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.