Sound familiar???

In preparation for my church history class on Wednesday, I'm reading a passage from John Jewel's An Apology for the Church of England, written during the English Reformation to defend the Church of England against the charges of heresy by the Roman Catholic Church.

As I read this passage where Jewel defends the Church of England by comparing the Roman Catholic Church's accusations against the Church of England to the erroneous statements about the early Christians by the larger pagan community -- both based on a fundamental misunderstanding of what the community (either the Church of England, in Jewel's case, or the early Christians, in his historical example) was really about, due to lack of knowledge and understanding and interactions with the stated "opponents" -- I couldn't help but think about the situation of Muslims in America today, who are often accused of many things, erroneously, by those who simply do not understand their faith and practice but criticize from afar.

If you're familiar with this modern phenomenon, does any of this sound familiar?

18. And, whereas they pretend we have departed from the unity of the catholic church; this is not only odious, but though it is not true, yet it hath an appearance and similitude of truth in it. But, then, not only those things which are true and certain find belief with the ignorant multitude, but those things also which may seem probable; and so we shall ever observe that crafty and cunning men who had not the truth on their sides, have ever maintained their cause with the resemblance of truth; that those who could not dive into the bottom of things, might be taken at least with the show and probability of their arguments. Because the primitive Christians, our forefathers, when they prayed to God, turned their faces towards the rising sun, there were some that said they worshipped the sun, and that it was their god. And because they said, that, as to their eternal and immortal life, they lived on nothing but the flesh and blood of the Lamb without spot, meaning thereby our Saviour Jesus Christ, envious men, the enemies of the cross of Christ, whose only business it was to render the Christian religion by any means hateful, did thereupon persuade the people, that the Christians were impious men, that they offered human sacrifices, and drank man's blood. And when the Christians said, With God there is neither male nor female, that is, that, as to the obtaining of justification, there is no distinction of persons; and did salute one another commonly by the names of brother and sister; there were not wanting some who slandered the Christians thereupon, and said, they made no distinctions amongst them of sex or age, but acted like beasts. And when they met frequently in vaults and secret places, to pray and hear the gospel, which sort of private places and meetings had sometimes been made use of by conspirators against the government; there was thereupon a rumour spread abroad, that they conspired together, and had secret consultations about murdering the magistrates, and subverting the government. And because in celebrating the holy communion they made use of bread and wine, according to the institution of Christ, they were thought by many not to worship Christ, but Bacchus and Ceres; because those heathen deities were worshipped by the pagans with a like rite, with bread and wine. These things were then believed by many, not because they were true, for what could possibly be less so? but because they had a kind of resemblance of truth, and by that show of truth were fitted to deceive them.

The Bottom Dollar

In my Basic Christian Ethics class today, we discussed Anthony Trollope's novel, The Warden (1855). The story is concerned with a priest in the Church of England who receives a large sum of money for a position in which he actually does very little work, while the old men in the almshouse or hospital (modern equivalent: nursing home or assisted living facility) that he oversees remain in a basic level of poverty. The position was originally created by someone's will, who left a fixed sum of money to the men in the almshouse and decreed that the extra generated by the lands owned by this man should go to the priest in charge of the hospital. Only problem is, when the will was first established, the land was mostly farmland, generating a small income. At the time the novel takes place, it is 400 years later, and the land is now suburban land that has been developed and brings in a huge amount of rental income -- so the priest now receives approximately 10 times the amount of a normal priest's salary, while the situation of the men who are the beneficiaries of the will has remained unchanged.

Discussing this ethical situation has gotten me to thinking about the role of money and salaries in priests' discernment of their calling. Our professor informed us that the Church of England now has a system in which all priests are paid the same amount, and it's barely enough to live on. In the American Episcopal Church, however, the salaries of priests vary quite widely, from barely enough to live on in some smaller parishes to upwards of six-figure salaries in some of the wealthy and endowed parishes. So what happens when, as a priest, you are job-hunting and you find that there is a $35,000/year job serving as the rector of a very small parish in a poor part of town, where you will be the only staff member of the parish, or a $150,000/year job serving in a wealthy urban parish where you will be supported by a staff of 20+ people, including four other priests to share the load of priestly duties (celebrating Eucharist, preaching, visiting people in hospitals, leading adult education forums, etc)? Which position would YOU hope you would get, if they chose you? But what if God is actually calling you to serve among the poorer population, even if it means more work and less money? It seems to me it would be rather convenient to take the money question out of the equation -- if we had a system like the Church of England, where all priests were paid the same amount, we could focus solely on the job and the sense of calling rather than worrying about our salaries.

On the other hand, I could see this creating a problem much like the problem in the education system in America -- teachers are paid so low wages that no one is willing to take on the jobs for the amount of work they require. People always say of the so-called "helping professions" that "you don't do it for the money," and consider this to be a good thing, thinking that one's motivation is somehow more pure if money is not part of the equation. But there's also a problem if the people serving in these positions are not able to maintain a reasonable standard of living.

Thoughts?

Revival of the Blog

I first began this blog in 2006, during my Episcopal Service Corps internship year in Omaha, Nebraska (Resurrection House). The idea was to chronicle my year of vocational discernment there, and wherever that might lead me.

Three years later, I am a junior (first-year) seminarian at Sewanee: The University of the South, and a Postulant for Holy Orders (for you non-Episcopalians out there, that means I'm in the second of three stages on my way to ordination as an Episcopal priest). Somehow, in the midst of my actual discernment process for the priesthood once I moved to Atlanta, I stopped keeping up with this blog. It seems now might be a good time to revive it.

I will attempt to post fairly regular reflections on my journey to the priesthood, and God willing, once I am ordained, I will continue to use this space to reflect, since I will never NOT be "seeking the call."

For now, I will be posting lots of things retroactively. As I write this post on Jan. 22, 2010, I have not updated this blog since the fall of 2007. I'm going to attempt to "fill in the blanks" now and post-date the entries for easy recovery later.

Grace and peace be with you, and thanks for reading.

Sermon - Second Sunday of Pentecost, Year B

Sermon delivered at Holy Trinity Parish, Decatur, Ga., on the Sunday of my last week of work there as communications coordinator after nearly two years.



What does it mean to be "chosen" by God?

In the Hebrew scripture for this morning, we read the story of God choosing David to replace Saul as king of Israel. The prophet Samuel surveys the sons of Jesse and discerns that David is the one God has chosen.

In essence, the work Samuel does in discerning the next leader of Israel is the same work that discernment committees do in choosing the next leaders of the church. As individuals present themselves as interested in a career in ordained ministry, it is the committee's responsibility to listen and to pray, and to discern which of these individuals God has chosen to serve as deacons or priests in the church.

I stand before you today as a product of that process. The committees met, the prayers were said, the bishop was consulted, and at the end, all these people affirmed that they believe that I have been chosen by God to be a priest.

And I believe it, too. The discernment process and the ordination service do not allow for a kind of "oh, if you insist...." approach to putting on the collar. Aspirants for the priesthood are not allowed to play the role of the reluctant leader, having greatness thrust upon them. A large part of the discernment process is learning to claim one's sense of calling. When the bishop asks in the ordination service, "My sister, do you believe that you are truly called by God and his Church to this priesthood?" I must be able to answer confidently and firmly, "I believe I am so called."

In essence, I must stand up and proclaim to the world that I am chosen by God.

Sounds just a bit arrogant, doesn't it? -- maybe even dangerous. We are rightly suspicious of people who claim to be "chosen by God" -- for me, that language conjures up images of early Puritans proclaiming who is and who is not among the "elect" few whom God has chosen for salvation, in a system that I would call theologically abusive. Throughout human history, people have used language about being "God's chosen people" to justify pursuing their own self-interests, often through violence.

But what we miss if we think of being "chosen by God" as arrogant is the fact that being "chosen by God" does not make us any better than anyone else -- because here's the secret -- God has chosen EVERYONE. But we are chosen to do different things, to play different roles. Claiming to be "chosen by God" only becomes arrogant when we believe that the thing God has chosen us to do is better than the things God has chosen other people to do.

My grandfather, who was not a church-going man himself, used to always say, "What a good thing it is that God made us all different -- that's what makes the world go 'round." Or, in the words of the Apostle Paul in the letter to the Ephesians:

"[E]ach of us was given grace according to the measure of Christ’s gift. The gifts he gave were that some would be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ, until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ." (Ephesians 4:7, 11-13)

What role has God chosen you to play in building up the body of Christ? Even this passage from Ephesians is quite limiting, as it talks about people being called to be apostles, prophets, evangelists, pastors, and teachers -- but God also chooses people to be doctors and lawyers and English tea volunteers and vestry members and gardeners and finance committee members. Where do your gifts lie in serving God and bringing others to the knowledge and love of God?

In my experience of discerning my calling to the priesthood, I have come to believe that we all have a particular calling in life, a particular path that will bring us to a place of abundant blessing if we choose to follow it. I do not believe that God will reject us if we do not choose that path, but I do believe that we will find more fulfillment and abundant blessings if we do follow it.

In late college and the beginning of graduate school, I planned to pursue a career in journalism. I knew I loved studying religion, and I was also a good writer, so I thought I would combine these two things and become a religion reporter for a newspaper. My experiences in the world of journalism were all rewarding in some sense, and I believe that God was surely with me, guiding me and loving me through all that I did in that field of work. But while I was writing articles and copy editing newspaper pages, I couldn't shake the sense that there was something more important that I should be doing.

From the first time I began to read the Bible in earnest in late high school, I had been struck by Jesus's injunction to reach out to the poor. Passages from Scripture like, "If you love me, feed my sheep" (John 21:15-17), and "whatever you did to the least of these, you did it to me" (Matthew 25:40), would ring in my head as I walked past homeless people begging for change on the streets of Cambridge.

Finally, I listened to the call and began to volunteer with an outdoor church for the homeless in Cambridge, similar to the Church of the Common Ground here in Atlanta. Although I felt completely unqualified and incompetent in this ministry, it certainly brought me much closer to God than journalism ever had. I began to write about my experiences with the Outdoor Church, and some of my mentors began to suggest that I might consider pursuing ordained ministry. Although every practical bone in my body told me it was time to get a "real job" and start making money to pay off my educational debt, I felt the call to devote intentional time to seriously discern whether or not I had a calling to ordained ministry, so I spent a year in intentional community living and discernment in Omaha, Nebraska, through one of the Episcopal Service Corps internships for young adults. While I know God would have been with me even if I chose not to go to Omaha, it became obvious to me once I arrived and met the wonderful people there who supported me in my discernment that I had found the place of deep blessing that God had for me at that time.

Listening to God's call is not often easy or practical, in my experience. But when God chooses us to do something, we actually have very little choice in the matter. From comparing notes with others in the field of ordained ministry, I have heard countless stories of people who have denied their calling for many years, pursuing another career, until finally they were able to accept God's call, to recognize their chosenness, and begin to live into that place of deep blessing to which God had been calling them all their lives. Like Jonah, we are finally unable to run from our calling, however scared we might be to accept it.

It has certainly been difficult for me to accept that I am chosen by God. Ironically, although I look for approval from others and struggle with perfectionism, it is actually difficult for me to accept praise, and even harder to truly acknowledge that I am fundamentally accepted, even chosen, by God. My perfectionism often leaves me feeling woefully inadequate in the face of the calling I have received. Perhaps that's why I was brought to tears by the following quote, which I first heard in a sermon that a friend of mine gave at St. James Episcopal Church in Cambridge, Massachusetts, the church I attended while I lived in Boston. It is often attributed to Nelson Mandela, but was actually written by Marianne Williamson, an author and minister in the Unity Church. She writes,

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

My years in discernment have begun for me the process of becoming liberated from my own fear -- fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of being hurt -- and becoming reborn as "a new creation" (as Paul says in 2 Corinthians), a more calm and confident version of myself who is able to claim her gifts and own her calling. The process is difficult and ongoing, but it is happening. I am learning to accept my chosennesss, to acknowledge that I am the beloved of God - to stand up and say, "Yes, I am chosen."

I believe this is what happens when we begin to follow the path that God has prepared for us -- we are brought face to face with our belovedness and are liberated from our fear. God begins to pry open our hearts to accept God's love and begin to offer it to others. It may not always be the path we would have expected to take; it may not be the path that others would have us take -- but it is the path God calls us to nonetheless. And it is an invitation to a place of great blessing.

My prayer is that each of you would find that path, that place of great blessing, in your own lives, and in doing so you would find yourselves face to face with a God who loves you and who chooses you - every day and every hour - to represent God's love to the world.

The Lord has chosen YOU. Stand up and proclaim it to the world, and "let your light shine before others, that they may see your good works, and glorify God in heaven" (Matthew 5:16). Amen.

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.

--------

[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.