Sermon - First Sunday of Advent, Year B

Delivered at Holy Trinity Parish, Decatur, Ga.

"Then they will see the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory. Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven." (Mark 13:26-27)

For many years, I missed this part of Advent.

"Oh, it's the first Sunday of Advent, what a lovely season," I'd think to myself. Time for Advent wreaths and the lovely greenery decorating the church, time for the beautiful Advent lessons and carols, time for those fun chocolate Advent calendars to help us count down the days to Christmas.

I had never really looked closely at the Scriptures that we read this time of year - Scriptures that are not just about foreshadowing the birth of Jesus in the first century, not just about waiting for Christmas, but about waiting for that other coming of Jesus - the Second Coming - which we affirm every week when we recite the Nicene Creed - "he will come again to judge the living and the dead."

In all the loveliness of the pre-Christmas season, somehow my mind conveniently edited out the judgment part of Advent.

This is easy to do, especially when you're part of a church that doesn't like to focus too much on judgment. We are a church of welcome, of inclusion, not a church of judgment and exclusion. It's one of the main reasons I chose in my adult life to become an Episcopalian. (I'm not a "cradle" case like some of you out there.)

But we don't get to edit out the judgment part just because it makes us uncomfortable. Whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, every year during the end of Pentecost and the beginning of Advent, we read these passages of Scripture that speak about Jesus's Second Coming and the final judgment of all humanity. And today, I am inviting you to engage with that part of our tradition that we so often want to gloss over.

Now, don't start squirming too much. I'm not going to launch into a fiery "hellfire and brimstone" kind of sermon here. We are still in the Episcopal Church, after all. And actually, I think most of us don't need fear-mongering tactics to get us to reflect on God's judgment. I suspect it is a question that many of us reflect on quite often, however quietly and privately. It is a question basic to the human condition, a question that we revisit every time we encounter sudden and unexpected death.

At its most universal, the question is this: "If I died tomorrow, what meaning would my life have? What would I have contributed to this world?"

At its most specific, within the Christian faith, the question is this: "When I meet Jesus, at my death or at the Second Coming, what will Jesus think of the way I have been living my life? How have I served God with this gift of life God has given me?"

Christian contemporary artist Nichole Nordeman asks this question in a song called "Legacy" that has spoken to me over the years. "I wanna leave a legacy," she sings in the chorus. "How will they remember me? Did I choose to love? Did I point to God enough to make a mark on things?"

The Scriptures we have been reading lately invite us to reflect on these questions. Last week we heard the parable of the sheep and the goats, from Matthew 25 - an image of the final judgment in which Jesus measures the faithful not by how many vestry meetings they've attended or how many church functions they've organized, but by how they've treated the "least of these" - the most vulnerable members of society - those who are hungry, thirsty, sick, or in prison.

And so on this first Sunday of Advent, as we begin to wait for Christ's coming - both on Christmas and in the Second Coming - we are invited again to reflect on this question. How are we living our lives? Are we living in accordance with the kingdom of God as described by Jesus in the Scriptures? Are we choosing to love? Are we pointing to God in all we do? Are we caring for the most vulnerable members of our society? Today marks the beginning of a year of carefully and intentionally asking those questions of our common life together.

Two weeks ago, the diocesan annual council voted to pass a resolution that commits the Diocese of Atlanta to focus intentionally on poverty for the next full church year, beginning today on the first Sunday of Advent and ending on Christ the King Sunday next November. The resolution instructs that every gathering of the church for the next year should begin with the question, "How shall what we are doing here effect or involve the poor?"

I have talked with some clergy from around the diocese who felt frustrated by this resolution and the demands it makes. They felt if they voted against the resolution, it would seem like they were "voting against the poor," and yet they didn't think simply asking this question at the beginning of Bible study or worship or vestry meetings would really accomplish anything - and worried that it would seem forced and inauthentic.

I can understand their concerns, but I was excited when I heard about this resolution. Call me naïve, but I think this kind of question is exactly the type of question the church should be asking every time it gathers as the body of Christ. To me, this is a "final judgment" kind of question.

In my vision of the Second Coming, if Jesus were to walk through those doors right now, I feel fairly confident he'd be asking us just such a question - how has what we have been doing here, in this place, effected or involved the poor, the most vulnerable of society? Would Jesus recognize this place and our work here as a continuation of the work of reconciliation and justice he began in first-century Palestine?

I acknowledge how cumbersome it may seem to keep this question at the forefront of every gathering of the church for the next year. But I think that is precisely the point. The prophetic voice has never been easy to hear. Sure, it may seem awkward to bring this "agenda item about the poor" into situations where it doesn't seem to "fit" - the Seniors in Action trip to hear the Atlanta Symphony's Christmas concert later this month, or the Feminist Theological Reflection Group's Advent party, or the next young adult dinner gathering - what do any of these activities have to do with the poor? Well, perhaps that is precisely the question we should be asking of all these activities.

At its best, this exercise will bring an awareness of poverty into those situations and circumstances where we do not usually think about it. Perhaps if we approach this year remembering how deeply and inextricably God's judgment is linked to our treatment of the most vulnerable among us, we might allow the prophetic voice of God to create in us a conversion of heart, mind and action with regards to our relationship with the most vulnerable in society.

As a parish that already does a great deal of outreach to "the poor" of our own city and around the world, I would encourage you, the people of Holy Trinity, to reflect particularly on this aspect of the question: "How shall what we are doing here effect or involve the poor?" We already do so much to "help" the poor; how can what we do in this place more fully involve the poor, so that we can break down the barriers between "us" and "them" that the language of "the poor" and "the rich" often creates? How can this community bring together people of different social classes to worship and share a common life together?

What would it look like, for example, if we both donated food to DEAM and invited our DEAM customers to worship with us on Sunday mornings? What would it look like if we went and spent time with the poor by becoming involved in the ministry of the Church of the Common Ground, an outdoor worshipping community for homeless men and women in downtown Atlanta? When we look around the table as we are gathered for Eucharist or for the many meals we will share together in this place over the next year, may we continually ask ourselves the question - who is not here? And what can we do to invite and involve those people in our life of worship and ministry in this place?

These are "final judgment" kinds of questions. How shall what we are doing in this place effect or involve the poor? How will our lives make the love of Christ known to the world? What would Jesus find in this place, and in our hearts, if he were to return today? The answers have implications not just for our personal reckoning as we stand before God in the final judgment, but for the kind of church and community we will be here and now.

Amen.

Sermon - All Saints' Day

Delivered (from memory - no notes!) at "Worship @ the Welcome Table," Holy Trinity Parish (Decatur, Ga)'s alternative, Saturday night worship service.

We saw him every Sunday.

His spot was by the trashcan on the corner of Church and Brattle Streets in Harvard Square, right across the street from the Crate and Barrel. From there, he sold copies of "Spare Change News," a street newspaper on issues of poverty, produced by volunteers, and sold by homeless and formerly homeless vendors on the streets of Cambridge, Massachusetts. From beneath his wool cap, his dark face would light up when he saw us, and we all came to expect the familiar greeting:

"Hello, family!" he would say to us as we approached him, a United Church of Christ minister, an Episcopal deacon, a Methodist seminary student, and me, just a random student of religion in graduate school who was absolutely sure that she was NOT interested in ordained ministry! (pause here for laughter ;o)

We would return Butch's greeting, "Hi Butch! How're you doing today?"

"Doin' alright, doin' alright," was always the response. His large grin was unfailing as he picked out which sandwich he'd like from the assortment we brought every week, and gladly took the clean socks that we offered, and always insisted that we all hold hands while he led us in prayer on that street corner, as busy shoppers brushed past us.

Butch was one of our many parishioners in The Outdoor Church of Cambridge, an ecumenical Christian community that takes the church to those who either cannot or will not reach it on their own.

Every Sunday for over a year while I was in grad school, I worshiped with The Outdoor Church in Cambridge Common, a large public park right outside of Harvard Square. We held an outdoor Eucharist, a liturgy that began every week with the same passage of Scripture that we just heard sung in the video:

Jesus said, "Come to me, all you that are weary
and carrying heavy burdens
And I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me;
For I am gentle and humble in heart;
and you will find rest for your souls;
for my yoke is easy, and my burden light."

After the Eucharist, we'd share a simple meal together, usually comprised of sandwiches, fruit, and - of course - cookies. Then we'd load up all the extra food we had into coolers, and we'd set off into Harvard Square, with sandwiches and juice and cookies, and communion. Instead of setting up a soup kitchen and waiting for the hungry to come to us, we went to them.

I began volunteering with The Outdoor Church after about a year and a half of trying to ignore this inner constant nagging that told me that Jesus would probably be much more likely to be found hanging out with Boston's homeless population than going to class with a bunch of academic intellectuals, the likes of which I was surrounding myself with in graduate school. The Jesus I met in the Gospels seemed to be more concerned with feeding the poor and reaching out to the disenfranchised than almost anything else.

The Gospel lesson for today illustrates what some theologians have called Jesus's "preferential option for the poor." In it, Jesus turns conventional wisdom on its head, and calls "blessed" precisely the opposite of the things we usually speak of as blessings. Think about it. Most people use the term "blessed" when they are describing something good that's happened to them. "I'm so blessed to have my good health," or "I'm so blessed that my children are safe." "I'm so blessed that things are going so well for me right now at work." "I'm so blessed to have this house and this money."

But Jesus doesn't say that. Jesus says, "Blessed are you when things are really NOT GOING WELL. Blessed are you when you are HUNGRY. Blessed are you when you are POOR. Blessed are you when you are MOURNING."

It's not a coincidence that we read this scripture on All Saints' Day, the day we remember all those saints of the church who have gone before us. For a saint is not, contrary to popular culture belief, a person who is perfect or lives a holy life in such a way that they never have any trouble. But a saint is one who recognizes the holiness in imperfection.

The Church hasn't always done a very good job of reminding us of this -- if you think about the icons that we have that represent the saints (pictured at right) in these sort of statue-like figures, holding out their hands in blessing, with halos, who look very much removed from who we are as living, breathing human beings that make mistakes.

But the Episcopal Dictionary of the Church defines as saint as "a holy person, a faithful Christian, one who shares life in Christ." Notice it didn't say "perfect" anywhere in there. Faithful, yes. Perfect? No.

So what does it mean to be a saint? To be holy, faithful? To be one who shares life in Christ? What does it mean to share life in Christ?

If our scriptures for today are any indication, perhaps to be a saint is to recognize the blessedness in the things that the world often devalues, avoids, or shuns.

This All Saints' Day, as I remember the saints who have gone before us, I am particularly remembering Butch. I left the Outdoor Church in 2006 when I graduated and moved away from Boston, but I've kept in touch with the ministers - Jed, the UCC minister and Pat, the Episcopal deacon. And in February of this year, I received an email from Jed with some sad news.

"Pat and I have some bad news," he wrote. "Butch died sometime two weeks ago, apparently of a heart attack. Last summer he told us he needed to be hospitalized for a few standard tests, and then disappeared."

Jed and Pat tried to visit Butch in the hospital, but to no avail. They had no contact information, they couldn't find him, the hospitals were unhelpful. They finally learned of his death from Frenchy, one of our other parishioners in The Outdoor Church who was sort of the unofficial "mother" of the Harvard Square homeless community, keeping tabs on everyone and informing us of what everyone was up to if we hadn't seen them in a while.

When I heard about Butch's death, I wished more than anything that I could have gone to his memorial service. You see, for me, Butch was one of the saints. Butch's faith was an example to me. Butch taught me a lot about looking for the best in everything and everybody. About seeing the blessings in those things I might not be inclined to see as blessings. When I think about the great cloud of witnesses, the great communion of the saints, I picture Butch there, with his arms open wide in welcome, and calling out to everyone he meets, "Hello, family."

Who are you remembering today? Who in your life has shown you what it means to be a holy person, a faithful Christian, one who shares life in Christ? Who in your life has exemplified what it means to recognize the blessedness in the things the world so often devalues?

I invite you to hold those people in your minds and hearts, and please join with me in a prayer of thanksgiving.

Gracious and holy God, we give you thanks for the great cloud of witnesses and saints that have gone before us, of the examples that they have shown us of what it means to live a holy and faithful life in service to you. Grant that we may follow their example and one day enter with them into that great communion of the saints, which worships you for all time, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, now and forever, Amen.

(From left: Rebecca (Methodist seminary student), Jed (UCC minister), Pat (Episcopal deacon), and me.

House of Prayer

When I was at Song School in Colorado with my sister a few weeks ago, I bought Vance Gilbert's newest CD, Up On Rockfield. This song really struck me. Definitely recommend this song and the CD.

HOUSE OF PRAYER

This is not my house of prayer
But I was in your neighborhood
I just had to kneel down here
Thought it just might do some good

Seems like everywhere I turn
I see the whole world coming apart
I couldn’t take another step
Not with this troubled heart

Tell me, do you think he’ll mind?
When my kneeling down is through
This is not my house of prayer
But it’s gonna have to do

This is not my house of prayer
But tell me, does your God above
Promise you a place at the table
No matter how or who you love

When I fold my hands to pray
You hold yours a different way
Tell me about your house of prayer
Is everyone allowed in there?

Tell me how you justify
Having heaven on your side
Can’t God show up anywhere
What if we let him decide?

(bridge)
So many people, so many ways
To love and praise and sing
And God has to listen to every word
I remain amazed at how we can all be
Searching for the same thing
And never feel like we’re being heard

This is not my house of prayer
This is not my house of prayer
This is not my house of prayer
But it’s going to have to do

(solo)

Written 2006 by Vance Gilbert & Lori McKenna
© Disismye Music ASCAP/Lori McKenna: Warner Bros. Records

Sermon - Twelfth Sunday After Pentecost, Year A, Proper 13

Twelfth Sunday After Pentecost, Year A, Proper 13
Matthew 14:13-21
Holy Trinity Parish (Episcopal), Decatur, Ga.

It sounded like a reasonable request:

"This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves."

I mean, wouldn't you have said the same thing? You're standing there looking at a crowd of over five thousand people, realizing that they're going to be getting hungry pretty soon... and all you have is five loaves of bread and two fish... so you figure it's time to wrap up this healing ministry and let them go on their way.

After all, Jesus has already been somewhat "put out" by these people. This morning's gospel reading tells us that when the crowds heard that Jesus had withdrawn to a deserted place by himself, "they followed him on foot from the towns." Although we often see Jesus inviting people to follow him, in this case, he is followed without invitation! Despite his desire for stillness and contemplation, he graciously responds to the crowds and heals their sick. So the disciples must have figured, "Ok, the show's over. We've tended to these people's needs, it's late, Jesus wants to pray already, so let's send these people on back to town."

An entirely reasonable request, right? But Jesus wasn't done yet. "They need not go away," he says. Jesus resists the natural human impulse to leave people to tend to their own needs. "You give them something to eat," he says. In other words, "we will take care of them here." And then he proceeds to take the disciples' small ration of food and somehow make it more than enough to feed the entire crowd.

So why did Jesus do it? The scripture doesn't say that the crowds were starving or unable to afford their own food - in fact, the disciples' comments seem to assume that the people are perfectly capable of going back into town and providing for their own needs. Unlike the stories of Jesus healing people who have been suffering from physical maladies for years that no one else has been able to heal, this miracle is, in practical terms, a bit superfluous. Jesus didn't have to provide food for the entire crowd. So why does he do it?

Some may say that Jesus multiplies the loaves and fishes merely as a show of his divine power. The theology of the evangelical youth groups I was a part of in late high school and early college tended to hold this kind of view - always talking about Jesus's miracles as important because of the "proof" they gave that Jesus was divine. These miracles, they said, set Jesus apart from other people who were simply great teachers. But that argument alone was unconvincing to me in encouraging me to place my faith in Jesus. Upon any comparative study of world religions, one can find stories of miraculous happenings surrounding the founders of many religions. And how are we to know for sure whether any of these things really happened, anyway, I wondered?

Simply being told that Jesus's miracles were significant as miracles didn't do much for me. Maybe it should have been impressive -- and I'm sure if we ran out of communion and Fr. Allan started multiplying wafers here at the altar in a few minutes, I'd be pretty darned impressed -- but as an event in the distant past of which I have little to no objective evidence, the feeding of the five thousand as a mere show of divine power has little relevance for me.

And I don't think that's all the early Christian community was trying to say about Jesus in this story, either. In discerning which of the many stories circulating about Jesus's life would be included in what became our sacred scriptures, the early church always rejected stories about Jesus performing miracles simply for miracles' sake. The Infancy Gospel of Thomas, for instance, includes stories of Jesus as a child, zapping his friends with lightning when they get into arguments with him, or making birds out of clay and then bringing them to life, just for fun. It is significant that none of these stories that depict Jesus as a reckless superhero were canonized by the church.

In the four accounts of Jesus's life included in our New Testament, the texts the church deemed authoritative for teaching about the life of Jesus to future generations, Jesus's miracles are always more than just showy displays of power. In fact, Jesus is often telling the disciples not to tell anyone about the miracles he performs, especially in the Gospel of Mark. The Jesus of the canonical Gospels is not an exhibitionist, performing miracles and squealing, "Woooo, look what I can do!!!" Jesus's miracles always have a deeper significance, a meaning and implication for how we are to live our lives in faith.

So what are we to make of this story of the feeding of the five thousand - a story which, significantly, is included in all four Gospels in the New Testament? What is the meaning of this "unnecessary" miracle, if not just to show Jesus's power?

Jesus's feeding of the five thousand says something deeply profound about the way we are to approach others in our Christian ministry. We are called not just to respond to immediate needs but to go the extra mile in creating a space for community. In a culture where who you ate with was of utmost importance to your place in the society, Jesus resists what would have been the natural inclination of the people to go about their separate ways, eating only with those who were considered socially appropriate, and instead creates a space for a radically open community, right there on the hillside. Before the disciples knew what was happening, strangers were breaking bread with strangers, probably sharing stories about how grateful they were that their friend or relative had finally been healed of such-and-such disease, and beginning to form a community together over a shared meal.

The deeper miracle of the feeding of the five thousand is in Jesus's rejection of the patterns of disconnection in society that say "let them go off and buy food for themselves" and insisting instead,"they need not go away. We will provide for them here." And the miracle is in the disciples' discovery of the simple but profound truth that if we share what little we have in faith, it will be more than enough.

The story is also a powerful foreshadowing of the Eucharist: "Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples." Matthew's account of Jesus's last supper with the disciples echoes this language almost exactly: "While they were eating, Jesus took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, 'Take and eat, this is my body'..." (Matthew 26:26). And in John's Gospel, not too long after the feeding of the five thousand, Jesus makes the link even more explicit: "I am the bread of life," he tells the disciples. "I am the living bread that comes down from heaven" (John 6:48, 51). Each week, in our celebration of the Eucharist, we hear these same words -

"He took the bread, gave thanks, broke it, and gave it to his disciples..."
"The body of Christ, the bread of heaven."

And in our Eucharistic celebration, we recall not just the death and resurrection of Jesus, but his entire healing and feeding ministry. Last week I was in San Francisco for the annual conference of the North American Interfaith Network, a conference that brings together grassroots interfaith organizations and initiatives across North America. While in San Francisco, I had an opportunity to visit Grace Cathedral, the seat of the Episcopal Diocese of California, perhaps most famous for the replica of the Chartes Cathedral labyrinth that is found on the floor of its nave. While browsing in the Cathedral bookstore, I came across a bookmark with a quote written on it that stopped me in my tracks. It said:

Be what you see.
Receive who you are.

These words, the back of the bookmark explained, are often used when the consecrated bread is offered to the people during the Eucharist at Grace Cathedral. I was struck by the deep power of those simple words.

Be what you see.
Receive who you are.

In the Eucharist, we both see and become the body of Christ. We see and receive the body of Christ both in the bread and wine and in the powerful sense of community we experience as we share this holy meal with our brothers and sisters. As on that first-century Galilean hillside, the miracle is not complete until we have broken bread together as a community.

Let me ask you all to do something for me for a minute. If you would, please close your eyes. Now imagine that you are sitting on a dusty hillside by a large lake, in the midst of thousands of people. Maybe it's like an open-air music festival you've been to, or a large football game. There are blankets, chairs, makeshift sun shade structures all over the hillside. Imagine that you've been working there all day, perhaps on a medical mission trip like the Holy Trinity parishioners who just returned from Honduras on Saturday. You've been distributing medications, hearing story after story of suffering. You're tired and dirty. You're getting hungry. You're ready to call it a day. So you say to the leader of your group, "Ok, that's enough, let's let these people go and find some dinner for themselves back in town." Our work here is done, you think, or at least as done as it's going to be for today.

But the leader of your group looks at you and says calmly, "They need not go away." And as you watch, he takes the few granola bars and dried fruit trail mix you had packed away in your backpack and begins to distribute it to the people around you. You watch as people look up in amazement as the food keeps coming, somehow enough to feed the entire crowd. You watch the suffering in their eyes lessen a little as they receive this gesture of hospitality. You watch as they begin to smile and greet one another and share what they have with each other. Soak in the feeling of that community, of the connection you feel with the others on the hill in that moment. As you look on this scene, you hear a voice that says to you:

Be what you see.
Receive who you are.

Now open your eyes and look around. Seriously, I mean it, look around at each other, look into the faces of your neighbors. Look at this community who will eat and be filled by Jesus at this altar today, and remember also the community who ate and were filled by Jesus on that hillside in the first century - and receive who you are - receive who you are called to be by virtue of your baptism - the body of Christ. The body of Christ, a community who says unreservedly to all - "You need not go away. We will feed you here."

Amen.

Sermon - Fifth Sunday of Pentecost, Year A, Proper 6

Fifth Sunday After Pentecost, Year A, Proper 6
(Romans 5:1-8, Matthew 9:35-10:8-23)
Holy Trinity Parish (Episcopal), Decatur, Ga.

AUDIO (just of me practicing at home, not the actual sermon-giving live):



TEXT:

For the past several weeks, we have been hearing stories of Jesus’s early ministry from the Gospel of Matthew. We have listened as Jesus calls the disciples to follow him and watched as he heals the sick and raises the dead. Today we reach a turning point in the story. The movement has grown unmanageable. Upon seeing the crowds of people in need gathering around him, Jesus recognizes the limits of his humanity – “the harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few” (Matt. 9:37). There are too many people in need for him to reach each person directly – and so he commissions the twelve disciples to go out into the world in his name, bringing healing to those they meet and proclaiming the good news that the kingdom of God has come near.

Not much has changed in 2,000 years. The need is still great, and the workers are still few. Just ask the front desk volunteers, who field calls and in-person visits on an almost daily basis from people looking for assistance with food, rent, or bills. Or ask Ed Buckley or Fr. Deneke about the extreme poverty they witnessed on their trip to Haiti in March. Or talk with Holy Trinity parishioners who have traveled to New Orleans multiple times over the past two years to help with the Katrina relief and rebuilding efforts - and have actually been there again this weekend. The need is great, but the workers are few.

The need is great. That’s not exactly what the passage says, of course – we all know the famous quote: “the harvest is plentiful.” But the “harvest” that is so plentiful is not an abundance of resources but an abundance of need. The potential "harvest" here refers to the crowds of people, those crowds on whom Jesus had compassion because they were in need – they were “harassed and helpless,” like “sheep without a shepherd.” The quantities of people who are in need – of basic necessities, of healing, and of the good news of God’s kingdom – is great. Those willing to go out and address these needs, heal these people, and proclaim the good news – are few.

And so Jesus sends the twelve. And 2,000 years later, Jesus sends us.

Except here’s a little secret for you: we are both the apostles and the crowd in this story. We are both those who are able to give and those who are desperately in need.

It’s easy to forget this in a church as affluent as the Episcopal Church. We are used to thinking of service as something we do to them, not something of which we are on the receiving end. And oh, we talk about the sacrifice of serving others, of how difficult it is to give of ourselves – our time, talents, and treasures – but how much easier it is to be seen and known as one who gives rather than one who receives! For there is power in the giving, there is a security in the knowledge that we have more of something than another – that we have so much of it, in fact, that we are able to give it away. There is great generosity in giving out of our abundance, but there is also great power as well.

William Willimon, the Methodist bishop of North Alabama, writes of our preference to be the servers rather than the served:


"I suggest we are better givers than getters," he writes, "not because we are generous people but because we are proud, arrogant people.”

It is tough to be served by others, Willimon writes, “because I would rather see myself as a giver. I want power -- to stand on my own, take charge, set things to rights, perhaps to help those who have nothing. I don't like picturing myself as dependent, needy, empty-handed.” [1]

So back to my little secret: while we may see ourselves as the apostles in this story, as those who are sent out into the world to help others, we are actually just as much in need as the crowds in this story -- those obnoxious, wandering, clueless crowds, harassed and helpless with no sense of direction.

ShirleyGrace Madajewski, our Monday morning front desk volunteer, often brings in interesting quotes and articles to share with our office staff. A few weeks ago she brought in an article called “Bozos on the Bus,” from a book called Broken Open by Elizabeth Lesser, founder of the Omega Institute, a nonprofit organization for personal and spiritual growth in California.

Lesser writes about the clown-activist Wavy Gravy, most famous for his role as the master of ceremonies at Woodstock, and his use of humor in the service of social activism and motivational change. She says her favorite “Wavyism” is the following quote: “We’re all bozos on the bus, so we might as well sit back and enjoy the ride.” She says she loves this phrase because

“I believe that we are all bozos on the bus, contrary to the self-assured image we work so hard to present to each other on a daily basis. We are all half-baked experiments – mistake-prone beings, born without an instruction book into a complex world. None of us are models of perfect behavior: We have all betrayed and been betrayed; we’ve been known to be egotistical, unreliable, lethargic, and stingy; and each one of us has, at times, awakened in the middle of the night worrying about everything from money, kids, or terrorism to wrinkled skin and receding hairlines. In other words, we’re all bozos on the bus.” [2]

So much of how our world is structured and how we live our lives is an attempt to avoid this truth, however. We spend lots of our time calling other people bozos because we don’t want anyone to know that inside, we’re really just bozos ourselves. And because we think we are so deserving of all the blessings we have in this life, often not seeing them as blessings but as trophies we have earned, we approach service to others with a constant eye to whether or not the recipients of our charity are truly deserving of our help.

We live in a world that is mired in measuring and calculating who is "worthy," who is "deserving," and who "qualifies" -- for this aid, for that scholarship, for this welfare program, for that job. And in many ways, the limited resources that we have to address the world’s needs demand that it be so – it is the only way we can deal with distributing limited resources to address an unlimited need.

But what we often forget, when we get so caught up in the systems of the world – systems that do a great deal of good work, by the way – but when we get so caught up in the system’s method of judging and critiquing and figuring out who qualifies, we forget that our faith, that our relationship with God, does not operate in this way. We do not receive love and acceptance from God because we have earned or deserve them – we receive God’s love as a free gift of grace.

We have been reminded of this anew lately as we have been reading through the epistle of Paul to the Romans. In the passage today, Paul says it as clearly as possible: “God proves his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). If we were reading the Wavy Gravy Translation of the Bible instead of the New Revised Standard Version, that passage could just as well read, "while we were still bozos, Christ died for us."

God's love for us is not something we earn, but a gift freely given. When Jesus sends forth the disciples, he tells them to give to others without demanding anything in return: "You received without payment; give without payment," he says. (Matt. 10:23). We are called to model our giving to others on the way God gives to us - in waves of crazy, radical, abundant grace. Only if we first recognize ourselves as the recipients of grace can we truly give gracefully to others. This kind of servanthood to which we are called as Christians is not a hierarchical, top-down kind of relationship in which the "haves" give to the "have-nots," but a relationship of mutual sharing and support between all of us "bozos on the bus." We are certainly called to serve others, but we must also allow ourselves to be served as well.

This kind of mutual servanthood is illustrated beautifully in the "Servant Song," which we just sang as our sequence hymn before the Gospel reading, and which, by my request, we will sing again during communion. It reminds us that we are all "fellow travelers on the road" - or fellow "bozos on the bus," if you will - who are all in need of one another to "walk the mile and bear the load." But what I love most about this song is its acknowledgement of how hard it is for us to be served, how hard it is for us to admit that we are not just the apostles going forth to help others, but the crowds in need of that help as well. The first verse, which repeats as the last, starts out with a more traditional response to our call to servanthood: "Brother, sister, let me be your servant, let me be as Christ to you," it says. We're pretty cool with that. After all, we get to be "Christ" in this metaphor. But then it goes on to say, "pray that I would have the grace to let you be my servant, too."

As we sing the Servant Song again during communion, focus on the words and let them seep in. I invite you to think about what it would look like if these words described not just your relationship with your fellow parishioners or those who you already consider your equals, but those who you consider higher or lower than you in our society's hierarchy. And the next time you find yourself silently evaluating whether or not someone deserves your help, remember that you too are a receiver, that you too are just a bozo on the bus -- and respond to that person with God's crazy, radical, abundant grace.

Amen.

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[1] William Willimon, "The God We Hardly Knew," in Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas. (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2001).

[2] Elizabeth Lesser, Broken Open: How Difficult Times Can Help Us Grow, Villard Publishing, 2004, p.28.

Brilliance

Lately I have been mesmerized again by the lyrics and haunting voice of Carrie Cheron, a folk singer in Boston who is a friend of my friend Kellie Lin Knott (another folk singer). I met Carrie last May when I was in Boston for a few days and staying with Kellie (who was at that time roommates with Carrie) and got her CD then. Most of last summer I listened to it non-stop, and I just am re-discovering it in the past few weeks. Two songs in particular seem inspired to me - I have fantasies of learning these songs on the piano and playing them in church someday, or perhaps a powerful interfaith worship service. (Interestingly enough, Carrie is Jewish but has a regular gig playing in churches, if i remember correctly.)

Really, you should look these up on iTunes -- they're just not the same without the powerful piano and Carrie's haunting, gorgeous vocals.

Arms of Our Brothers

(I interpret the "you" and "your"s in this song to be referring to God.)

Though they're falling, pattern the stars to guide us home to you.
Shatter the spear, not the spirit, make us whole anew.
By faith in trial I hold onto your shore.
Let the last of us rise up to knock on your door.
Over borders, beliefs, seek an end to this grief,
lead my soul, let my singing be clear.

Any new day will find us beyond our means.
So weary, hungry, feeding on empty dreams,
where nothing much matters but the price to pay,
though the difference is knowing what stands in our way.
Still we cover our eyes, taking aim, telling lies.
Rescue me, may my song fill the skies.

And what if this were our one chance to set everything right?
By your hands, may we walk in grace on the arms of our brothers,
in one land of light.
What if we could make love blind tonight?

Though they're falling, pattern the stars to guide us home to you
Shatter the spear, not the spirit, make us whole anew.
By faith in trial I hold onto your shore.
Let the last of us rise up to knock on your door.
Over borders, beliefs, seek an end to this grief,
lead my soul, let my singing be clear.


Time

How much is distance?
How much is pain?
How must is seeing that little girl's face?
How much is rain?
I've plenty of time to think and wish and pray
for the things I'll never deserve...

I read of hope, I read of glory.
I read of mothers, of brothers with dreams;
I read G-d's stories.
I've plenty of time to sit and think upon
this life I have earned.
So once in a while I think on sin and The Word.

[Chorus]
Just how long is a minute on a life spent in here,
under cover of bars, and years upon years?
When you've long since lost count of the worst of your fears,
yet you grieve for the sun and the sky.

Last night I heard my saviour calling.
I laid up all night and prayed I'd be gone come morning.
Cause all of the time I hope and pray ain't much,
though this time I might learn.
So once in a while I think on sin and The Word.

[Chorus]

Long is the night. Longer is evening.
I close my eyes and imagine the stars on the ceiling.
I never took time to stop and think about what life meant to her.
So most of the time I think on sin and The Word.

Just how long is a minute on a life spent in here,
under cover of bars, and years upon years?
Well, I've long since lost count of the worst of my fears,
still I grieve for the sun and the sky.

Sermon - Second Sunday of Easter, Year A

Sermon delivered at Holy Trinity Parish in Decatur, Ga., where I serve as communications coordinator.

Just a week ago, this place was filled with shouts of "alleluia," with ringing bells, and even a cymbal crash or two, proclaiming joyfully and confidently the Resurrection of Jesus. I enjoyed attending the Easter Vigil with you all on Saturday night, where we celebrated the new life of baptism. And on Sunday morning, Fr. Deneke invited you all to reflect on the ways in which, like Mary Magdelene on Easter morning, "we have seen the Lord" in this place.

But this week, the glow is off the Easter lilies.

This week, we meet Thomas. Thomas, who says not "I have seen the Lord," but "yeah, riiiiiiight."

It is significant that the "Doubting Thomas" passage always falls on the Second Sunday of Easter, no matter which of the three lectionary years we are in. The week after Easter, we are always confronted with doubt.

Doubt can be a touchy subject among people of faith. Somewhere along the line, we have been told that doubt is the opposite of faith, and so we get a little nervous, even threatened, when it rears its stubborn head. It seems to beg a response; we think we must say something about it, do something about it, explain it in some way. We see this impulse in the usual responses to the story of Thomas.

In general, it seems people want to read the story of Thomas as a commentary on the inherent value of doubt. Thomas is either vilified for having doubts or praised for being a "thinking Christian." Those who see Thomas's doubts as an indication of his weak faith point to Jesus's words to Thomas - "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe." - while those who see Thomas's doubts in a positive light wax philosophic about how the fact that one of the disciples – a disciple who church tradition holds goes on to spread Christianity as far as India, by the way - the fact that even THIS disciple doubts the Resurrection surely means that we, with our sometimes shaky and doubtful faith, can accomplish such great things ourselves. If I had to choose, I tend to fall in the latter category, but really, I think both of these attempts to evaluate the worth of doubt really miss the point.

The fact of the matter is, doubt is neither an indication of a weak faith nor an indication of a strong faith; doubt simply IS. Doubt is a fundamental part of the human experience. The question is not whether we SHOULD have doubts - it is inevitable that we will - but in how we should respond. And in this sense the Thomas story can prove useful, for it provides a model for how to live with doubt in a community of faith.

Let's look again, closely, at the actions of this "Doubting Thomas." The other disciples tell him that Jesus has been raised from the dead, which strikes him as preposterous. "Yeah, right," he says. "Unless I see it for myself, I will not believe it." And here is the first lesson that Thomas has for us: Thomas is HONEST. He is up-front and open about his doubts. He does not go along with the crowd, does not say what he or others feel he SHOULD say. He is HONEST about where he is -- in a place of extreme skepticism about this whole Resurrection story.

The second thing Thomas does is choose to return to the community of the faithful, even with his doubts. He shows up. Somehow in all my readings of this story, I have always missed the fact that Jesus's appearance to Thomas actually comes a week after the disciples first tell Thomas of their encounters with the risen Lord. Thomas had a week's time to chew on this crazy news, to decide whether he was going to return to the next gathering of the disciples or jump ship from this bunch of loonies he had somehow gotten tangled up with. And he chooses to return. And because he chooses to return, because he chooses to show up, he is present the next time Jesus appears to the disciples -- he doesn't miss it this time.

We are not so far from Thomas, you and I. At least I know I'm not. Thomas's story, his rational skepticism and stubborn-headedness, are all too familiar to me. How many times have we echoed the words of Thomas in our own lives: "Unless I see it for myself, I will not believe"? A new acquaintance must prove their trustworthiness before we will open up to them. We must scrutinize a politician's voting patterns before we decide whether or not we will support her. We are sure that a family member who has fallen back on his word numerous times will continue to do so. In all these things, we say, "Unless I see it for myself, I will not believe it." Mere words, without an experience to back them up, ring hollow for most people. We demand to confirm with our own senses what others tell us to be true.

And herein lies the difficulty for those of us who struggle to be people of faith: We cannot FORCE the experience. We cannot MAKE ourselves believe any more than we can MAKE another person trust or love us. We cannot, out of sheer willpower, conjure up a vision of the risen Lord will dispel all doubts we might have about the veracity of the Christian story. Faith is not an intellectual proposition, a matter of agreement or disagreement over which we make the ultimate decision, but a relationship with that very living Force of Life that we call God. We are not the only ones in the equation when we talk about faith – faith is a two-way relationship that relies on the active participation of both parties. We have control over our actions, but we are at the mercy of God to grant us moments of insight, to grant us experiences of faith that reveal God's presence to us over time.

So what CAN we do, on our end of the relationship? Perhaps we can take a lesson from Thomas: to be honest about where we are, and to show up. To show up, even when we're not so sure about this whole faith thing. To show up, even when things don't seem to make sense. To show up, and in doing so, to open ourselves to the possibility of encounter with God.

In his skepticism, Thomas declares that if he can touch the body of Jesus, if he can touch his hands and his side, then he will believe - and when Jesus appears to him, he offers him the opportunity to do just that: "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe." The blessing and grace of the Christian life is that Jesus extends that very same invitation to each one of us each time we gather together as the Christian community.

Every week that we enter this place, we have two very real and tangible ways available to us that we can touch the body of Christ.

The first is up front and center, at the climax of our liturgy: the celebration of the Eucharist. When you come forward to the altar, the ministers place into your hands "the body of Christ, the bread of heaven." If we are to take seriously our Eucharistic theology, we must affirm that Christ is really present to us in the breaking of the bread, that in touching the elements of communion, we are touching the body of Christ.

The second way we can touch the body of Christ is right next to you – and all around you – and within you. The apostle Paul writes beautifully in many of his letters about the Christian community as the living body of Christ, with the different people compared to different parts of the body, each having different skills and uses, but all coming together to form the whole. WE are the body of Christ! YOU are the body of Christ. Your neighbors in the pews are the body of Christ. In a few minutes, when we share the peace with one another, remember that for each person you reach out and touch, you are touching the very body of Christ.

And when you come forward for Communion each week, remember Jesus's words to Thomas, those words that he still speaks to you and to me: Reach out your hands and touch my body. Do not doubt but believe.

Amen.