself, know without even consciously thinking about it maybe—a knowing that just that seeps out your pores. Jesus has manifested God to us and now he prays that the divinity within each of us might become visible. The glory of God manifest in you and in me.

The heart of our faith is all about intimacy of relationship with God. “This is eternal life,” Jesus prays, “that they may know you the only true God and Jesus Christ whom you have sent.” I am struck by the rhythm between silence and word in this story. Jesus the Word, his words of prayer just before the silence of his departure. His death—the time of great silence—and then resurrection flowing from that silence. Now we hear his words of prayer that flow into the silence of his absence.

To go back for a moment to Acts, we don’t have any description of the disciples’ prayer after they finally stopped gazing into the heavens and returned to Jerusalem. But I can only imagine it was mostly in silence. What was there to say in the face of the unknowing, the mystery, the paradox?

Our own worlds are so bereft of silence. The other day I went to fill up my gas tank and discovered that the filling station now has little tv-like objects on top of each pump—these are filled with images and noise, words flooding the area inviting me to make other purchases and to think consumerized thoughts. What a deal! I can’t just be in relative silence now when I pump gas? Can’t I have even a moment’s peace?

The noisiness and the busyness of images splayed across every surface—with new surfaces being created all the time—these are damaging to our souls—to our relationship with God and with the God who is to be found deep within us. They keep our minds occupied—usually in a hyper-active state—and so often put images in our heads that never get erased: images of violence, enmity, and hopelessness. You know about all this. This is the world in which we live. We are kept from entering the deep silence within. We begin to believe that we are what we think. That our myriad thoughts, judgments, interpretations are LIFE.

Jesus prays for us that while we are in the world we will be protected—and that we will know the love God has for us—that we will live ever more deeply into who we are and who we were created to be. That we will be one—with each other and with God. We have come here to this place to offer ourselves to this relationship—to give thanks for it—for the God who gave of Godself that we might know the boundaryless love in our own lives—our own bodies. That we might dare to risk the unknown: risk opening ourselves to the mystery that is God. We come here to fill our minds and hearts with images that differ from those on the screen at the gas station. We give ourselves to God in music and song, in the passing of the peace that acts us concretely into oneness with each other and with God, in the offering and in the sacrament. But in our world of so much noise it is good to sit here together in silence to offer God some spaciousness within.

Jesus is gone. He has one-ed himself with God in the ascension. We cannot begin to fathom this mystery. There is much that is not for us to know perhaps. Much will remain unknown. But this much we know, we are God’s. We are meant to be with God and to honor the God within us. Within all of us. We are invited into the Word and into the silence from which it comes. We are invited to enter the deep silence of ourselves where we may learn to trust the One who is there and who can lead us into the unknown that is love.

I invite you now to sit together in silence. If your mind gets busy, simply notice that and turn your attention to your breath or to a word, perhaps today we could use the word love. Let us sit in silence.

SERMON, April 27,2008 Easter 6

Acts 17:22-31; John 14:15-21

The other day I was telling a friend that I would be here in Gualala with you today to preside at the Eucharist and to preach. She is not a church-going person, but she asked, “What is the church like in Gualala?” I’m never sure what that question means, but I told her that Shepherd by the Sea is a Lutheran-Episcopal congregation meeting in a beautiful Roman Catholic church. There was a silence as she took all that in. And, then I said, “The church building sits in the redwoods and looks out over the ocean. Really there is no need to preach. We should all just sit in silence and stare straight ahead.” And, in fact, we’ll do that together in a little while.

But I know you’d be terribly disappointed if I said nothing at all. . . You’ve come to expect words at this point. . . so I’ll offer a few words. . spoken in the context of the silence and the beauty of this place.

I start with Gualala—this place in which most of you live: with the ocean, clouds, sun, cliffs, winds, beaches, the trees, meadows, birds and all the other creatures who live here with you. Such an incredible world—beautiful—filled with diversity and life, and all so intertwined. The oneness of it all—you can’t help but recognize that. How it’s all interrelated—of a piece. The pure gift of God’s creation—its oneness and its diversity. You can’t help but give thanks for it—for being a part of it. People in cities I think have a harder time knowing this—holding on to it. Here you live with more silence, and less pavement.

Our texts this morning focus on the presence and absence of God in our lives. On our deep longing for God and on the incredible intimacy of relationship with God that is offered us. In Acts Paul is questioned by some Athenian philosopher-types. He begins by celebrating what they do know about God, what Christians share with them—their commonalities. He has seen their altar to an unknown god and he tells them what he knows about that unknown god. The one unknown to them created the world and everything in it (including Gualala) and the same God gives life and breath to all. God, Paul reminds us, is NOT captured in a man-made shrine or even a beautiful church. God is beyond all capturing—all domesticating—all images.

We are created to search for God, perhaps grope for God, and to find God. In reality he says, God is not far from each of us. I suspect you know about this searching, groping, this longing for God—perhaps like me you’ve searched in some of the wrong places in your life—tried some paths that led to death rather than life. That we are here this morning and in this place is an expression of our continuing longing. All this searching and groping and finding…finding maybe in glimpses—hints of God. Maybe in the sunrise, or the forest, the beach at sunset, in the love of family or friends: intimations of the divine. The one for whom we long: God, is not far off, says Paul. And, in fact in Luke’s gospel Jesus tells us that God—God’s realm—is to be found inside us—within us. Not far off indeed, but in truth, sometimes that is one place we have failed to visit often or at any depth.

Paul tells us that now is the time to repent—to acknowledge who we really are and turn to God. Stop living as though there were no God or that God were limited to being present in a shrine or church on a Sunday morning. Repent, he says, for you will be judged—judged by love, by love come among us, love that lived and died and rose again. Love that lives even now.

In John’s gospel Jesus continues his last conversation with his friends. He has told them he will die. He has washed their feet. He has told them he loves them and that the incredible intimacy of his relationship with the Father is theirs too—theirs to live into. He tells us that he and the Father are one and that they are in us. …wow. . . . Or, as Paul put it, “In God we live and move and have our being.” We, you and I, are God-inspired. God-energized. God is in our essence.

This is too much to take in really. And for Jesus’ friends this was like that time when the family and the loved ones gather around the bed of the one who is dying. They wait for a word from him, but they are already filled with grief and can perhaps only think of his dying—his death—his absence. Perhaps they have feelings of abandonment are already feeling lonely. He tells them that he will not abandon them. What could that mean? God the Father will send another Paraclete—that’s the word that our translation has put as Advocate. It’s a strange word to our ears—a word with many meanings: comforter, advocate, helper, teacher, counselor, exhorter…. one who will lead them into truth. The Holy Spirit we call this one. This Paraclete like Jesus himself will make God manifest. “I will not leave you orphaned,” in my absence you will know my presence. Oh! Just imagine them trying to get their brains around that. . . . And, Jesus tells them to love—to love each other as he has loved them: his commandment. God will be in plain sight as they love. The Paraclete will lead them.

There is no explaining the paradoxes of our faith. Jesus’ presence in absence. God’s emptying of Godself to come among us. God on the cross. The unknown god who lives within us. No explaining these paradoxes. Only a living into them. or, I should say, a dying into them. A letting go—of fear and clutching. A trusting ourselves to the unknown god—the god beyond our understanding, whose love knows no bounds. No bounds.

This unfathomable love that rose from the grave is what and who we long for. This love is what and who transfigures us and sets us free. And yet, we so often feel only the absence. At times the absence of god in this world of ours seems more real than the presence. The divisions, judgment, wars, lies, greed, violence, poverty, abuse, and anguish: you name it. I need not go on with words. But these realities can make us wonder just where this Paraclete might lead us—might be in evidence—might make of us a people in whom God’s love is enfleshed? Visible. If we give ourselves over to this love where might it lead us? If we lived into our true identity what would we look like? What would we be doing?

I heard an interview on the radio last week that spoke deeply to me of this movement of God’s Paraclete in everyday life. Here's how I heard the story: The interview was with a man who had returned from soldiering in Iraq. When he’d gone to Iraq he believed he was going there to help the Iraqi people. And at first it seemed as though this was so. But then one day friends of his in his platoon were horribly ambushed. Women and children had been used to decoy them. It was a devastating scene of brutality and violence. After that he had no trust in any Iraqi—he was filled with fear and rage. Their religion, he was taught, had made them into enemy.

I spoke this week with a friend, a man who fought in Vietnam so many years ago. He was telling me how he’d entered the army when he was 18 and that during the war he was taught to live from what he called his “reptilian brain.” The part of the brain that responds without thinking, that lashes out to defend, that kills and rejects. He told me how he’d enjoyed the feeling that came over him when that part of his brain took over. And he wondered how one ever got free from that reptilian brain. His own recovery had taken years and years—and even now he could see that sometimes it still took over. The soldier in the interview was talking about how he was fighting in Iraq from that part of his brain, I think.

In any case, the man came home from Iraq and entered college. Occasionally he would see someone on campus who looked like a Muslim. Each time he reverted back—was filled with fear and rage and wanted to kill the person—choke him to death. Each time he saw someone who looked like a Muslim he found himself shaking and filled with fantasies about killing. One time he caught himself in this midst of such a fantasy, and he said to himself, “I am home now. This isn’t Iraq. I can’t live like this here.”

Then he did an amazing thing. He went to a meeting of the campus Muslim Society. It was a meeting of not that many people. Men on one side of the room, women on the other. He sat with the women because they were near the door. He had to sit near the door. He was shaking and afraid and filled with mixed emotions. And, of course, he pretty much scared everyone in the room too. They couldn’t imagine why he was there and wondered if he were spying on them. He kept going back and asking questions and listening. And, eventually he was shocked to find out that he had made friends with the man who looked like a Muslim that he’d seen that day when in the silence he’d “come to his senses,” or we might say, in religious words, he’d repented and turned.

I have no idea if this man is a Christian or even a person of faith. I can’t even tell you which program I was listening to. But this is a powerful story of how the Paraclete leads into truth—across the boundaries that separate—into the unity that is God. The unknown God is very near to us indeed. Within us. In the silence. As you look out here and know your own interrelatedness with God’s creation and God’s people in that creation… as you sit in the silence of your own heart… you come to that God in whom we live and move and have our being. You can dare to entrust yourself to that boundaryless love that takes us across the divisions even to make friends with our enemies. It is the love that sets us free to love one another as he loves us. Amen.

Now let us sit here in silence together.

SERMON, April 20 Easter 5

John 14.1-14

I live in a co-housing community in Santa Rosa. The community is made up of adults, some young some old, children, some young, some teens, single folks and married folks. We each have our own condominium complete with kitchen, bath, etc etc—but we’re committed building a community of friends and to doing some things together—we have a garden we share, a workshop, a workout room, and we have two or three meals together every week. The condos are unusual looking in Santa Rosa—they seem to have been deposited there from Arizona or New Mexico or some such place—they are colorful and have swooping shapes—they are grouped around a central courtyard. The architect of the project was Michael Black—a man who also designed quite a number of other co-housing projects—some in our area. He lived in our community. He died suddenly last week of a heart attack—in his car in the parking lot of the post office. His death was a shock and we spent a lot of time last week talking about him and doing our best to help his family as they gathered. And we got ready for his memorial service on Sunday where some 300 people showed up to pay their respects.

All of this echoed in my heart this week as I read and re-read Jesus’ farewell conversation with his friends. You see I’ve been scheduled for some months now to lead a workshop at our community on the 5 Wishes* document—which is a way to make your end-of-life wishes legal in California. From the beginning, it was clear to me that some people had very ambivalent feelings about this workshop and I wasn’t sure how many would show up. I’m still not sure—but Michael’s death brought home how important it is to let your loved ones know what you’d like at the end of your life. Life is fragile and precious.

The workshop I lead will focus mostly on some medical and some personal wishes—how you’d like to be cared for, if you’d like music played when you are dying, if you want to die at home, what you want your family to know—that kind of thing. Jesus in John’s gospel is definitely focused on what he wants his friends to know. Mostly what he wants them to know is that he loves them and will be with them even after his death. They are afraid. They can’t imagine how they’ll go on without him. They feel abandoned. They want assurances that they can survive.

He comforts them. This whole passage is about comforting them. We often read a portion of his words at burials—and then we tend interpret them as referring to the next life—preachers say there will be a room in heaven for the one who has died. Really this is NOT about the next life—but this life. In John’s gospel the kingdom is already among us. The “abiding place”—and that’s a better translation than “place or mansion”—the abiding place prepared for you is already here. Now. Jesus comforts his friends.

Thomas and Philip ask the questions that many of us might ask. They blurt out their need for a blueprint. Thomas wants a GPS. He’s afraid he doesn’t know the way at all. He hasn’t a clue and can’t imagine life without Jesus. Jesus reminds him that in fact he does know. He knows Jesus. Jesus, the way, the truth and the life. It’s all about relationship. Loving intimate, messy relationship. It’s not about a GPS. It’s about knowing Jesus—being in relationship with Jesus. Thomas wants to look at a map—Jesus wants him to look up into his eyes. Urges him to realize that the man who washed his feet just a bit ago, is the one whose life of love and truth is the way. The way of intimate relationship with God—the way of letting go, the way of service, the truth of God’s love and forgiveness, the fullness of life lived in freedom. All of this they have lived into with Jesus. They know more than they think they do.

Philip wants to see the Father. None of this “way” stuff. Cut to the chase. “I’ve never seen God. Show me.” Once again Jesus says, “Look at me.” You’ve seen me. You’ve seen who God is. You’ve come to know what concerns God. What God is about and how God acts.

Those words “I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except by me” have been used in terribly abusive ways. And still are. They are not words directing us to judge others of different faiths. These are words of comfort and embrace. They are words spoken in a time of great stress to dear friends who are close to panic at the thought of the death of the man they’d pledged their life to. He speaks to them in words of love. Anyone who has ever been in love knows these kinds of words, “You are the only one,” “You are the sweetest girl in the world,” “I’ll never love anyone else but you.” In the context of their intimate relationship and of that incredible oneness between Jesus and God the Father these words urge the disciples to look to Jesus—to their relationship with him—and to keep on trusting their lives to that.

Some years ago I went to Deer Park Monastery outside Escondido, California to hear Thich Nhat Hahn, the Buddhist monk speak to his monks and lay followers. He spoke with grace and truth for a while and then took questions from the people gathered there. It was such an American experience. But, upon reflection I have come to see that Philip and Thomas were also in attendance. Almost of the questions were searching for the steps—the sure-fire methods for achieving peace and wholeness. “Tell me, exactly what should I do to make peace with my sister?” “I’ve meditated for years now, what’s next?” “How do I make it happen, spiritually?” Our fix-it, can-do culture was embedded in all the questions. Just tell me the way. I’ll get there. Thich Nhat Hanh deflected every one of those questions. He kept urging them to follow the practice and to let it change our hearts. He talked about letting go, about patience, about trusting the practice. And, then he talked a bit to his monks and lay leaders about the fact that he was over 80 and would not always be around. They would need to grow up in a sense—to deepen their own practice so they could thrive and grow without him.

In some ways this was similar to Jesus’ conversation with his friends. Thich Nhat Hanh spoke in love with compassion for his followers. He reminded them that they already knew the way—they would need to follow it. To trust it.

Jesus says, “Believe in God.” “Believe in me that I am in the Father and that the Father is in me.” We so often think of belief as some kind of intellectual assent. But Jesus is not talking about our thinking. He is urging his friends to trust God—in spite of all the evidence. Give your hearts to this relationship. Put your trust in God and trust me, he says, trust who I am, who we’ve been together, who we are together. Trust that I and the Father are one—trust my love for you. Whereas Thich Nhat Hanh spoke more about the practices of Buddhism—Jesus speaks of relationship. His with his friends, and his with God, and theirs with God, and God’s with them.

And he speaks of letting go. He tells them that trusting this relationship, abiding in it, you might say, they will do greater works. I’m sure they can’t fathom that this could be so. They can’t imagine that this wrenching letting go—his death—his very absence might bring new life—the Spirit. They can’t imagine abiding in his love when he is gone. The great mystery of our faith, and so much a part of Jesus’ own life—his way. His letting go unto death. And rising to new life. Our continual call to let go that new life might be born in us.

How do we live as an Easter people? How do we let our lives speak the gospel to others? There isn’t a ten-step program, there isn’t a self-help manual or an instruction book. Jesus doesn’t have five wishes, he has one: It’s all about relationship. It’s about our getting to know Jesus more and more deeply and getting to know God in him. It’s about opening ourselves to God, entrusting yourself to the one who has come among us to love us into new life. Do not let your hearts be troubled. “Abide in me.” AMEN

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You can learn more about the Five Wishes document at www.agingwithdignity.org, and about Deerpark Monastery at www.deerparkmonastery.org