Celebrating the Life of Regina Dading

The Sixth Station: Veronica wipes the Brow of the Lord

A sermon for the celebration of the life of Regina Dading on April 2, 2011. The scripture readings are Isaiah 25:6-9 and John 14:1-6.

There’s a picture in the back of the church of Regina and a pigeon has landed on her hand. For a long time, that was all I knew of Regina Dading. That picture was on the cover of the All Souls Parish Profile, the kind of “resume of the church” that was used to look for a new priest after Father John David left in 2005. And so, some time early in 2007 I downloaded the parish profile from your website and I entered the search process. Whenever I looked at the profile to remind myself of some aspect of All Souls, or before I wrote anything for the search committee, or prepared to meet with people from the committee or the vestry, I would take out that parish profile, and would see, first of all, the picture of that lady with the pigeon.

I decided that she must be a character. First of all, she must be the sort of character a pigeon would like—and I don’t think pigeons like everyone. But second, I realized that she must also be the kind of person who has a good enough sense of humor that she would not only allow the church to put her picture on the cover of the parish profile, but that she also just might get a huge kick out of it. I’ve only recently learned that the picture was taken in Italy, when Regina and some of the people from church took a tour. So that’s an Italian pigeon, which explains why it would have such good taste as to pick out Regina for a friend.

Because of her picture on the cover of the parish profile, Regina, for me, was the “face of All Souls.” She, and the other pictures and the text, were all I had to go on—but as I’ve learned over time, I don’t think the search committee could have found a better picture to personify the history, the humor, the tenacity, the quirkiness, and the deep devotion and love for God that are so much of the spirit of this place.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says, “In my father’s house there are many rooms.” The Father’s House is a place Jesus has prepared for us, so when we get there, it will seem familiar in all the important ways. The Father’s House is no doubt a bit brighter now that Regina is there. And it’s probably a little bit louder, with the combined giggles of Regina and Helen Anderson, and so many of the people they loved in this place who have now gone to a place of even deeper fellowship, better food (even better beer), and a place where, as scripture says, God shelters them with his presence. “[Where] they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; the sun shall not strike them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of living water; and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” (Revelation 7:15-16)

Though Regina is in another place, much of her spirit continues to guide and teach us, to inspire us to be our best, and to remind us that there is no separation between the Holy Table of God (the Altar) and the holy tables of fellowship in the undercroft, or in our homes, or anywhere we might break bread with another person and share the love of God in Jesus Christ.

I don’t know what Regina thought about the Stations of the Cross that were installed at All Souls a few years ago. But there’s one station, in particular, that makes me think of Regina. It’s the Sixth Station.

Traditionally, the Sixth Station over there is the one where we remember the moment that a woman wiped the face of Jesus. Tradition has given her the name Veronica. But it’s not that someone was actually named Veronica. The name comes from “vera icon,” meaning “true image.”
And so Veronica is an icon of what it looks like to love God. In some ways, the fact that she is a woman who simply showed up and did what was needed at the right time, a woman whose name is not known by many—Veronica symbolizes so many women who have kept the faith over the centuries. Certainly in this parish, during the leanest times, it was the women who kept things going. They kept the doors open, the silver polished, and the stomachs full. They kept the stomachs full not just of church members, but of anyone who would stop by, or anyone in need. Though the Church remembers Veronica at the Sixth Station as wiping the brow of the Lord Jesus on his way to Calvary, tradition does not say what Veronica did next. But I think that if she were anything like the “church women” I know, she probably went home to put food on the table, knowing that people would soon be hungry and need to do something with their grief. Since it’s hard to know what to do with grief, with anxiety, with fear… it’s as good as anything to share a meal with friends. In such a meal we find strength. We find hope. We find God.

As we share Holy Communion, we can do so in the faith and knowledge that Regina is with us celebrating, laughing, and loving. As we continue to share a meal in the undercroft afterwards, again her spirit will be very much a part of what we do. And finally, even as we leave the church later today, her love and her witness to God’s love go with us and help us to find our way today and in the days ahead.

Thanks be to God for Regina, for her laughter and for her love.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Thirst

Girls at a village well

A sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent, March 27, 2011. The lectionary readings are Exodus 17:1-7, Romans 5:1-11 , Psalm 95, and John 4:5-42.


When I think of the season of Lent and of today’s Gospel story about the Samaritan woman at the well, I remember a particular church I went in, several years ago. It was Lent. There was purple on the altar and the pulpit and lectern, like most churches use for this season. The church also had a free-standing baptismal font in the back, near the main entrance. This meant that as one entered the church through the main doors, one would walk right by the baptismal font. It was usually filled with Holy Water, and one could take a little, perhaps make the sign of the cross with the wet finger, and remember one’s own baptism.

But on this particular day, as I walked into the church and walked by the font, I was surprised to find no water. There was no water, but the font was not empty. Instead, it was filled with sand and some sort of dried twigs. It made a point having to do with the season of Lent. This church was waiting on Easter for the font to be filled. It was waiting on Easter for new water and that particular congregation was reminding itself that it was waiting for Easter for new life. Until then, it would acknowledge its thirst.

Today’s scriptures are about thirst.

In the first reading we hear how the people of Israel feel like they’re about to die of thirst. It’s a literal thirst, to be sure. But it also seems to be a partly spiritual thirst. After wandering in the desert, they begin to wonder: Has the Lord forgotten us? Is Moses up to the task of leading us? They’re stuck in a cycle of bickering and fussing with each other, of feeling like they’re being tested. Will they ever be relieved of this thirst, this doubt, this frustration? God hears their prayer and Moses makes a miracle. As the psalmist sings, “He made streams come out of the rock, and caused waters to flow down like rivers. He smote the rock so that water gushed out and streams overflowed.” (Psalm 78)

But water doesn’t always come so easily. In the Gospel, water is almost bargained over. We have this wonderful (if long) story about Jesus and the Samaritan woman. It takes place around water, with water, about water. It’s a great conversation between the woman and Jesus. There’s a give and take, a back and forth about it. The Samaritan woman is skeptical. She’s cautious. She wonders if Jesus is just another charmer whose promises are empty. But she still listens, because she’s thirsty for some good news, some glimmer of new life. Responding to her questions, Jesus explains about the water that he can give. He can give water that quenches thirst, water that washes, that completes us, and buoys us up into the loving arms of God.

This story is important because it shows us Jesus going outside the social norms of his day and moving beyond the racial and gender norms of his culture to befriend this Samaritan woman. It reminds us that Christian faith, at its best, moves outward, invites and encourages.

The story is also important because it shows us Jesus as the Lord of Creation—of all creation-- and that includes water. The water is physical and literal, but it is also spiritual. It symbolizes faith itself—our ability to believe that Jesus came, died and rose for us. The water is also hope—hope for God’s protection and guidance, hope for God’s good purposes in our lives and in our world, and hope for our eternal life in God. And finally, the water represents charity—water that is shared, faith that is shared, belief that is shared.

The Samaritan woman is offered living water by Jesus and it’s interesting to me to notice what she does and what she does NOT do. She does not commit herself to a life of meditation upon the water. She does not build a shrine there at the well, a shrine to spend all her days at. She does not start a new form of worship around the water. Instead, she becomes a disciple. She becomes a witness and she goes around telling people about Jesus. In other words, she doesn’t hoard the water or save it up for another dry spell. She goes out offering Living Water to others.

The season of Lent invites us to notice our thirst. For what do we hunger and thirst? Do you hunger for health or healing? For relationship, for someone to love or someone to love you back? Do you hunger for meaningful work, or for a new start with someone, or for some burst of new energy or creativity in your life? We don’t know exactly what was going on in the life of the Samaritan woman who met Jesus at the well, but she had the faith to come thirst, and she had the courage to ask Jesus for water.

In a great old hymn from the 19th century, Fanny Crosby invites us to come.

Come with thy sins to the fountain, Come with thy burden of grief; Bury them deep in its waters, There thou wilt find a relief.

Come as thou art to the fountain, Jesus is waiting for thee; What though thy sins are like crimson, White as the snow they shall be.

Come and be healed at the fountain, List to the peace speaking voice; Over a sinner returning Now let the angels rejoice.

I began this morning by talking about a church I went into that had taken out the water from its baptismal font for the season of Lent. While I understand the imagery, and appreciate the attempt to use a visual to help people think about the season, I think the image can be confusing. Even though we thirst for all sorts of things. Even though we thirst for God, the font of living water is never empty. The church is NEVER without water, if we will look for it from God.

With the persistence, the tenacity, the honesty, and the faith of the woman at the well, let us ask God to quench our thirst not just at Easter, but this day and always.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Born from above

Nicodemus Coming to Jesus by Henry Ossawa Tanner (1859-1937)

A sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent, March 20, 2011. The lectionary readings are Genesis 12:1-4a, Psalm 121 , Romans 4:1-5, 13-17, and John 3:1-17 .


On the night before Easter, at the Great Vigil of Easter, the church gathers to hear again how God has been working to save his people, from the beginning of time. God saved the People of Israel. God saved those who met Jesus and followed him, and God saves us still. One of the scripture readings often heard in that liturgy is from the Book of Ezekiel (36:24-28). God says

I will . . . bring you into your own land. I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and you shall be clean from all your impurities . . . A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my spirit within you . . . .

A new heart and a new spirit. This promise comes when people are down and out. They’re tired. They’re beaten. They’ve almost given up. But God gives hope and God makes a promise. Easter, itself, with the resurrection of Jesus Christ, brings the ultimate in a new creation, and all of Easter is a prolonged celebration and meditation on what it means for us, that we have the hope of eternal life, but in today’s scripture, we get a foretaste of God’s life-giving Spirit. We get a glimmer of it in the first reading, and we get a close-up view in the Gospel.

The Reading from Genesis only mentions Abram. God tells Abram and Sarai to “get up and go.” God has a plan for them, and everything is going to be different. Abram and Sarai follow God into a new land, and it seems like over and over again, their faith is put to the test. If they had one view of how their life might go, how things might turn out, it seems like, at every corner, God does something else. This reaches a highpoint when God reveals to Abram and Sarai that they are going to have a child, even in their old age, and they both get a name-change marking the occasion. One would think that after all they had been through, they might be used to God’s way of seeming to change the nature of the game mid-course, but they don’t seem any more accustomed to it than we might be. When Sarah hears that she’s going to give birth at her old age, she laughs, and indeed, that’s how Isaac gets which means, “laughter, or she laughs.”

Laughter is a common response when we finally begin to see what might be unfolding for us in God’s plan. But before the laughter, there are other emotions: fear, loneliness, heartache, confusion, anger… you name it.

Nicodemus must have been going through some of this when he hears about Jesus. We don’t know what had changed or shifted in his life to put him in this place of potentiality, but whatever it was, Nicodemus was tired of the old. He had tried things his way. And so, cautiously at first, Nicodemus approaches Jesus in the night.

Nicodemus is a Pharisee, one of the spiritual elite, a man of social standing and respect and probably known by many of the other religious leaders. He is referred to as the “ruler of the Jews,” so he must have been of special rank and authority. He knows the scriptures. He is educated. He can carry a conversation with the most sophisticated people around and he is nobody’s fool.

But somehow Nicodemus has also come to a turning point in his life. Something has to give. He notices that Jesus is unlike others. Jesus is more than a great teacher. There is something there that not only challenges the mind, but it also somehow makes a claim on the heart. Jesus makes a claim on his whole life. And so Nicodemus draws closer. He comes to meet Jesus by night. He comes by night because he has a lot to lose. He is hesitant. He is afraid.

Jesus tells him that if he wants to see the kingdom of God, he has to be born anew. Born of water and spirit. Born again. Born from above. Born with new belief that God loves the world so very much, that God has come into the world to save it through Jesus.

This is a game-change. Nicodemus probably thought he had life all planned out. Everything was in place, but now this. Nicodemus was fulfilled, or so his thought. He was full, for sure. He’s very “full.” He’s filled with information and knowledge. He’s filled with beliefs and opinions. He’s filled with years of religious practice, of fasting and almsgiving, and praying at the temple, and doing charitable work. Nicodemus has reached old age by living a good, careful and prudent life. And so, why the change now? What is Jesus talking about?

Because God has even more new life planned. And somehow through Nicodemus, others, too, are going to be saved.

It’s tempting (for me, at least) to thing of Lent as a natural time for spiritual growth. We can see things blooming and blossoming outdoors, and so we can imagine that it is within the normal and predictable order of things that growth might be taking new form in us, as well. And while some of that may be true, the kind of spiritual rebirth experienced by Nicodemus is anything but natural. It comes out of nowhere. It doesn’t follow the normal order of things. It involves his being “born again,” or to translate the phrase differently, Nicodemus is “born from above.”

Though we might like to imagine that life follows a predictable course, our actual living tells us otherwise, doesn’t it? A diagnosis from the doctor can change everything. A changing economy or downsizing can change everything. A disaster can change the life we thought we were living. A death of someone we love can disorient us and seem to change everything. And we find we’re in that wilderness place with Abram and Sarai, unable to see or hear God’s promise yet. We’re like Nicodemus stumbling in the dark, unable to make our way just yet, not seeing that there’s any light.

In such times, words often fail. When someone’s house burns down, the worse thing to say is, “You can rebuild.” When someone loses a child or tries to have a child and can’t, one of the worst things to say is, “You can always try again.” And when someone is out of work, though we don’t know what to say to be encouraging or helpful, it’s usually not so helpful for us to say, “You’ll find another job.”

While all these phrases are the things we say because we don’t know what to say, the person with the fire, the loss, the emptiness, is where he or she is. For us to want them to move into another place too quickly is to refuse to see where she or he is. These people (our friends, our family, ourselves) are in a place that feels wild and uncharted. It can feel like a place of loneliness, a place of death even, and a place of ashes. Words don’t sound the same in this place, even when we can hear them.

But while words often fail, we do have one another. When someone near us is struggling, it’s not always the most helpful thing to recommend books, or plot strategy, or offer words of encouragement- though all of these things (of course) have their place. The most powerful reminder of hope in God is to offer ourselves. If there is some part of us that has known God’s rebirth in our lives, if there is some part of us that has felt the rekindling of God’s spirit even when we had been down… if there is some part of us that can live as a witness to God’s power of new life, of new birth, then our presence itself can be a sign of hope for the person who is lost. Abraham and Sarah became spiritual leaders because they had been through the wilderness and survived. Nicodemus became helpful to others because he had gone through his own “dark night of the soul” and had been found by Light again, so he could witness to the light.

A friend of mine was recently reflecting on the time she lost her job a few years ago. With the loss of her job, not only did she lose her income, her health insurance, her sense of stability, but she also lost her identity, since her job was so much a part of her own self-understanding. But, as she puts it, after a while, she realized that she needed to believe in her own journey again. Though she had always thought she had life planned and plotted out, clearly, something else was going to happen. Life wasn’t over, just changed. She had lost one identity, but life was inviting her to find a new one. She had to regain belief in her own journey, that even though the pathway might be through the fog, with the help of others, and with the help of God, she would make it.

What we can offer the person or the people who are suffering is our own strength, witness, and support. If we can convey in some way that we, ourselves have known what it is to be lost in the wilderness and then born from above, this is the hope we can share.

Just a few weeks ago we observed Ash Wednesday. Though the liturgy and prayers of that day can sometimes feel heavy, the day allows us to re-locate ourselves in the drama of life, and death, and new life. We acknowledge the places that are broken and begin to clear away the wreckage. And we allow God to begin again with us. To re-frame the words of Psalm 51,

God helps us to hear of joy and gladness, that the body that was broken might rejoice. God creates a new heart, and a right spirit within us. God gives us the joy of his saving help again, and sustains us with his bountiful spirit. We are delivered from death, and given new lives for praise.

Jesus says that we can be born again. We can be born from above. This happens again and again and again. With God’s Spirit, we ARE (even now) being born from above.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Ash Wednesday

A homily for Ash Wednesday, March 9, 2011. The lectionary readings are Joel 2:1-2,12-17, Psalm 103 or 103:8-14, 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10, and Matthew 6:1-6,16-21.

Often when Jesus tried to explain something about God, he used a story. Jesus told stories from long ago and stories from his own day. When I try to think through the various strains and struggles of Ash Wednesday, I think of a story. But I think of a story from a few years ago.

In 2004 Marilynne Robinson wrote a book called Gilead. The novel takes the form of a long letter from one man to his son. It’s a novel that is really filled stories and memories, with regrets and with hopes. John Ames is the narrator, and he’s a preacher from a family of preachers. In one story, Ames recalls the time that a nearby church had been struck by lightening and burned down. The pulpit was still left, but most of the pews had been reduced to firewood. The people had all gotten together to clean up what remained of the church. “It was like a camp meeting and a picnic,” Ames writes his son. It started raining, but lightly, like a mist. The people sang hymns like “Blessed Jesus” and “The Old Rugged Cross.” They gathered up all the burned books, and made two graves for them, one for the bibles and one for the hymnals. The minister said a prayer over them. The women put the food out while everyone kept working. Ames describes what it looked like with the rain so gently covering all that had burned. “The ashes turned liquid in the rain,” he says, “and the men who were working in the ruins got entirely black and filthy, till you would hardly know one from another.” Ames remembers that his father brought him a biscuit that was covered in soot from his father’s hands. When the child looks at it, his father looks back and says, “Never mind that.”

He says, “There’s nothing cleaner than ash.” [p. 95]

Nothing cleaner than ash.

That sounds strange. Most of us will wash our faces later, to get clean. Ashes seem to stain and are dirty, it makes little sense that they might be clean.

And yet what we enact today has a lot to do with our being made clean. We take on ashes as a sign of penance, as an outward expression of what we might sometimes feel inwardly. That we have done bad things. That we have misused God’s gifts. In just a few minutes we take on ashes and say Psalm 51. The ashes begin to clean. We pray a litany of penitence, and they clean a little more. And then we hear words of promise. We are promised that God pardons and absolves, that we will be forgiven, that God forgets our sins. We hear the promise that we can be made clean, that we will be made clean. And so, there is nothing, really, cleaner than ash.

In the Gospel, Jesus assumes that his disciples will be taking on various spiritual disciplines. He doesn’t say, “If you give alms, if you pray, if you fast.” Jesus says, WHEN you give money, WHEN you pray, WHEN you fast. Don’t make such a big deal out of it. There’s no need to show off. This is not a spiritual competition. Rather, be honest. Learn humility. Put your heart in the right place. Come clean.

Lent began as a season of preparation, and it was especially meant for the preparation of those to be baptized at Easter. At their baptism, the brand new Christian was be outfitted in a white garment-- a new, clean, white garment. The Church says to these people, whether adults or children, “you have become a new creation and have clothed yourself in Christ. Receive this baptismal garment and bring it unstained to the judgment seat of our Lord Jesus Christ so that you may have eternal life.

The Good News for us is that this promise is not just for those being baptized. It is for all of us who are open to God’s grace and forgiveness.

Beginning with clean, black ashes, in this new season, may we be made holy and new.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Transfigured by Forebears

A sermon for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, March 6, 2011. The lectionary readings are Exodus 24:12-18, Psalm 2, 2 Peter 1:16-21, and Matthew 17:1-9.


I’m reading a book by a chef named Gabrielle Hamilton. [Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef, Random House, 2011.] She runs a little restaurant called Prune in New York, and she’s known for being as up front and honest in her speaking as she is in her cooking. Her food is unpretentious and uncomplicated, but creative and nurturing. The book tells part of why both she and her food are the way they are.

She begins the book by describing these amazing summer parties given by her family when she was growing up. As she describes the building of the charcoal fire, the roasting of lambs, the lighting of luminaries through a meadow, and then all the interesting, creative people who would attend, it’s tempting to read that description and think, “wow, what a childhood. I might be a famous chef, too, if I grew up that way,” with a French mother and an artist father who both seem a little “larger than life.”

But then, Hamilton reveals that childhood was not only a long summer party. Her parents divorce. The family goes in different directions, and the whole picture changes. I realize that the story sounds the way it does, the people seem the way they do, because of Hamilton’s telling. By deeply engaging her family (and indeed, through the rest of the book, by deeply engaging other significant people in her life) the author grows stronger. She grows into herself.

I don’t think it’s too much to say that she is “transfigured” by those who have gone before her. She is transfigured by her forbears.

I like that word, “forebear.” Not only does it avoid the awkward construction of having to say both “forefather and foremother,” but it is also more expressive and personal somehow than simply saying “ancestor.” A forebear is someone who has gone before us—whether related to us by blood or by some other means, but a forebear also puts into my mind the idea that even as I might “carry” a forebear with me (inside my head, inside my heart, sometimes in my appearance, in my way of speech, or in my mannerisms), my forebears also sometimes carry me. The memory of them, the presence of them sometimes carries me and gives me strength.

I think this happens for Jesus in today’s Gospel. He and some of his disciples go up a mountain. Matthew’s Gospel doesn’t say what they were doing, whether they were all at prayer, or just Jesus was praying alone, whether they were discussing theology, or simply taking a hike. But there in the midst of their day, Moses and Elijah appear. This appearance is not random, but very specifically related to Jesus. It’s often understood that the appearance of Moses represents the Law of God, and the appearance of Elijah represents the tradition of the prophets. Their presence endorses Jesus as the fulfillment of those two great traditions in Judaism. And then to underscore the meaning of the vision to the disciples, the scripture says Jesus was “transfigured before them.” His face shines like the sun. His clothes begin to glimmer. And then the disciples hear the voice of God saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”

The presence of Moses and Elijah should not be underestimated. The first reading from Exodus reminds us of the power of Moses. He received the Ten Commandments from God. He was the go-between for the people with God. God worked through Moses to liberate the people from slavery in Egypt. Moses walked with them through the desert. Moses led them to the very edge of the Promised Land. As if Moses were not enough, Elijah is there, too.

Elijah was believed to have raised people from the dead, brought fire down from heaven, and then when his time was ended on earth, Elijah was thought to have been taken up into heaven in a chariot of fire.

Moses and Elijah were powerful people for Jesus to contend with. He could have chosen a different way of dealing with them. He might have set himself up as being so different from the old ways as to be almost unrecognizable. But instead, Jesus made peace with these two powerful traditions within Judaism. He made peace with his spiritual forebears. And through that process, he was transfigured—he was changed with more strength, with more purpose, with a deeper sense of God’s presence and power.

Transfiguration occurs for Jesus when he recognizes, when he befriends, and when he accepts his spiritual forebears. It happens for us in similar ways. It happens in a variety of areas.

Transfiguration happens in institutions. As a parish that is one hundred years old this year, we have the opportunity for unearthing some of our history, picking it up, and looking at it closely. We can explore how we came to be an independent congregation from St. Alban’s. We can look at the role the parish played in some of the major events of the diocese and the world. We can give thanks (especially on hot days) that this was the first congregation in the diocese to be air-conditioned. (But we can also be aware that most of that HVAC system remains the original equipment and needs to be replaced.) It’s an opportunity for us to study our history, but then decide what we want to do about it. Do we live into the future with an idealized version of what we should be? Or do we get about making our own history, while still being thankful and mindful of the past?

Transfiguration happens in leadership roles, whether one is the head of a women’s circle, the coach of a soccer team, or the CFO of a company. As the rector, I encounter possibilities for transfiguration in my role. All Souls has had some strong rectors. But each new priest has had to deal with the legacy of his forebears. Henry Hatch Dent Sterrett had to follow his father, Dr. James MacBride Sterrett, a dynamic and well-loved priest. Rev. Blackwelder had to follow the powerful legacy of what had been essentially a family business of the Sterretts. Rev. Mackov had to follow Blackwelder, a well-known personality in the local media, and a conservative force in the diocese. Rev. Cave had problems of his own, though some of this may have been in reaction to the powerful legacies he followed. And Father Van Dooren stepped into a church that was largely empty, with stained-glass windows covered with soot, and yet, he found a handful of people thirsty for the Spirit of God. And now, here I am. I don’t have Moses and Elijah looking over my back, but sometimes it feels like my forebears are just as formidable.

We all encounter these opportunities for transfiguration—in our work, in our families, in our organizations, and in our personal relationships. We become transfigured by our forebears when we recognize, we befriend, and we accept.

Recognizing. It’s important to recognize the forces of history and presence that are alive and well around us and in us. Notice them, acknowledge them. Thank them for showing up. Learn about them. What motivated them? What led them on? What held them back? What shaped them?

Befriending. But then, the second step in transfiguration has to do with befriending the forebears. Befriending simply means coming to terms. While we thanked the forebears in noticing their presence, in befriending, we also might shake their hands and thank them to leave now, their work is done. Befriending may include forgiveness. But the coming to terms with our ancestors, our forerunners, the ghosts in our closets, the spirits that invade our relationships (the former spouses or partners)—the befriending of our forebears will allow for the third aspect of transfiguration: acceptance.

Accepting. Having acknowledged, having made some attempt to befriend, God helps us accept who we are in our current position, or relationship, or standing. We can accept all that’s gone into the equation, and we can look forward to the future with new faith and with the confidence that we are not alone. God allows us to move along with the Communion of Saints (and the community of sinners).

I know a lot of people are familiar with the little poem or saying called “Footprints in the Sand.” The poem is about looking over one’s life and noticing that during the hardest times, there appears to be only one set of footprints in the sand. The speaker wonders where God has been during those times, only to hear that those places, with only one set of footprints, are the places where God carried him. This idea can be a powerful reminder that we’re never alone. But in reality, I don’t think the true picture looks like those photographs and posters of “Footprints in the Sand.” At least not for me. Instead of just one set of footprints during the difficult times, I think the picture looks more like a beach party has happened, or a mob scene of confused and unconnected footprints, a whole cluster of footprints, representing all of those who have held me up, prodded me from the past, or taken my hand to lead me into the future.

To imagine the Transfiguration as including a transforming of relationships is in no way to diminish the presence of God or the moments that seem miraculous. It is, instead, simply to affirm that often, God transfigures us with help of other people, God working through them to change us, and get us ready for whatever lies ahead.

For Jesus, the Transfiguration changed him and strengthened him for the way to Jerusalem, the way that would go through the Cross, through death and into resurrection.

As we enter into a new season of Lent this next week, may God continue to work through us toward transfiguration and renewal.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Remembering Mary Anne Hitchcock (1929-2011)

The Bean Feast by Jacob Jordaens (1593-1678)

A homily for the Celebration of the Life of Mary Anne Hitchcock. The scripture readings were Wisdom 2:1-5,9; Psalm 23, Revelation 21:2-7, and John 2:1-11.


I sometimes used to wonder where Mary got her training for Coffee Hour. She had well-developed skills for elbowing her way to the food, early and often. When I learned that she had spent some of her childhood in New York City, I wondered if perhaps she had trained at Zabar’s, or maybe she developed her skills closer by at Rodman’s on any given Saturday morning. Or maybe because she was small, she learned early on that she had to stick up for herself. Having one sibling who was 10 years older, again—she had make herself known. And that, she did.

Mary made herself known to us with her brilliant red hair, with her voice that was very willing to be raised (whether it was over changes to the language of prayer, or a question at a parish meeting). And she made herself known with her fantastic, patriotic, Cat-in-the-Hat kind of headpiece. With talk of the upcoming royal wedding in England, several of us yesterday were talking about the little hat-like things some British women wear, called “fascinators.” Well, when Mary put on her red, white, and blue hat, she not only fascinated, she surprised, startled, and astounded, as well.

Before my time at All Souls, Mary and Gloria Wilson were a team. But being the best of friends did not stop them for minute from arguing with one another—up the sidewalk, into the narthex, and right into the pew—whether the preaching was preaching or the choir was singing, if they had an argument to finish, they were going to finish it.

I don’t know what Mary said the very first time I met her, but somewhere near our first meeting, I remember her looking up at me (sort of sideways) and almost accusing me, “So, you’re the new priest! Welcome. Hope you like us and will stay a while.” And then, just as I was beginning to warm to her, she continued. “I have a question.” (Yes?, I wondered). “When are we going to sing some of the ‘old hymns.?’”
I think I tried to respond as diplomatically as possible and change the subject. And though we never talked about hymns for a funeral, I hope that Mary would approve of the hymns for today.

Mary was never afraid to speak up. She was like another Mary, Mary the Mother of Jesus, who appears in today’s Gospel. They’re at a wedding in Cana and there is a disaster, a disaster Mary Hitchcock would have completely understood. They’ve run out of wine, and Jesus’ mother (in good Mary Hitchcock fashion) points it out.

“They have no wine,” she points out. But Jesus doesn’t seem to appreciate the comment. He hears it as a call to action, and he’s not really meaning to be busy right now. But he obliges his mother.

Mary (the Mother of God, that is) knew when there was a potential for a good party. And lucky for her, for the wedding guests, and for Christian tradition, Jesus got busy. After an initial reluctance to perform a miracle then and there (we can imagine him looking at her saying something to the effect of, “Oh, Mom, not now.” But a miracle is made. Water is turned into wine, and St. John calls this the “first of his signs.” That is to tell us that this miracle, this sign, is simply a foretaste of much bigger, much better things to come. The significance of the Wedding at Cana is not that Jesus attended a wedding party. It’s not even that Jesus can so parlor tricks at his mother’s request. Instead, this story shows us something about God’s love. God’s love overflows like water after a torrential downpour, like juice running freely as grapes are pressed, and as we’ll hear on Good Friday, like the water of life flowing out of the side of Jesus Christ, as he shows us the extent of God’s love for us on the cross.

God’s love and mercy are overflowing, unbounded, ever-surprising, and never-ending.

Mary Hitchcock is not the only person to know that the Kingdom of God has a lot of food in it. Another Mary, Mary Francis Kennedy Fisher, known as M.F.K. Fisher, said

“Food for the soul is a part of all religion.” “Food for the soul is a part of all religion, as . . . savages know when they roast a tiger’s heart for their god, as Christians know when they partake of the Body and Blood at the mystical feast of Holy Communion. That is why there can be an equal significance in a sumptuous banquet for five thousand heroes, with the king sitting on his iron throne and minstrels singing above the sound of gnawed bones and clinking cups, or in a piece of dry bread eaten alone by a man lifting his eyes unto the hills.” [Here Let us Feast: A Book of Banquets (San Francisco: North Point Press, 1986) xiv, reprinted from 1946 Viking Press.]

We can be thankful that when we get to heaven, there will be something like the Zagat Survey to all the best places to eat up there. And Mary Hitchcock will be our guide.

Until then, we will miss her. We will miss hearing her voice, trying to answer her questions, seeing her all over the District, wherever there is a street fair or festival. And we will miss her at this altar and at the tables in the Undercroft, places where we exchanged laughter and love.

I mentioned that Mary used to ask me, “When are we going to sing some of the old hymns.” Today, after Communion, rather than kneel as we often do, I invite you to stand with me and sing a hymn that I think Mary would agree is among the best of the “old hymns,” “Leaning on the everlasting arms of God.” It can be sung with gratitude for a life well lived and with joy that Mary now sings and celebrates, and eats and drinks, right along side us in the Communion of Saints.

Worries

A sermon for the Eighth Sunday after the Epiphany, February 27, 2011. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 49:8-16a, Psalm 131, 1 Corinthians 4:1-5, and Matthew 6:24-34.


In the late 1980’s, and especially after the Tom Cruise movie, “Cocktail,” almost everywhere you went, you would hear the Bobby McFerrin song, “Don’t worry, be happy.”

In every life we have some trouble
When you worry you make it double
Don't worry, be happy......

McFerrin got the phrase from a poster he saw that had popularized the teachings of an Indian mystic, Meher Baba, who was especially popular in this country through the 1960’s and 70’s. McFerrin got the words from a poster, but he could have just as easily gotten them from today’s Gospel.

The words, “Don’t worry, be happy” also went right along with some of the excesses and superlatives that were so much a part of the 1980’s. Big hair, shouldered sport coats and jackets, big cars, and big credit card bills were the thing. I remember hearing thoughts in church and by cultural commentators pointing out that it was just this kind of sentiment of “don’t worry, be happy,” that contributed to self-centeredness and all kinds of worse problems. It was easy for me to agree with those who criticized the idea of not worrying, and just being happy. I was in seminary in part of those years and took EVERYTHING seriously. I was too busy trying to be righteous to think much about being happy, and I was far too anxious about everything to even begin to understand that simply little phrase, “don’t worry.” And yet, we meet that sentiment head-on in Jesus’ words.

“Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear… look at the birds… consider the lilies…do not worry”…. Again he says, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today's trouble is enough for today.”

Jesus is talking about trust in God. He’s talking about practical living, but he’s also simply telling a very basic truth, too, isn’t he? All the careful investing in the stock market over the years…. And look what happened in just a few months. One can invest time and energy and teaching and faith in children, and yet, they can very well make their own decisions about which way to go, what to do, even which god to follow. And one can invest one’s heart and soul into another person, only to lose that person whether through death, or divorce, or distance. We can hope and plan and pray and work our way into the future, but when it comes right down to it, we don’t own the future. We have only THIS day.

The old Robert Burns poem talked about it so well, in which Burns notices the scurrying of a little mouse. He observes the mouse’s hurrying, the mouse’s desperation in stealing a little something to eat here and there, the mouse’s little house all falling apart, and then notices

But Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leaves us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

And yet, Jesus DOES promise joy. He promises joy not in success, or health, or in finding love in this life, or in answered prayers, but joy in what he calls the “kingdom of God.” And whenever he talks about God’s kingdom, Jesus is careful not to talk about it in terms way off and distant, but in terms that are immediate, intimate, and close-by. The kingdom of God is in your midst, he says. The kingdom of God is upon you. And in today’s Gospel, I think Jesus is giving us an important key to the kingdom, the key of trust.

It’s easy to say, “have faith,” and “trust,” but it’s hard to do. Even as a child, I used to worry about all kinds of things I had no control over whatsoever. Some of that continues into today, but when I’m occasionally sane (or even slightly faithful) I can laugh at myself, give thanks for the moment, and remember to trust God. But I think this “trusting in God” involves faith, and it seems to involve at least three types of faith. For trust to build, it seems like there needs to be faith in God. But there also needs to be a measure of faith in other people. And then, there’s the hardest of all, there trusting in God also involves our having a little faith in ourselves.

We talk about having faith in God, but how often do we really pray to God? I don’t mean the kind of prayer that presents God with a little box and then gets mad when God doesn’t fill the box with what I’ve imagined. It’s more mysterious than that. I might feel like I need a car to get to work. One kind of prayer might really spell it out, “God, please give me a green Porche with leather interior.” I might pray with all my might, but will probably be disappointed at the result of the prayer. I could get angry at God, use this as a simple proof that God doesn’t exist, and do what I need to do to buy my own green Porche. But perhaps a more faithful prayer might involve my praying to God for an answer to my transportation problem. I would not just mention this while walking down the street. But I would commit to praying about it. I would pray to God for an answer to my transportation problem every morning for several weeks, or maybe for a month or two. [When have we ever prayed like that for anything?]. God might answer that prayer, but it might involve a friend or neighbor suggesting we carpool. Or it might involve looking more closely at public transportation. Or it might be the nudge I need to look for other work. Or, there might even be what feels like a miracle, with a friend mentioning that her mother is looking for someone to give a decent car to—it’s no Porche—but it runs, and she’d like it to go to a good home. Who knows, but trusting in God, having faith in God, includes our having the faith to pray for God’s will.

The second kind of faith is faith in other people. Let’s look at my “car problem” again. In addition to praying to God, perhaps I might mention my need for new transportation to a friend or a coworker. Granted, this risks me looking needy. It risks me showing others that I might not have my life together as well as I might have liked to portray it. But it opens me up to other people—many of whom also might even have a relationship with God through which God is also trying to work. Having faith in other people might involve our asking for help, asking for advice, asking for guidance.

And finally, all of this trusting in God through faith takes a little bit of what is obvious, but so often overlooked. It takes a certain amount of faith in myself. There have been other times that God has brought me through difficult situations, and so I recall those, and remember that God has made me strong and alive. I can make choices. I have agency. I have skills, though some might need to be developed more consciously. Having faith in myself doesn’t mean getting all puffed up in a Stuart Smalley kind of way, looking in the mirror and saying, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and dog-gone it, people like me.” Having faith in myself means taking stock, being honest, but still at the end of the day and its beginning, remembering that I’m a child of God. It means remembering words like those of Jesus that remind, “You are of great value . . . Strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”

The kingdom of God is a place of faith. Yes, faith in God, but also faith in others (who are God’s children) and faith in ourselves, God’s child.

The Collect of the Day, the prayer that begin this Mass is one that perhaps we, who have a tendency to worry, should all memorize:

Most loving Father, whose will it is for us to give thanks for all things, to fear nothing but the loss of you, and to cast all our care on you who care for us: Preserve us from faithless fears and worldly anxieties, that no clouds of this mortal life may hide from us the light of that love which is immortal, and which you have manifested to us in your Son Jesus Christ our Lord.

It’s a prayer that sustains, and reminds, and encourages. It says, “trust in God. Have faith.”

May God’s Spirit be so alive in us as to chase always all worry and fill us with love. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Not so perfect

A sermon for the Seventh Sunday after the Epiphany, February 20, 2011. The lectionary readings are Leviticus 19:1-2,9-18, Psalm 119:33-40, 1 Corinthians 3:10-11,16-23, and Matthew 5:38-48.

This year marks the 400th anniversary of the completion, printing, and distribution of the King James Bible. While the King James version has shaped much of Western Civilization, adding majesty and imagery to our prayers, our worship, and our pictures of God, we have also, 400 years later, inherited a few of its problems. In some places the translators guessed at the meaning of a word. In other places they did what people of every age do, and wrote in their own cultural assumptions. Especially since the discovery of scrolls in the Dead Sea area in the 1940’s, scholars have had additional texts to compare, and in many cases words that were ambiguous before have found more definite meaning.

Also, there is the issue (as with a Shakespeare play or a Tallis anthem) of the English words themselves having very different meanings today.

When the King James Bible uses the word, “conversation,” it means behavior, not talk between people. “Meat” refers to any food, not just that from an animal. And “prevent” really means, “precede.” So when Psalm 88:13 says “Unto thee have I cried, O LORD; and in the morning shall my prayer PREVENT thee.” The psalm is not asking that prayer might keep God away, but rather, that prayer would come before God, prayer would welcome God in.

My favorite example involves the appearance of unicorns. In six different places the King James Bible mentions unicorns. The translators were not sure about the word in the Hebrew. More contemporary scholars understand it as a wild bull of some kind, with two horns, not one, but for what reason the 17th century scholars chose to use unicorn, no one knows.

And then we come to a word that appears in today’s Gospel. Among the most misunderstood and most unfortunate words we have inherited is used verse 48: “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” This is the King James Bible, but the same use of the word perfect follows in the New King James, the Revised Standard Bible, and the New Revised Standard Bible, and many more.

We know what “perfect” means. When we perfect a draft of a paper or a document, it means that we try to get rid of all the mistakes, all the errors, all the misspellings and typographical mistakes. Perfection usually has to do with the ideal, with what we may agree out loud with our mouths is unobtainable, but all the while on the inside we are still measuring ourselves against some idea of perfection.

But the word used in today’s Gospel doesn’t mean what we usually mean by “perfect.” The word used is the Greek word “teleios.” And while I usually hate to sprinkle sermons with fancy-sounding words, this is one that finds it way into other fields, as in Philosophy, teleology has to do with the end or the final result of something. A teleological argument for creation would say that all of nature is aiming and building toward an end, and this supports the argument for a creator who is behind that design.

More than “perfect,” the word has to do with reaching maturity, with being whole or complete. One writer (David A. Duke) uses the image of an acorn to explain this word. A “perfect” acorn, in this biblical sense, would not be the biggest acorn on the tree, nor the prettiest, nor the meatiest (except, perhaps to a squirrel). Instead, the “perfect” acorn in the sense Jesus is using the word, would be a full-grown, leafy, majestic oak tree. The “perfect” acorn would be the acorn that has grown to full adulthood, has grown beyond its “acorn-mind,” has grown into something that is beautiful, and helpful, and useful.
Eugene Peterson’s version of the scriptures, called “The Message” makes this especially clear. He translates and paraphrases verse 48 not as “Be perfect;” but rather, Peterson hears Jesus say: “In a word, what I’m saying is, Grow up. You’re kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you.”

The kind of perfection Jesus encourages us towards is related to God and the generosity of God. “Be whole as God is whole, be complete as God is complete.” At the end of it all, there’s the culmination in Jesus’ saying, “Be like God. Be generous like God. Surprise other people with that generosity and amazing things will happen.”

This famous saying “if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also,” has nothing to do with accepting abuse or acting like a doormat for others. As many commentators have observed, to be hit on the right cheek in the Roman world would have normally meant that someone used the back of their hand to smack you, so it would not only be a violent act, but also—if not more so—an insult. It meant that the person striking regarded you as lower than himself or herself, as though you were inferior—in that world, a slave, a child, a woman. Hitting back would just continue the cycle of violence. Offering the other cheek, however, is a statement: “Ok, hit me again, but this time, you have to view me as an equal.” It would change the power dynamic.

And in the other example, a rich person takes a poor person to court. If they sue for your outer garment, give them your undershirt as well, so you’re standing there naked. It won’t shame you, but will shame the other person who has gone to such lengths to get money from a poor person.

And a similar thing is meant with the situation of a Roman soldier asking someone to carry his equipment. There were cultural rules and expectations for this sort of thing. So by carrying the equipment further, you would not only startle the soldier, but break the cultural code and risk his embarrassment. You would make him look foolish.

N.T. Wright suggests that these stories are a snippets, almost cartoons. Jesus is saying through these images, “imitate God.” “Be like God.” God is generous beyond what anyone would expect, so be generous with each other, be larger than your usual self.

In the 3rd and 4th centuries, holy men and woman went into the Egyptian desert looking for God and looking for themselves. Some probably went looking for what they thought might be perfection, but when confronted with their own internal demons, when confronted with the teachings and sayings of older, wiser hermits, they soon came to understand that the way to perfection is through imperfection. The way to wholeness is by admitting one’s brokenness.

There’s a great story about a desert father called Abba Moses. It seems that a brother living in community in another part of the desert had committed a fault and a kind of council was called. The brothers all wanted Abba Moses to go, but he refused. Finally, someone sent a messenger to him and said, “Abba Moses, please come. Everyone is waiting for you and for your opinion on the matter.” So Abba Moses got up and went, but he took a leaking jug filled with water, and carried it with him. The other monks came out to meet him. They saw the leaking jug and asked, “What is this, Father!” Abba Moses looked at them and said, “My sins run out behind me and I do not see them, and today I am coming to judge the faults of another.” When they heard that, they said no more to the brother, but forgave him.

We have seen that the King James Bible is not perfect. Those who have tried to live a Christian life before us were not perfect. We are not perfect, but the really good news today is that we’re not called to be perfect. If anything, we’re encouraged to admit our imperfection and to be generous in allowing for the imperfections of others. This generosity leads to wholeness. It leads to maturity. Such generosity helps us to grow into something like giant, beautiful, long-lived well-loved trees.

In the final chapter of Revelation there is an image of the holy city, the New Jerusalem. There is a river of the water of life. The Lamb of God presides. And there is a tree of life, “and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.”

We are those leaves, imperfect, but growing, changing, developing in generosity, all under the watching care of God. Thanks be to God that we don’t have to be perfect.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Choosing Life

A sermon for the Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany, February 12, 2011. The lectionary readings are Deuteronomy 30:15-20, Psalm 119:1-8, 1 Corinthians 3:1-9, and Matthew 5:21-37.


In our first scripture reading from Deuteronomy, Moses is giving Israel an enormous pep-talk. After forty years of wandering in the wilderness, of wondering if God was till directing them and leading them, of worrying about what might come next, Israel is on the edge of moving into the Promised Land. I don’t know the geographic setting for the speech, but from its imagery and majesty, I wonder if it wasn’t on a hill somewhere, overlooking a great expanse of land down below, and far away. Moses speaks to the occasion in grand terms, “I have set before you today life and prosperity, death and adversity. If you obey the commandments of the Lord your God, walking in his ways, and observing his commandments, decrees, and ordinances, then you shall live and become numerous…[You will be blessed.] But if your heart turns away and you do not hear, but are led astray to bow down to other gods and serve them, [then] I declare to you today that you shall perish; you shall not live long in [that] land….” Life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life so that you and your descendants may live, loving the Lord you God, obeying him and holding fast to him; for that means life to you and length of days.” Choose life.

Choosing life can be every bit as dramatic as Moses makes it sound. We choose life when we move into a new relationship. We choose life when we plan for a child. We choose life when we make a new and better decision about the direction in which we’re headed.

But choosing life also involves smaller decisions. The decision of conversations entered into, and conversations avoided that help us choose life. There are decisions of what we eat and drink, of how we move or exercise that go into choosing life over death.

Those who study the relationship between the mind, the body, and the spirit would say that we choose life whenever we pray or mediate—that this calms the body and the mind and the spirit and opens a way for God to live within us and among us. Choosing life is not so hard, but it means choosing life at every moment, not just when we’re at the edge of a precipice.

The Gospel today can sound like a real “laying down of the law.” It can be off-putting and scary. It can sound like a faith that leaves out people. In fact, if we were to miss the fine points of the Gospel, most of us would probably find ourselves left out.

Jesus is re-interpreting the old law, saying, “it’s not enough just to keep the law. That probably won’t work very well, anyway. The key to living faithfully is to try to understand the things that move under the surface, the motivations and moods, the fears and fantasies that lead us off-track.”

Jesus repeats the commandment, “You shall not murder.” But then he goes further by uncovering some of the things that lead to murder. We might hear the talk of murder as extreme, until we begin to think of the anger, the frustration, the road-rage, the minor annoyances that can all too easily escalate. We might begin by harboring a grudge or nursing a resentment, and if we’re not careful, we can end up in court.

Instead, Jesus says we should work at reconciliation. He speaks of going to the temple in Jerusalem for worship, but if you remember your neighbor has something against you—stop your worship and go work things out with your neighbor beforehand. Notice how Jesus puts this—he doesn’t even say, if “YOU” have something against your neighbor, but rather, if your brother or sister has something against YOU. That changes the responsibility for reconciliation, doesn’t it? Our tendency is to ignore the problems. Especially at church, or in any organization, we think that if we just avoid “such and such” or act a certain way or say a certain thing, then future conflicts can be avoided. But when we come to the altar, we feel the break in community and it haunts us. Here, Jesus is exaggerating his point. If one left the temple in Jerusalem to go and be reconciled to a neighbor, it might take hours or days. You wouldn’t just leave the goat or turtledove or whatever you sacrifice might be sitting there on the temple steps. And yet, his point is made, isn’t it? Until we at least begin to pray for the person who has a problem with us, or with whom we have a problem, whatever we offer at the altar will be less than what it might be. And we will not quite be free. Prayers of confession are a beginning. A note, or phone call, or email, or conversation with another person is a beginning. A prayer for one’s enemy or one’s hard-to-get-along-with brother or sister, is a beginning, and that opens the heart to God’s grace. If we took Jesus’ words literally, we would have a whole lot of unused communion wafers every Sunday. But instead, we confess that we are broken people on the mend, and we ask for God’s grace to restore us and help us restore broken relationships.

Jesus goes on in the gospel, and it gets even messier. “You shall not commit adultery,” he reminds us. But then goes on to warn about lust and about all the urges and senses that, if given energy and encouragement, lead to adultery. Answer is to watch the emotions, watch the heart.

Jesus talks about divorce. And this is one of those topics (like abortion, like homosexuality, like many issues) that really warrants an entire series of looking closely at what scripture says, at how the culture of the time influenced the scriptures, at how faithful people through the ages have understood the movement of the Holy Spirit, and how we, today, live openly and honestly believing that “All Scripture is inspired of God and beneficial for teaching, for reproving, for setting things straight, for disciplining in righteousness” (2 Timothy 3: 16-17) but also, that the Holy Spirit helps us interpret scripture for our own day and our own lives. There are times when a divorce is an unfaithful decision, made out of selfishness or spiritual immaturity. But there are also times when divorce is the ONLY faithful decision, and then one really needs all one’s faith to continue choosing life even in the midst of dark days. Choosing life means reconciling as much as possible. Choosing life means praying for the other people involved, it means working on one’s issues, and choosing life after divorce or the ending of any relationship means being open to a new relationship or re-marriage when God opens that possibility.

The Ten Commandments, and the shortened versions we read at every Mass (that we should love the Lord our God with all our heart, and with all our soul and with all our mind, that we should love our neighbor as ourselves.)”—these commandments aren’t kept by pronouncement or decree, but by the little, daily decisions we make to be faithful.

In a short video we saw this morning during the Adult Forum, we heard Karen Armstrong talk about dogma as being very much like the rules to a board game. Reading the rules is boring and abstract—it makes no sense until we begin to throw the dice. It’s that way with living into the commandments and hopes of God.

We choose life with the attitude we adopt when we wake up in the morning. We choose life in our thoughts, in our conversations, in our willingness to apologize, in our ability to forgive, in our faith to move on in the Spirit of God, and in our thinking about what will follow us in the future.

What we do (or don’t do) affects those who come after us.

This idea was used as a motivation by Coach Mike McCarthy last Saturday night as he sought to motivate the Green Bay Packers before the Super Bowl. Not only did he have the whole team fitted for their Super Bowl rings the night before (a bold move and show of faith, by any standard), but he also brought in a motivational speaker. When he was asked later what the speaker said, McCarthy explained that the message had to do with getting the players to think about what people would remember about them later. “Outlive your life,” he said. The Super Bowl they were about to play would, indeed “outlive their lives” as family and friends would remember it for ever.

We can all make mistakes and hurt other people in such a way that we leave behind us a whole way of wreckage. Broken relationships, hurt feelings, words that can’t be taken back.
But Christian faith gives us daily opportunities to outlive our life—to live in such a way that what is positive, what is good, what is uplifting, what is forgiving, what is encouraging, might follow us.

Before us is set “life and prosperity, death and adversity.” If we obey the commandments of the Lord our God, walking in his ways… then we shall live, and we shall live in such a way that our life is outlived by the one who is Love Himself.

Redeemed by Christ, empowered by the Holy Spirit, let us choose life this day and for ever.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

The Spirit at the Center

Labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral

A sermon for the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany, February 6, 2011. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 58:1-9a, (9b-12), 1 Corinthians 2:1-12, (13-16), Psalm 112:1-9, (10) and Matthew 5:13-20.

Salt and light are strong images. They gain even more strength in the teaching of Jesus. He ties them to faithfulness and suggests that by resembling salt and light we will not only be useful to him and to God, but we will please God, and will be a part of what Jesus calls the Kingdom of Heaven. It’s easy to see why these images have guided Christians for centuries. But taken out of context and blown out of proportion, salt and light become destructive and imperialistic.

As the Puritan John Winthrop sailed towards the Massachusetts Bay Colony, he preached a sermon on the ship entitled, “A Model of Christian Charity.” Winthrop said, “For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill. The eyes of all people are upon us. So that if we shall deal falsely with our God in this work we have undertaken, and so cause Him to withdraw His present help from us, we shall be made a story and a by-word through the world.” The words have been used again and again by preachers and presidents to inspire and to encourage. The trick is to remember that they are words having to do more with service than privilege. There is such a thing as too much salt. And light can sometimes blind rather than lead.

St. Paul’s words to the Corinthians moderate some of the possible zealotry of the Gospel.

When Paul approaches the worldly and urbane Corinthians, he does so not as though he’s got the light and they’re living in the dark. He does not as though rubbing salt into a wound. Bur rather, he approaches them simply, as he says, presenting Jesus Christ crucified. Paul describes his approach as one of weakness, fear, and trembling. Of humility, really. He trusts God more than he trusts his own words or wisdom.

Paul describes beautifully the word of the Spirit of God—the Spirit being that part of God’s movement and energy in the world that appears when words fail, that soothes when answers are hidden, that accomplishes when plans fail. The Spirit is the sometimes our last resort, but it’s often God’s first choice of presence in our lives. “The Spirit searches everything, even the depths of God.”

And then Paul does an interesting thing, he relates this Spirit of God to the mind of Christ. In that Jesus Christ was fully God and fully human, his mind was filled with God and the things of God. And so, to be like Jesus Christ, to set our mind on the things he values and teaches and lives out, that is to allow our mind to be filled with God and the Spirit of God.

Filled with the Spirit, we discover a funny thing: all of a sudden, we are acting and thinking and living like the people Jesus has described in the Gospel. With the Spirit of God pouring through us, we shine like light for others—not in a self-conscious or self-aggrandizing way, but in a way that comes from God. And we become salty, as well—not in a way that overpowers or offends, but in a way that is distinctive and delights. If you cook at all, you know that too much salt overwhelms a food and so you taste nothing but the salt. But just enough, and the salt encourages other flavors, and the whole dish is made better. It’s that way in the world, as well. Empowered by the Spirit of God, we add our own Christian perspective and find that it adds rather than obliterates, it promotes rather than dominates.

And that second part of the Gospel, about the commandments remaining firm and how, if we should break a commandment or teach others to do so we will be “least in the kingdom of God” but how, if we keep the commandments and teach others to do so, we will be “great in the kingdom of God”—all of this sort of takes care of itself. Enlivened by the Spirit of God, we realize it when we fall or fail or break a commandment. And so we say we’re sorry. We might go to confession. We stop and re-evaluate and pray for the grace to carry on. It’s not the focus of our faith, but a by-product of living faithfully.

How do we get this mind of Christ? How do we get the Spirit of God?

At baptism, the Holy Spirit is given to us. But we spend our lives living into the Spirit of God, through the process the church sometimes calls sanctification—a way of being made holy. And one way of allowing the Spirit room in our lives is through prayer.

From time to time, we have offered what is known as Centering Prayer at All Souls. We don’t currently have a communal time for this, but many of us continue to practice Centering Prayer or something like it on our own. It works very simply. One sits still in a chair or on a prayer stool or a mat, and one opens oneself to the Origin of all that exists. When a thought shows up, simply let it pass on through. Just return to the silence, the space, the place where you are inviting God to be. Sometimes a “centering word” is helpful. It can be anything like “grace,” or “blessing,” or Jesus’ word for God, “abba” or perhaps “amma.” The word isn’t the focus, it just reminds you to come back to center and simply “be.”

Centering prayer usually happens for about 20 minutes or more. It takes practice because it is counter-cultural in so many ways. In such prayer, we’re not struggling to keep up with emails, with news, with tasks, with people, with expectations, with hopes. We’ve not even paying attention to our own faith, or beliefs, or prayers. It’s a time for being quiet, for practicing the quiet. As Cynthia Bourgeault describes it, “What goes on in those silent depths during the time of Centering Prayer is no one’s business, not even your own; it is between your innermost being and God; that place where, as St. Augustine once said, 'God is closer to your soul than you are yourself.'” (Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening, p. 6)

We are called to be salty, bright, freed and forgiven people, living in the Spirit of God and sharing God’s love with any who will have it. Helped by one another, may we continue to live into the Mind of Christ.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

The movement of grace

A sermon for the Third Sunday after the Epiphany, January 23, 2011. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 9:1-4, 1 Corinthians 1:10-18, Matthew 4:12-23, and Psalm 27:1, 5-13.

Each Sunday when we proclaim the Gospel, we take the special Gospelbook from the altar and we move with it. We usually step into the congregation at least a little bit. At the High Mass, we move with a whole group of people—a thurifer with incense, acolytes with their candles, as we are led by the cross. If it looks a little like a parade, that’s intentional, since in the reading and celebration of the Gospel, we are proclaiming that Jesus Christ lives among us. We listen for him in the reading and then in the interpretation, and then in the sacraments of bread and wine, of body and blood.

While there’s always some movement in our proclamation of the Gospel, today’s reading almost seems to call for special staging. There’s a lot of movement in this Gospel, and it almost seems like the kind of time that we might be a little more dramatic than usual. We could read portions of the Gospel as we move through the whole church, pausing at various places, and continuing on this way, and that way.

If you notice, everybody’s moving in today’s Gospel. They’re moving from darkness into light. They’re moving from sin into new life. And they’re moving from what is familiar and safe toward places that are new and uncertain.

The first image of movement begins in our Old Testament reading from Isaiah. “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” Isaiah speaks to a people in exile, a people cut off from their homeland, a people yearning for a way forward. They are hoping and praying for a better way forward.

In our second reading, the Apostle Paul is preaching to the people of Corinth, where they, too, are looking for a way forward, but they can’t decide who to follow. And so, they each pick a different way and they argue about that—some claim to follow Paul, others claim to follow Jesus. Still others claim to follow Cephas, and Apollos, and who knows who else. What is clear is that the Corinthians are not getting very far because they’re all trying to go in different directions. They’re still stuck in darkness but they’re so busy fussing that they don’t even seem to realize that they’re stuck.

And then we hear today’s Gospel in which those words and images of Isaiah are recalled as Jesus emerges as a leader who shows the way. But his way isn’t easy. “Repent,” he says. “Repent, for the kingdom of God has come near… Follow me.”

The word that he uses, “repent,” is familiar to people who have been around the church a little. Sometimes the word is used as a battering ram or as a threat, but it’s intended as a word of hope, a word of encouragement. Many have heard before that the word means “to turn around.” If we wonder what that looks like, we can begin by looking at Paul, who wrote our second reading to the Corinthians. His was one of the most dramatic turn-arounds. He was a Pharisee, a sort of religious professional concerned with people keeping all the religious laws, and he persecuted Christians. But then he changed. He turned. He repented, and became not only a follow of Jesus, but also a promoter of Jesus and the way of Christian love and life.

And that’s what can happen when one actually follows Jesus. There can be a real turning—a turning around, a turning toward something new, a turning into a person better than you might have ever imagined.

Too often (if you’re anything like me), we turn, but we keep on turning. It’s as though we are stuck in a revolving door—we turn around, sometimes making a big fuss out of the new direction we’re going or the new habit we’re adopting-- in a New Year’s resolution, or in the season of Lent-- but then before we know it, we’ve simply turning around and around. And we keep on turning until we eventually grow dizzy and we lose heart. Sometimes we’re flung out of the revolving door and fall on the ground, broken and battered.

But the kind of turning, or repentance, that Jesus leads us through involves leaving something behind, turning in a new direction, and moving forward with others.

Paul says that “If anyone is in Christ, that person is a new creation; the old has passed away and the new has come!” The old is passed. The door can be shut and the key thrown away, as we turn.

We leave the old habit, or sin, or resentment behind, and we turn in a new direction.

We allow Jesus to take our hand and turn us in a new direction so we can’t even see the old anymore. Some versions of Christianity make an enormous point of this particular part of the turn-around. “Put your faith in Jesus,” and everything will be just fine. Faith becomes a one-on-one between me and Jesus, but that’s only part of the conversion. There’s another part to repentance.

That third part of repentance happens as Jesus puts our hand in the hand of another. We don’t go through it alone, and the person who experiences forgiveness in solitude from God alone usually only exists in movies and over-edited lives of the saints. More often, in order to keep facing the new direction, moving into the new place of forgiveness and light, we move with others, who also are looking to repent, to change, and to renew their lives in Jesus Christ. Grace can be apprehended alone, but I think it’s most often felt in relationship.

There’s a great story about this communal understanding of grace in a new book by Jay Bakker, [Fall to Grace: A Revolution of God, Self, and Society] the son of Jim and the late Tammy Fae Bakker. A young man named Jared tells his story. His father was a minister and Jared was a rebel. He did everything he could to go his own way. In his late teens he drank and drugged and slept around a lot. He was the “other guy” who broke up two marriages. But at the age of 23, he discovered his latest girlfriend was pregnant. It was about that time that he went to his parents’ house, looking to raid the kitchen, and his father asked him to step outside for a minute. Jared writes that while his father had been strict, he’d never known him to be violent, but at that moment he was afraid. But he went outside. His father looked at him and asked, “are you doing drugs?” At a kind of breaking point, reading to get out of the revolving door or turning round and round, Jared blurted out, “Yes!.” And then he went on, “there’s something else. You’re going to be a grandfather.” There was silence. There was a pause. And then something amazing happened. His father got tears in his eyes, looked at his son, and said very quietly, “So, what are we going to do about it?”

What are WE going to do about it? In that little word of “we” Jared understood grace—the forgiveness and grace of his parent, but also the forgiveness and grace of God, since that kind of acceptance transcends human emotion and is really impossible without God. The revolving door stopped and repentance moved forward for Jared.

This is why we are “church.” This is why any Christianity that is not communal quickly becomes something else entirely. We need one another and God works through one another for healing and forgiveness.

And so, as I suggested earlier, today’s Gospel is a Gospel-on-the-move. It falls flat if it stays in the pretty silver book on the altar. It dies in this place if there is no echo from our reading. It remains useless if its movement doesn’t continue through this service and move with us into the world, as we go out changed, forgiven, and freed.

Friends, the Good News this day is that whatever there has been in our lives that has separated us from God, or separated us from other people, or separated us from our truest selves—these things can be left in the dark. We, who have walked (and lived) in darkness have seen a great light and on US has the light of God’s grace shined.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.