Saint Augustine's Episcopal Church Sermon Blog

Christmas Day, Year B, 2011

2012-01-04T14:39:00.000-05:00

Who is being born here? The child of an everyday couple from Nazareth... or God, come to live the life of a human being on earth? And if it's God, what did it feel like, putting on our flesh? Writer and journalist Martin Wroe asks some of the questions that go to the heart of Christmas.
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what colour are you God
what's your body like
any disabilities, distinguishing characteristics
would we spot you in a crowd
would we stare at you for some deformity
how many senses have you got
five, six, eighteen, ninety four
and what's your sense of touch like
is your handshake firm as a vice or slippery as an eel
what do you smell of
anything in particular - the universe, for example
planets, oceans, space, skies
do you smell of petrol like everything else
we believe your Spirit is always willing
but is your flesh ever weak
and if the Word was made flesh
are you flesh of our flesh
bone of our bones
is that you there, meek and mild
all meanly wrapped in swaddling clothes
is that you Baby J Word of the Father
now in flesh appearing
is that you screaming as you arrived
like the rest of us
screaming at the shock of the new
the shock of the cold and the old and the broken
is that you Baby J
slipping clumsily out from between a Virgin's legs
covered in blood and gunge and straw
when moments before you had been covered in glory
is that you tied to the mother of God by a fleshy cord
sucking on a woman's breast for your very life
what a come down
still at least you had an audience
cows was it, a goat or two
did they look on in awe and wonder
were the cattle lowing a bit
or were they a right nuisance
but little Lord Jesus no crying he makes
well, that's not true is it
the thing about flesh is it makes you cry
for better or worse, you've got to cry
who is he in yonder stall
at whose feet the shepherd's fall
did they fall ? did they recognise you up close ?
did they know that was you, God, in the flesh
or were they just intrigued by the heavenly host
and the funny star
and did the flesh inconvenience and annoy
and anger you like it does the
rest of us, your fleshy creatures
did your nose run green
your skin flake or bruise red
did you itch
your breath catch from asthma
in that smelly barn
your chest tighten in fear
and later on what did you do about your desires
you know, the fleshly ones
and, just out of interest, where on earth
did you go for your private movements
and are there miraculously fertile plants there today
trees with roots for miles and branches into the heavens
never barren, endlessly ripe...
or are those places where the divine squatted in squalor
feeling quite a lot lower than the angels
- wiping his bum with leaves -
are they like every other place, where folks did their business
with no particular supernatural horticultural memento
and when you were tired, when it all was going wrong
when your friends misunderstood, lost interest, wandered off
did you think
what did I get into this body business for
swapping omnipresence for being somewhere in particular
did you feel trapped in that body
or didn't you know what it had been like before you became body
when you were in-carnate
could you know what it was like out-carnate
flesh can't be in more than one place at a time
flesh is limited
flesh is awkward
you must have wondered at the restrictions of the corporeal
did you ever notice , could you tell the difference?
and did the flesh also exhilarate you, excite you
did you run and laugh and kiss
did you sweat and wrestle and argue
and if you longed to be more...were you grateful to have lived
on earth
a human
in flesh
to have become one of us
he was little, weak and helpless
tears and smiles like us he knew
and he feeleth for our sadness
and he shareth in our gladness
how's the old body now
do you wear a halo
or a crown
is it of gold
or is it of thorns
are there marks on your palms
blood on the side of your shirt still ?
Jesus of the body, of the flesh, Jesus of the Spirit
welcome to the body God
thank you for being it
putting flesh on the bones of our skeletal lives
fleshing out the way life might be lived
thank you Spirit of Jesus for becoming body among us
thank you that veiled in flesh the Godhead we see
flesh is all we have
but, now you now - as well as any of us -
flesh is not all we are
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Martin Wroe is a freelance writer, mainly working for Sunday newspapers in the UK. He is an organiser of the Greenbelt Arts Festival. Something similar to the above is published in When You Haven't Got a Prayer (Lion, 1997), a collection of reflective spiritual writings. In another age he would have liked to have been a heretic but not burnt.
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Christmas Eve, Year B, 2011, 7:00PM

2012-01-04T14:37:00.000-05:00

Luke 2:1-20
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

One of the great yearly events of my childhood in Texas was the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. In my day, the entire Astrodome complex would be given over to the occasion—the rodeo events and the concert were in the stadium itself, much of the parking lot was devoted to carnival rides and games, and the attendant sales of crafts and food and overpriced trinkets were located in the display halls around the campus.

It was a revered annual event in the Houston area. On opening day, all the schools in the region would host “Go Texan Day” and the kids would be encouraged to come to school in boots and jeans and coyboy hats. (For some of us, this was not much of a change from every other day, but it was a quasi-religious observance nonetheless.)

Everyone who could go to the festival, did. You’d drive onto the lot and park in outer Slobovia, then walk the rest of the way into the fairgrounds. Every age, and color of skin, and largeness of hair (this was Texas after all) could be found there…from “who’s who” to “Who is THAT?”

As you entered the carnival area, the noise got louder, and the press of people around you got tighter. The lights on the rides and booths were closer and bigger and more overwhelming. And then, gradually at first and then suddenly in a full-frontal assault, you would SMELL it. The smell of people, and carnival food, and above all the animals.

This was the Livestock Show and Rodeo, after all. The animals were officially the point of the whole thing. The barns and pens occupied the central hall of the complex, and you knew well before you got there that you were going in the right direction. As clean and well-scrubbed and carefully groomed as both beasts and buildings were, the smell was still the smell of a barnyard. Feed and sweat and animal waste, all at once. You couldn’t NOT smell it; I carried the memory of it in my nostrils for days afterward.

I’m waiting for someone to write a Christmas carol about the smell of the stable in Bethlehem. I promise you, it did not smell like lilies and roses. It did not smell like incense. It did not smell like gingerbread and roast turkey and dressing and pine boughs in a wreath on the door. It did not smell like “Christmas.”

It smelled like a barn. It smelled like sweat and animals and excrement, in the middle of a carnival festival gathering with too many people and not enough room, and no one much paying attention at all. And that is where it happened. Right there, in the middle of the mess and chaos.

Into the sweat and excrement and crowdedness of a carnival, with only outsiders and animals to witness, God came to us. Into the crowds and smells and noise, God came to us. Into our lives of messiness and chaos, in our own flesh and blood and bone, God came to us.

In Jesus, born of Mary this night in Bethlehem, God comes to us, as us, with us. In the mess, in the chaos, in the stuff of our lives that is not at all “Silent night, holy night”, that does not smell or feel or look at all like Christmas, God comes and meets us and loves us there, right there in the midst of it all.

We have a God who knows us inside and out. For in creating us in God’s own image and likeness, God has known us from the beginning—the beginning of time and our own beginnings, each one of us. In coming to us, as one of us, God experienced the fullness of human reality—birth, finitude, sorrow and grief, joy and celebration, and even death. It is no accident that in our Nativity window here at St. Augustine’s, the image of the manger cradle is symbolized by a cross. Both cradle and cross are part of the story—we cannot have one without the other.

Christ comes as someone we can know and see, and yet we know and see only in part. Part of himself remains a mystery—unseen, concealed and yet thorougly completely present and included. So our lives are mystery—somewhat seen and known and understood, but seen and known and understood only in part, even to ourselves.

But in that hiddenness and mystery; in the chaos and messiness; in the smell and sweat and struggle, God comes. Even now, even tonight, in the places where only animals and outsiders might even be around to notice: God comes to us. Visits us. Loves us, as one of us.

Merry Christmas, friends.
Amen.

Last Sunday of Advent, December 18, 2011, Year B

2012-01-04T14:35:00.000-05:00

Luke 1:26-38
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

One of my favorite movies around this time of the year is the 1947 film “The Bishop’s Wife” starring Cary Grant. Grant portrays an angel named Dudley, who comes in answer to a prayer by the Bishop, played by David Niven. Throughout the film, Dudley has moments where he scares the daylights out of people by suddenly appearing behind them, and as they turn they jump in surprise. And his response is always the same: “It’s all right, don’t be afraid.”

“Do not be afraid.” Or in the old translations, “Fear not.” This commandment (for commandment it is) appears more frequently than any other in the Bible. I suppose the people of God needed to hear it more frequently than anything else. For it is fear—not doubt—that is the enemy and antithesis of faith. Fear can stop us in our tracks faster than any other adversity or challenge, it can (and does) paralyze and destroy peoples and communities and nations. And so, over and over through the scriptures, and especially when the angels come to call, we hear the words: Fear not: Do not be afraid. Fear Naught: Do not be afraid of anything. For God is with you.

“How can this be?” Mary asks Gabriel. She wasn’t expecting anything of the kind. It was, as far as she could tell, an ordinary day like any other. Nothing special or unusual marked it as being the day when her life would change for ever.

And yet it did change. For Mary of Nazareth, and for all of us gathered here this morning, half a world and two thousand years away, life changed that day. Mary’s word of “Yes” is the Yes that transforms the universe and everything in it.

She had no warning, no time to prepare a response, no time to really even think about the consequences that would follow. And the truth is, she could have said “No, thank you.” That’s one of the marvelous things in this story. In spite of the dangers she knew she faced (social ostracism, the possible breaking of her engagement to Joseph, the physical dangers of childbirth itself) and the dangers and risks she could not even imagine at the time, she said yes.

“Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me as you have said.”

It is no accident, I think, that in our stained glass windows here at St. Augustine’s, the prophet window with Isaiah encountering an angelic messenger and commissioning is immediately adjacent to the Nativity Window, wherein Mary also encounters an angle and is commissioned to tell what she has heard and seen. “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my savior…”

In our keeping of Long Advent here at St. A’s this year, we’ve had seven weeks—almost twice as much time as everyone else!—to think about, and pray about, and study and ponder over what it is we are getting ready FOR, which is just beyond our sight, just over the horizon. It’s not just about the baby in the manger; it’s definitely not about the overconsumption that is driving us to be mauled at the mall.

Rather, it’s about God coming to us. Now. Today, and tomorrow, and all the time. On the utterly ordinary, commonplace days when we least expect, when we are not nearly as ready as we think we ought to be or might be if we had had more notice.

And yet, God comes. Expected or unexpected, Ready or not, God comes.

So ready or not, may our answer be the words of Mary: ”Here I am—as you will.”

Amen.

Advent 6, Year B, 11 December 2011,

2011-12-13T14:25:00.000-05:00

Isaiah 61:1-4,8-11; Psalm 126; 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24; John 1:6-,19-28
Preached by Rev. Lou Scales

When Linda and I first came to the Augusta area about 11 ½ years ago, we had the delightful experience of meeting new people, learning new places and settling in to the community. It was, and, to this day, continues to be, fun. One of the things that has been the most fun is seeing how people who have lived in one location for some time greet those who are new, to the community and to the area. After experiencing this phenomenon first hand for several weeks, we learned to our delight, that there was even a formula for determining some things about the people who greet you and try to make you feel at home. As you know, according to the telling, and, quite honestly, according to our experience, the formula, first annunciated by Chablis in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, goes something like this:

If they ask you what your profession is, they’re from Atlanta.
If they ask you where you go to church, they’re from Macon.
If they ask you who your great-great grandfather and great-great grandmother were, they’re from Augusta.
If they ask you what you want to drink, they’re from Savannah.
When you’re new in the area, or doing something new in the area, people want to know something about you. Now, in most cases, there is any number of good-natured ways people use to get acquainted, to get to know you.
Now the contrast to this is probably best described using the lyrics of an old black gospel song from this part of the country, most often sung to the driving beat of a blues guitar:
There's a man going around taking names.
There's a man going around taking names.
He took my father's name, And he left my heart in pain.
There's a man going around taking names.
There's a man going around taking names.
He took my mother's name, And he left my heart in pain.
There's a man going around taking names.
There's a man going around taking names.
He took my sister's name, And he left my heart in pain.
There's a man going around taking names.
In the song, the "man going around taking names" is a metaphor, of course, for everything that menaces human relationships and life -- most prominently, the slave trader and, finally, death itself. It is a fascinating image for potential evil, this idea of "taking names." Even school children can identify with it. "Now, children," warns the teacher. "I'm going to the office for a few minutes, and I'm appointing Frances to be the monitor. Don't misbehave or she will write down your name, and you'll have to deal with me when I get back." ... There's somebody around here taking names.
When John the Baptist was at work in Bethany, beyond the Jordan River, a delegation of priests and Levites, religious officials of the highest order, sent by their ecclesiastical superiors, showed up from Jerusalem. They were not there on a package tour of the Holy Land, and this was anything but a pastoral visit; they were there taking names. You could tell that from the very first words to come from their mouths. "Who are you?" they said. No small talk. No exchange of quaint pleasantries. No pictures of the grandchildren passed around. Just, "Who are you?" ... There are some people going around taking names.
John’s answers obviously did not please them, primarily because John told the priests and Levites who he wasn’t. He wasn’t the Messiah, he wasn’t Elijah, and he wasn’t the prophet. And his only job was to point to the one who would come after him. John was a witness. His own description was a quote from the prophet Isaiah, “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord.’”
Has it occurred to you that John’s description of himself and his mission is a description that could well fit for you and me? Our Baptismal covenant asks if we will proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ. We are Christ’s heralds, Christ’s witnesses, by baptism, nourished in that task by the body and blood of our Lord. We are called daily to declare his coming, to declare his love and mercy extended to all. John’s mission has become our mission – to declare the coming of the Lord, to declare the love of Christ in all we do, in all we become.
Andrew Greeley tells this story:
Once upon a time there was a politician who was running in a very close election against a very clever campaigner. He had a good message and an exciting platform, but he was not well known. Thus he had to make a lot of speeches around the district, go to many meetings, attend tea parties, and receptions, and cocktail parties, and church gatherings, and touch every possible base in the district. It was still an uphill battle. A good friend of his was his advance man, the fellow who made the arrangements for all the events and speeches and logistics for the campaign. He was not a very good advance man; rather he was unreliable and pompous and, worst of all, disorganized. The other people in the campaign hated him, but the candidate stuck with his friend. As the election drew near the polls showed the candidate losing ground. The advance man knew they were going to lose, so he gave up altogether. The campaign self-destructed in the last week. Yet the candidate lost by only one half of one percent of the votes. All the media people said that if the campaign had been better organized, the voters would have got to know the candidate better and he would have won in a walk. We’re supposed to be advance persons for Jesus. Sometimes you wonder why he doesn’t fire us.
In this special season for the preparation we make to welcome our Lord, in the flesh, to dwell with us, it’s important to reflect on how it is we make our faith and our joy known about the One who comes. And when someone comes around taking names, I hope you will give your name loud and clear, telling the world, not only who you are, but WHOSE you are…

1. "There's a Man Going Around Taking Names," from Religious Music: Solo and Performance (Album number in The Library of Congress "Folk Music in America" series, 1978). Words in the public domain.

2. Andrew Greeley, Andrew Greeley.com, 1996.

5 Advent, Year B, 4 December 2011

2011-12-13T14:24:00.000-05:00

Isaiah 40:1-11; Psalm 85: 1-2, 8-13; I Peter 3:8-15a; Mark 1:1-8
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

Focus Statement: God is coming: Get ready!

When I was in college, I caught a robber breaking into my car.

I was in Houston, at a store downtown, and had parked in the small parking lot behind the building. As I walked out with my purchases and rounded the corner, I saw someone sitting in the driver’s seat of my car messing with the steering column. Rather than stepping back and calling for help, I hollered at the guy and he started running. I ran after him, but he got away. I came back and called the police, who came and looked at the car. It was not very damaged, and nothing was taken. But I still felt violated and angry. Maybe you have been burgled, and know that feeling too—it’s not really about the stuff being taken, it’s about the sudden insecurity and anxiety that’s left over afterward.

I get anxious and fearful about the passages in scripture talking about Jesus coming “like a thief in the night.” To my ears it sounds like the same thing. Look again at our reading from the 2nd letter of Peter this morning.

“With the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like one day. The Lord is not slow about his promise…but is patient with you, not wanting any to perish, but all to come to repentance. (Metanoia) But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a loud noise, and the elements will be dissolved with fire, and the earth and everything that is done on it will be disclosed.”

“A thousand ages in thy sight/are like an evening gone/short as the watch that ends the night/before the rising sun.” We sing those words, we acknowledge that TIME, as we perceive it, is not an issue for God. For us, definitely. We are born, we grow up, we grow old, we die. This is certain, for each and for all.

This language of “the heavens will pass away with a great noise/the elements will be dissolved (or “absorbed”) by fire” expressed for the letter’s first audience a then-current understanding of how the world would end, when time and the creation should come to a conclusion and return to the fiery energy and light from which they were made. It’s not so much “Big Bang Backwards” as a return to the source and origin of all things.

The author understands this not as a threat but as an urgent invitation: “Since you (all) already know this, and that God is patient, seeking the repentance (metanoia) of all, then you also know the solution to the problem.

You all remember Metanoia? Turn around, you missed your exit, you’re going to Columbia when you wanted to go to Atlanta. Change direction; change your way of thinking; change your minds. The surprise, the shock of the coming of the Day of God is no surprise at all. Be ready always, in lives of holiness and godliness. You are not waiting for disaster and destruction, but for all things to be made new. Be ready; Get ready!

When I was newly ordained, I served as the assistant at St. Paul’s Church in Waco, Texas. Waco, Texas is an interesting place. We were twenty miles from the infamous compound of the Branch Davidians and David Koresh in one direction, and we were twenty miles from then President George W. Bush’s presidential ranch in the other direction. We were surrounded by crazy people.

Waco, Texas is a city in a wide-open country. There’s lots of uninhabited space surrounding the town and suburbs. Not a lot of trees out there. Lots of room to wander, and wonder, and ponder. And that openness, that wilderness, draws people (some sane, some less so) who are asking the big questions.

“John the Baptizer appeared in the wilderness, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Mark’s gospel begins by plunging us into the midst of the story. No set-up at all, save a single verse quoting the book of the prophet Malachai (Not Isaiah, in fact) which is the last book in the Hebrew scriptures. By choosing this quotation, and by describing John the Baptist as he does (Wild man, wild clothing, lives in the desert, eats bugs), the author of the Gospel of Mark is telling us to remember Elijah. Elijah, the most important prophet Israel had ever known, whose return was to signal to the people “Get Ready—the Day of God is about to arrive.”

John comes, like Elijah, to speak not of himself but of someone else. He points to what he is doing—baptizing with water, as a ritual of cleansing and preparation. It’s a ritualized bath, to signify the desire for inner and outer cleansing, in anticipation of what is to come. BUT, says John, “You haven’t seen anything yet. You think this is something important—just wait!”

“I baptize with water; he will baptize with the Holy Spirit.” Matthew and Luke have the words as “with the Holy Spirit and with fire.” Fire, again…not for destruction, but for cleansing and purifying, for the restoring and return to the origin and source of all things, our own creation included. The fire of the Holy Spirit, poured out upon God’s people to restore and re-member them—to put them back together, to draw them back into God’s own self.

Over and over John the Baptist says “I’m not the one you’re looking for.” He points beyond himself, to One who is just offstage, just out of sight, around the corner, waiting in the wings.

Monday afternoon I was waiting in the wings. The monthly vestry meeting was scheduled for that night, and I was beset with the worst case of stage fright I’ve ever experienced. (To put this in context, I’ve been performing in front of people since I was able to wear a tiny white choir robe and stand on the chancel steps of First Methodist Church, Liberty Texas, with the Cherub Choir to sing “Jesus loves me.”) So I’m used to being in front of crowds. But this was something else altogether. The vestry was going to take a vote, and although I had every confidence in the outcome, I was still more nervous than I’ve ever been in my time here at St. Augustine’s. I called a friend in Texas, one of my wisdom people, who talked me down out of the tree into which I had climbed, and reminded me that, even in this, it wasn’t all about me anyway. As much as I love this parish, and as much as you all love me, we aren’t really the point. We exist, priest and parish, to point beyond ourselves. We are here, like John the Baptist this morning, to declare the coming—the arrival, the advent—of The One whose shoelaces we are not worthy to untie, but who has made us worthy, by creating us and loving us, to stand upright and welcome Him, as both the baby in the manger, and as the creator of the sun, and the moon, and the stars of night.

May it be so for us; may it be so among us.

3 Advent, Year B, 20 November 2011

2011-12-13T14:16:00.000-05:00

Ephesians 1:15-23, Matthew 25: 31-46
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

Our Gospel this morning invites us to see beyond appearances. And the imagery of the sheep and the goats, which is what often gets most of the attention in this passage, really isn’t the point at all.

The Son of Man (as Jesus calls himself repeatedly in Matthew’s gospel) is a mysterious figure. He is a human being, like any other, who eats and drinks and gets hungry and thirsty, who has to sleep and burp and sneeze and all those things that we all do.

And yet, The Son of Man is not like anyone else at all.

The Son of Man is a title, mentioned first in the Book of Daniel, one of the strangest, most dream-sequence-filled books of the Bible. In that story, the prophet Daniel sleeps, and dreams of unearthly creatures gathered in the heavenly presence of God. God is seated on the high throne, in majesty and awe. Into this scene comes one “like a Son of Man” to be greeted and welcomed and placed in a position of highest honor and dignity. The Son of Man is at once recognizably human, and at the same time unmistakably much more than that.

All our gospel readings for the last several weeks have been leading to this climactic episode. And many of them have shared the theme of waiting and watching without being exactly clear when, or how, the waiting will conclude.

The sleepy bridesmaids are waiting for the bride and groom to arrive so that the celebration may begin. Some of them run low on oil for their lanterns, and the others send them on a fools’ errand at midnight. And in their running around in darkness, they miss the party altogether.

The slaves are waiting for the master who went on a long journey, and left them with untold riches to tend and use. For the one who decided ahead of time that he was himself incapable of doing anything satisfactory, that decision became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

And this morning, we read this grand and overwhelming (and rather weird) passage about the sheep and the goats being separated, to the left and to the right of “the king.”

Notice what happens with the titles. “The Son of Man” of whom we’ve heard much in Matthew’s gospel already, disappears. “The King” seated on the throne, is revealed for the first time.

In the classic stories of childhood, there’s always that moment of revelation. The clock strikes midnight and the golden carriage turns back into a pumpkin. Beauty kisses the Beast, and the enchantment is broken, the prince and kingdom are released from bondage, and all is seen as it really truly is.

This passage of Matthew’s gospel is that moment. Everything has been leading to this point, and now all is revealed, just in time.

For if we were to keep reading, in the very next sentence we would hear Jesus reminding his hearers that it is now two days before the feast of the Passover. The cross is looming large in the background, the central drama of the Gospel—Jesus’ arrest, trial, death and resurrection—is about to begin.

Matthew presents Jesus as the good, the perfect, the most excellent teacher. He is Moses all over again, but more even than Moses, giver of the Torah, the teaching of God. Jesus is, in himself, the embodiment and completion of that teaching, as well as the one who brings it to the rest of us. And these last few gospel passages we’ve heard, from chapters 24 and 25, are the final Cliff Notes version of the teaching, given in the last minutes before the final exam begins.

For they will all—Jesus and his followers, way back then, and even now—undergo a trial of knowledge, endurance, skill and identity. EVERYTHING is up for grabs. And he wants them to understand, as clearly as possible, what they are to do.

I used to think of this story of the separating of the sheep and the goats as a clobber passage. Meaning “if you don’t get it right, God’s gonna clobber you and send you off to hell.” I grew up thinking that about a lot of the Bible, and it’s certainly possible to read large portions of the Bible that way if you want to.

But that sort of reading has two unfortunate effects: One, it puts God in the position of an omniscient bookkeeper in the sky, watching and waiting for any and every time I screw up, to catch me in sins of omission and commission. And two, it puts me in the position of somehow potentially being ABLE to work my way into God’s favor and approval by doing everything right and avoiding everything wrong, by my own will or determination. In neither of those effects is there any place for forgiveness, or mercy, or grace. To read this or any other passage of Scripture in such a way misses the point by making human beings more Godlike than God’s own self.

To read this passage literally would suggest that, if I went down to Broad Street one day, and declined to give money to a panhandler on the sidewalk, then immediately thereafter got hit by a bus, that I would therefore immediately be counted among “the goats.” We can’t read the passage in that manner, and do it any kind of justice.

But neither can we ignore it, or say it doesn’t mean anything much at all. The expectation is clear: Feed the hungry. Give drink to the thirsty. Clothe the naked. Visit those in prison, and who are sick. We see the images of those expectations every Sunday morning, in our stained glass windows in the vestibule, when we go in and out of church.

But notice something else in the gospel reading: Both the “sheep” and the “goats” ask exactly the same question. “When did we see you hungry and thirsty and naked and…and…and…?” They didn’t see the king. They didn’t see anything other than a Son of Man, or a Daughter of Woman. Another human being, just like themselves. This is the place of revelation. This is the moment when the enchantment is broken, the light dawns, and all things are seen for what they truly are.

They did not see with their eyes in any case. If they saw at all, if they perceived even in the slightest, then it was with the eyes of their hearts—discovering the hidden King, dressed in rags, masquerading as one of “them people.”

An old Scottish prayer tells us that
“Often, often, often, Christ goes in the stranger’s guise;
Often, often, often, Christ goes in the stranger’s guise.”

Christ is on his way to the cross, the place of ultimate humiliation and degradation. And yet that humiliation becomes the place where the enchantments of the world are broken, and the power and light of God are released to bring about grace, and mercy, and forgiveness. This is the power of which the writer of Ephesians speaks, “far above all rule and authority and power and dominion…not only in this age but also in the age to come.”

It does not look like any kingdom we have ever seen.
He does not look like any king we have ever known.

Let us pray.
Open the eyes of our hearts, O God, that we may see Christ, however he may come. Open our ears, and quiet our busy chattering minds, that we may hear his voice. Raise us up to follow and serve him, wherever he may lead. Amen.

20 Pentecost, Year A, October 30, 2011

2011-11-14T14:11:00.002-05:00

Joshua 3:7-17; Psalm 107:1-7, 33-37; 1 Thessalonians 2:9-13; Matthew 23:1-12
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

In her bestselling memoir Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia , author Elizabeth Gilbert makes the following statement: “There are only two questions that human beings have ever fought over, all through history. ‘How much do you love me?’ And, ‘Who’s in charge?’ Everything else is somehow manageable. But these two questions of love and control undo us all, trip us up and cause war, grief, and suffering.”

The question of “who’s in charge” is a point of discussion in both our Old Testament and Gospel readings this morning. Joshua has been chosen by God as the leader of the children of Israel, after the death of Moses, and now we hear of his being officially established in this role. Whenever a new leader comes into office, there’s always that period of adjustment. Once the so-called honeymoon is over, the real work gets underway. And so Joshua sets out to lead the people across the Jordan River, into the Promised Land. For an entire generation they’ve been wandering in the wilderness, and now finally they are coming into the place that God had promised them.

I wonder what the Caananites, the Hittites, the Hivites, the Perizzites, the Girgashites, the Amorites and the Jebusites thought about all of this? They’d been there first, as the indigenous peoples of the land—and later scriptural accounts demonstrate that they were not all driven out at once, but continued to be a presence in the land in later generations.

When the procession reaches the riverbanks, which were overflowed by the river in its normal cycle of floodtide, those who carried the Ark of God on long poles stepped first into the river, and it was divided. And the people of Israel crossed over on dry ground.

This isn’t the first such story of crossing over on dry ground, is it? No…you remember the earlier one. At the beginning of the Exodus, at the Red Sea, with Pharaoh and his chariots and chariot drivers in hot pursuit of the Israelites, and Moses reaches out his hands to divide the waters on one side and another, so that the people are able to go forward. God makes a way, where there is no way.

This is what God does, in the story of salvation. Out of human catastrophe and disaster, God acts, over and over, to bring redemption and deliverance to the people. Where there is no way, God makes a way. Where there is no hope, God speaks a new word of creation and see! Hope and joy and new life break forth in impossible places.

Joshua and the people go forward, with the Ark of the Covenant—the outward and visible sign of God’s presence and power and protection with and among them—suspended on two poles, carried by the twelve members of the twelve tribes of Israel, holding the waters back as the people pass on through. In the ark of God were found the stone tablets of the Law, the Teaching of Moses, and a container of the manna, the strange food that had sustained and nourished the Israelites all that time, in their wilderness journey. The Ark was the object that spoke most clearly and eloquently of God’s actions in the past, and God’s presence with the people in their current situation.

So what happens, then, when such an object is lost, or taken away, or destroyed?
What happens when our outward and visible signs are no longer available, or are somehow altered beyond comprehension and recognition?

Jesus and the disciples are in the temple, not far from the place where the Ark of God eventually had a permanent home, many hundreds of years later after Joshua and the crossing at the Jordan River. They have just come from a series of discussions (or trick questions) posed by the various religious leaders, who have sought to get J. into trouble by one means or another. And J. is teaching his hearers how to regard these persons.

Listen to them” he says. “They sit on Moses’ seat”. In those days teachers and preachers usually sat to speak, and their hearers would stand or sit on the floor around them. “They sit on Moses’ seat”—they are the legitimate successors to Moses, just as Joshua was the first of many such successors. Listen to what they say—and then go do it, as they do not. All their doing is for show—to get attention from other people.

“They make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long”. Outward and visible signs intended to communicate a deeper connection with the presence of God, rather like the Ark of God there in the temple. But J. condemns the religious leaders, not because of those outward and visible signs in themselves, but because the inward and spiritual realities they should represent are dried up and lost. “They do not practice what they preach” is an expansion of the Greek. Literally it says this: “They say…but do not.” The words are good, the visual cues are good—but there’s nothing behind all of it.

But YOU—Jesus says—all of YOU know better than that. “Rabbi” and “Father” and “Teacher”, all these grand titles! Don’t make the mistake of thinking that anyone but God is God.
(Posy Jackson at ETSS, with the “God is God, and I’m not. And neither are you” tshirts)
You are all students in school together; you are all brothers and sisters, children of the heavenly Father; you are all learning from the Messiah, the Christ, the Anointed One of God.

What happens when the outward and visible signs are no longer available? Because for the first readers of Matthew’s gospel, that’s exactly what they were dealing with. The setting for this passage, the Jerusalem temple, was destroyed, razed to the ground, in the year 70. The place they had known as central to faith and culture and identity was gone. Their world had been turned inside out and upside down, and what were they to do now?

And into that fear and shock and heartbreak, Jesus speaks. “You all know what to do. And you know who you are. Don’t worry about the titles, and the changing structures, and the hierarchy. You are all students of the Good Teacher; you are all children of the Heavenly Father; you are all followers of the Messiah, the Christ, the Anointed One of God.”

The early Christians would hear those words and remember that they too had been anointed—rubbed on the crown of the head, or possibly all over their bodies—with fragrant oils at the time of their baptism. Just as Jesus was “the Christ—the Anointed One of God”, they too were part of that anointing, that fragrant, extravagant, messy pouring of a new outward and visible sign that conveyed the new and transforming action of God in the midst of their lives. Which were also messy, and complicated, and in great need of God’s mercy and guidance and wisdom.

Who’s in charge here? Jesus answers that question, for his hearers then and for us today, with a curious and seemingly backhanded response. “The greatest will be the one who serves; the one who exalts himself will be humbled; the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”

Let us be clear. Jesus is not telling his followers (then or now) to be conspicuous in their humility, to “show off” as it were, how they can put up with humiliation or discomfort or unhappiness for the sake of cultivating some sort of martyr complex. (Uriah Heep in David Copperfield, who speaks often and at length about “bein’ ‘umble” as he plots the downfall of the other characters in the story.) What he is saying, rather, is that when God’s priority list and values get put into action, it looks very strange. It looks like wide phylacteries and long tassels and fringes dropping down into the dryness and dust of the streets, to help and hold and lift up. It looks like dirt under fingernails, in the garden of St. Stephen’s House on Greene Street, or gallons of soup and smiling faces at The Master’s Table.

Outward and visible signs to be sure—some of venerable antiquity and tradition, some newly created or improvised on the spot, by the Spirit’s leading. But all of them filled with the power and the presence of God, and all of them answering both questions at once: Who’s in charge here—God is, and God’s dominion has just broken in; and also “how much do you love me?” Love beyond comprehension or limit, without measure or qualification.

For not with swords loud clashing, nor roll of stirring drums…with deeds of love and mercy, thy heavenly kingdom comes.

Amen.

19 Pentecost, Year A, 23 October 2011

2011-11-14T14:11:00.001-05:00

Deuteronomy 34:1-12; Psalm 90:1-6, 13-17; I Thessalonians 2:1-8; Matthew 22:34-46
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

In the book The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible writer A.J. Jacobs documents his attempt to keep all 613 of the commandments found in the Hebrew Bible over an entire year. At the end of the year (and the end of the book) he observes that choices must be made, that not every commandment (nor every word of the Bible) can be held in equal importance. There has to be some way of prioritizing this collection of material, otherwise it’s just endless and impossible.

What is the key to all these teachings? How are the people of God to live and make sense of life in this world?

Jesus has been asked this very question: What is the greatest commandment? The person asking this question is identified as “a lawyer.” This is not someone who puts on a suit and tie on Monday morning and goes the courthouse in downtown Jerusalem to get a citation waved after his client has double-parked his camel in a no-camel parking zone. This is someone who has been carefully and thoroughly trained in the religious teaching and tradition of Israel. Jesus’ interlocutor himself knows the commandments—all 613 of them—very very well.

And so our expert in the law asks Jesus: What’s the number one commandment? And Jesus, being a good Jewish boy, answers with the words he has known from childhood. “Hear, O Israel, the LORD is our God, the LORD alone. You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might.” To this he adds a verse from Leviticus: “you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Love God with everything you are, everything you have, everything that is in you. And love your neighbor as you love yourself. Everything else is commentary on the text.

Those who question him are looking for an opportunity to make trouble for Jesus. He’s in the temple when he tells this to his hearers. And it is the third time he’s been interrogated there, by leaders of various factions within the religious hierarchy. He came into the temple and threw out the merchants and moneychangers, and upset the ordinary flow of “business as usual.” And when he came into the temple, the people who accompanied him, even little children, were shouting “Hosanna to the Son of David!” Palm Sunday shouts, leading to Good Friday’s cries of “Crucify him!”

So it’s an in-between sort of time. Things have happened; there is more yet to come. It’s not a safe, or easy, or comfortable time for Jesus or his followers. Anxiety is high; time is growing short. He’s been asked about paying taxes to the emperor—a question about loyalty and ultimate values. He’s been asked a preposterous question about marital relations in the life of the resurrection—by people who don’t believe in such a thing in the first place. And now he is asked about “the greatest commandment.” It is the last question he will be asked in that conversation, and it is perhaps the most important of all.

Love God with everything you have, and everything you are. All of which is from God in the first place.

When I am attacked by anxiety, or assaulted by fear, or tempted by despair—at the ways we treat one another, or the ways we abuse the creation, or the state of our national and political and cultural life—I remember. “In the beginning, God.” And “At the end, God.” And at every moment in between, “God.” As the psalmist writes, “Before the mountains were brought forth, or the land and the earth were born; from age to age you are God. Time is nothing to you—a thousand years in your sight are like an evening gone/short as the watch that ends the night before the rising sun.”

There is no place where God is not, even in the valley of the shadow of death itself. We are held in life—and in death—at every moment, in the hands and love of God. If St. Paul can say of his experience with the Thessalonian Christians, “We were as gentle and loving with you as a woman nursing an infant at the breast,” how much more are we then nurtured and nourished and tenderly held in God—who is both Father and Mother of all life?

In the beginning—God. At the end—God. In between, at every moment—God.

What if we could remember just that? At every moment—to be constantly aware of “Emmanu-el—God-with-us” as we moved through each day? To remember, as we will sing in just a moment, always and everywhere, to give thanks to God. How would that affect our response to Love our neighbor as ourselves? How would it affect how we loved ourselves? I suspect it would affect both of those things enormously—we might possibly even discover something of how God loves.

We are dust, and to dust we shall return. That is true.
But it is the same dust of which the sun and the moon and the stars are made. We are part of the creation in our very molecules, the very same creation over which God spoke, in the beginning, and pronounced: It is good, it is good, it is very good.

Go then, friends. Know that you are beloved and created in the image and likeness of God, know that there is no place where God is not. Go out this day, this week, and discover the places in your own lives where God’s dominion of mercy, justice and abundance is seeking to burst forth—even in places of pain and sorrow and need. And when you find those places, and those people, roll up your sleeves and get on with the work of being Christ’s hands and heart in this world.

May it be so for us.
May it be so among us.

18 Pentecost, Year A, October 16, 2011

2011-11-14T14:10:00.000-05:00

Exodus 33:12-23; Psalm 99; 1 Thessalonians 1:1-10; Matthew 22:15-22
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

The goal of the life of faith is Union with God.
That’s what we’re after here, at St. Augustine’s Church.
It’s not about being nice to one another—although we do that.
It’s not about having programs and activities and services to give people stuff to do—
we’ve all got plenty of things we could be doing at any given time.
It’s not even about serving those in our community and town and world who need help—
as important as that is.

The goal of the life of faith is union with God. That’s what we’re seeking, as people of faith.

That sounds very ambitious, doesn’t it? Union with God—like something that only the professional religious people, monks and nuns and hermits and the very truly pious could even hope for. Moses, for instance, in our first reading this morning, is someone we might think of who got close to such union.

Moses had heard the voice of God in that burning bush, out in the desert, calling his name, telling him “Take off your shoes, you are on holy ground.” All the children of Israel had heard the voice of God on Mount Sinai, in the cloud and fire and trumpet blast, giving them the Teaching, the Torah of God. Moses had come down from that mountain, out of the cloud and fire, to discover that the people were running amok—they had decided that Moses was not coming back, that they needed to make another God to worship, the golden calf. And Moses, who had been with them for so long as they wandered in the wilderness, was MAD. So mad he took those stone tablets with the commandments inscribed on them, and threw them on the ground, where they shattered. And then, eventually, he—and the people he was leading—both realized they had done wrong. And said so, to each other and to God.

So now Moses asks God: “Show me yourself.” He has heard the voice, the words, many times over. Now he asks to see God’s own presence.

This is a very strange passage of scripture. “To see God” is not just about visual perception; it’s about intimate understanding. It is a metaphoric request—Moses does not merely want to “get a look at the Almighty”; he wants to know God in the deepest and fullest way possible. “Who are you that you will go with us? Do not send us away if you do not go with us, for then we shall surely be cut off from you.”

And God answers him, in a wonderful and poetic way. “You cannot see me fully face-to-face (that is, you cannot know me completely, for you would be exploded by my fullness.) But I will cover you and protect you when I come near, and afterward you will see my back. In other words, at the time of the close encounter you will be in darkness—only later, afterward when you think over what happened, you will see how I was there, as it were, from the back.

Is this not, indeed, how we see God? Or experience God’s presence? Sometimes we might be able to see God acting, in the moment, as it happens. But most of the time in my own life—maybe in yours too—it’s afterward. Looking back, thinking over “I was here, and this happened, and then I met this person, and then that other thing happened…and surely God must have been in there somewhere. I could never have manipulated it that way by myself.”

I know you by name, God says to Moses and the children of Israel. I KNOW you, inside and out. Top to bottom; beginning to end.

What do we say, every Sunday, as the liturgy begins? “Almighty God, unto whom/to you all hearts are open, all desires are known, and from whom/you no secrets are hid…” All hearts; all desires; no secrets. God knows it all, before we even know it ourselves, or can say it out loud. All the ugly and mean and cruel stuff; and all the weak and frightened and crazy stuff. And knowing us so completely, God loves us, each and all. Just as we are. No explanations needed; no excuses required.

That is the reality of who we are, as the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve, made in the image and likeness of God. Whether we know it, and welcome it, and live in that reality or not, it is still the reality of who we are, and whose we are.

The goal of the life of faith is union with God. Not just the faith of monks and nuns and hermits; not just the faith of Moses and St. Paul and the early Christians. But all of us are on that journey of faith too. As Christians, we look to Jesus as “the pioneer” of our faith. The one who goes before us and leads the way.

When we say that Jesus was “without sin” we don’t mean that he never got angry, or never asked questions of God, or never back-talked his Mama. He did all those things. When we say that Jesus was without sin, we mean that he was never OUT of union with God. He was never seperated from being fully aware of God’s embrace and presence with him. Even when he was standing in front of his accusers and detractors, like this morning in the temple.

The religious and social leaders of Jerusalem are looking for a reason to get him into trouble—because he has been troubling them. He has come into the temple—the religious, civic and commercial center of the capitol city, and thrown a major tantrum. He has kicked out the vendors and merchants—the sellers of sacrificial animals, and those who took people’s money, the currency of the civil society, and exchanged it (at rates suited to their own profit) into unmarked coins for use in the temple. He has made it impossible for “business as usual” to continue as usual, and the leaders are scared, and angry. They are afraid of what will happen if the Roman occupying forces get wind of all this; they are afraid of what will happen to THEM if the system they have lived with all this time is destroyed or changed in some way. So they are looking for a reason, and a way, to get rid of the trouble by removing the troublemaker.

One group comes asking him a loaded question: Is it lawful to pay taxes to the Emperor?
Please understand—this is not a question about paying taxes as such. This verse has been jerked out of context many, many times and used as a proof text to argue both for, and against, political economic policy. That’s not the point here.

The issue is not paying taxes as such; the issue is idolatry. The children of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob were quite clear in their faith that no depiction of God, in stone or wood, or gold or silver, or paint or any other medium, was a true picture of God’s whole being. If even Moses could not look upon God directly, but only see God “from behind” as it were, then it was impossible—even sacrilegious—to attempt to create an image of God in any artistic medium. NO IMAGES of the Divine Being were acceptable.

The Roman Empire, on the other hand, thrived on images. It was full of images. Everywhere the Roman Army went, they took their library of images with them. The imperial eagle; the military uniforms, the swords and spears and all the other paraphernalia. And above all: the image of the Emperor. On coins, and painted in colors on boards, and in a thousand subtle—and not-so-subtle ways—reinforcing the subjugation of the conquered peoples under this siege of carved, and painted, and metallic images.

To be required to deal with these images—which competed with the imageless, unseen face of God Almighty—was a sore spot among the people in Jesus’ time. Do we simply give up and go with the flow? (If Jesus said “It is lawful” it would be understood as an admission of acquiescence.) Or do we resist and refuse, even to the point of death? (If Jesus said “it is not lawful” then the leaders could turn him in as a political threat.)

But Jesus outwits them all, and asks them a deeper question still. He asks for one of the Roman coins, and holds it up before them all. “Whose image is this, on the coin?”
The word translated “Image” is the Greek word Icon. You know Icons…those little graphics on the computer screen that you click on, and they open up a new program or feature or package—some reality much bigger than the little picture on the screen.
That’s what an icon does—now and in Jesus’ time. An Icon, an image of any kind, carries associations with it. It participates in some reality larger than itself, and is an opening (a window, a door, a passage) into that larger reality. The sacred icons of Eastern Orthodox Christianity are just such openings—“windows into heaven” they are sometimes called.

Jesus is telling his hearers “Look y’all…this icon on this coin, this image of the emperor, is connected to the emperor’s reality. That version of reality is based on fear, and military power, and propaganda. Let him have it…it’s not the real thing anyway. Let the false Gods have their false images; Give to the true God all that belongs to God—which is everything that is real. It is God who made it all, in the first place. And calls each creature, each being, by name. In particular, yourselves.

What are the false images, that we could give back to the false gods, of our own time? Where do we see fear, and power, and propaganda, making demands on our lives—individually and as a people?
How can we claim the true image of God, the maker of heaven and earth, of all things seen and unseen? And of ourselves, children of God and beloved, always and for ever?

The goal of the life of faith is Union with God. The false images, and false gods, do all in their power to distract, and to entice, and to turn aside all those who seek that union. But they shall not have the victory. In Christ, the Icon of God—the true image and likeness, who opens the door to God’s own presence and self—we have an entry to that goal, that union. All our images and visions and depictions are but pale tracings of God’s fullness, and yet even in looking backward, even in “seeing God’s backside”, we see enough to urge us to go forward on our journey together.

17 Pentecost, Year A, October 9, 2011

2011-11-14T14:08:00.000-05:00

Exodus 32:1-14; Psalm 106:1-6, 19-23; Philippians 4:1-9; Matthew 22:1-14
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

In the movie “Where The Heart Is”, starring Natalie Portman and Ashley Judd, the protagonist, Novalee, has taken her best friend Lexie and her four children into her home after Lexie’s boyfriend has beaten Lexie so badly that she is unable to work. In her despair at the state of her life, Lexie asks Novalee “What am I going to tell them? What am I gonna tell my babies, when they ask about why this happened?” Novalee pauses, and then says to her friend “You tell them…you tell them that our lives can change with every breath we take. You tell them that we’ve all got meanness in us, but we’ve got goodness too. And that the only thing worth living for is the good. And that’s why we’ve got to make sure to pass it on.”

We’ve all got meanness in us…yes, friends, we do. But that is not all to Lexie’s story, or to ours. There is goodness, and love, and joy, and peace, and patience and kindness and mercy and selflessness…all that is there as well. And all of that is worthy of our notice today.

Paul writes to the Christians at Philippi to remind them of these things, and to encourage them to remember. Not just remember, as in “call to mind intellectually” but to live into that reality. To commit an act of anamnesis.

“Anamnesis” is the vocabulary word for today—say it with me. It usually gets translated “Remember” or something similar, but that is too light a translation. “Anamnesis” means to remember something in the power of its reality. To be present in that power NOW, in the event that is recalled. When the Passover meal is eaten every year, and the children of Israel say of themselves “God led us out of bondage in Egypt into freedom” that is an act of anamnesis. When the cantor sings to us at the Great Vigil of Easter every year, “This is the night…when Christ rose from death and hell and delivered God’s people” that is a word of anamnesis. When we quote Jesus, concerning the bread and wine, “Do this in memory of me.” we are again speaking of anamnesis, the power and the immediacy of the event recalled is present and available to us right here, right now. We are there, in the upper room, ourselves.

Paul is doing something similar, reminding the Philippians of what they already know. Previously in the same letter, Paul has encouraged them: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself, and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.” (Phil. 2:5-8)

Paul is quoting what we think is an early Christian hymn, which presumably the Philippians knew and had in their collective memory. He’s inviting them to be unified—“let the same mind be in you (y’all) that was in Jesus”—as they work together as ministers of the Good News of God in Jesus Christ. He is inviting them to let go of their own agendas and need to be in control, and instead seek to discover what God is doing in their own time and place, among them.

Only against this background does the opening of our lesson from Philippians this morning make any sense. “My brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for…stand firm in the Lord in this way, beloved.” The way of Jesus’ unselfish giving of himself for others, the way of mutual gratitude and respect.

This way of self-giving, of gratitude and respect is not about some strange dismissal of our own identities or personalities, but rather an ongoing, daily, even moment-by-moment awareness of our primary identity as Christians, as followers of Jesus Christ, who modeled that giving over of himself into the world (we call that the Incarnation, by the way) for the salvation of the world. Think of water, poured out of a pitcher into more water, in a large bowl or container. The water is still water, it hasn’t changed character. But it is part of a larger reality than if it just stayed in the pitcher by itself.

Jesus is poured out into the world, and we are followers of Jesus. Paul calls upon his hearers to recognized that we are also called to be poured out—not to stop being who we are, as if that were even possible—but to be participants in this redemptive, reconciling work into which Jesus leads us.

You do know, of course, that you are all ministers of Christ, right? That when you had the water of baptism poured over your head, that you became forever after marked—scarred, if you will—by the cross of Jesus? That your ministry as a follower of Jesus is mostly not here in this building, but out there—as parents and grandparents, as teachers and physical therapists and television producers, as engineers and personnel managers and writers, as whatever it is you do the other 6.5 days of the week. That is where your ministry is located. Not here in this building—out there, with them people.

And out there, them people are in great need of Jesus. Not the Jesus of bumperstickers and sappy piety; not the Jesus of evangelistic tracts handed out surreptitiously at First Friday on Broad Street. The Jesus you have met, here at the font in baptism and at the altar in the Eucharist; the Jesus you have encountered in each other in this congregation—sometimes hidden, often elusive, but nevertheless present. The Jesus you come seeking, like Mary in the garden on Easter morning, even in desperation. “They have taken him away, and I don’t even know where to look for him!” And Jesus speaks, and calls us by name.

“Rejoice in the Lord always; I’ll say it again: Rejoice!” Don’t be afraid of anything; in everything (and always and everywhere) give thanks to God…and the peace of God, which cannot be understood or explained, which is not dependent on outward circumstance, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

We’re used to that last phrase, from the blessing at the end of the Eucharist. But it’s a bit different. We normally hear “The peace of God…shall keep your hearts and minds.” Here it’s “guard”…Guard from what?

How about fear? That’s a big one. Or jealousy, or bitterness. Prejudice, and violence, hatred and greed, selfishness, angry words and angry spirits. Just a few things like that, from which we pray God’s guarding and protection.

We need such guarding, for the temptations are all around. When I was fired from my position at St. Crazy’s in New Jersey, I was mad. And sad. And hurt. And I held on to all that for quite a while. I didn’t really want to forgive that woman for what she had done. You see I haven’t forgotten it. But I learned a lot in that experience—about myself, about being part of a community of prayer and support and love—and something else. Something about God moving in mysterious ways, something about that peace which passes all human understanding and logic.

The temptations to fear and anger and hatred were—and are—all too real, and all too common.

All of that was out there for me in those days; all of that is still out there; all of that is in here. (In here—in us.) We’ve all got meanness in us. But we’ve all got goodness too.

“Whatever is true; whatever is honorable; whatever is just; whatever is pure; whatever is pleasing; whatever is commendable: if there is anything exellent or worthy of praise, think about these things.” Think about these things; ruminate and meditate and feed your mind and soul with these things, for your own soul’s nourishment. The other thoughts and feelings—anger and fear and all the rest—don’t give those any more attention and nourishment than they are already getting.

“Keep doing the good things you have learned and received and heard and seen…and the God of peace with be with you.” Not just “the peace of God” given, as it were, from a distance somewhere far away, but “the God of peace will be with you.” Here, in the midst of a people who pray and work and long for peace—in the world, and in every human heart.

May it be so for us;
may it be so among us.

15 Pentecost, Year A, September 25, 2011

2011-10-03T11:09:00.001-04:00

Exodus 17:1-7; Psalm 78:1-4, 12-16; Philippians 2:1-13; Matthew 21:23-32
… by what authority?, preached by The Rev. Willard Carter

“By what authority do you preach and celebrate this morning?” some of you may ask yourselves. I could refer to my call, education, the accreditation of the Seminary of the Southwest and to diplomas and ordination vows. Jesus had none of these. He was God. The religious leaders saw only an uneducated, charismatic man who lacked credentials and did not teach and act as they did. He confronted them with a crisis. Jesus was threatening their power and influence with the people.
What authority do you have and how do you react to the authority of others? If you're speeding to Atlanta on I-20 and there is suddenly a flash of blue in your rearview mirror, do you question the right of a patrolman to pull you over? Do you ask the patrolman about his authority to stop you? Do you blindly accept the authority of the Garmin “lady” are the Tom-Tom “man” to tell you directions?
The next five Sunday Gospel lessons will deal with the question posed to Jesus today by the religious elite – chief priests and elders "By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?" The interplay between Jesus and these leaders will conclude with Jesus' final question regarding the Messiah? (Matthew 22:46) No one will be able to give him an answer. The events will lead to Jesus' arrest, trial and crucifixion. The stage will be set for the overt clash of kingdoms – the Kingdom of God and the kingdom of this world.
Perhaps those who have been in the military will remember the authority of your Drill Sergeant. A Marine platoon had been on maneuvers for two weeks in the rain and mud of Georgia. The sergeant gathers them, calls them to attention and tells them that there is some good news and some bad news which would they like to hear first? Almost with one voice they shouted, "the good news, Sarge." Well everyone is going to have a change of clothes" the sergeant snaps. "But what's the bad news Sarge? " They ask. "Pvt. James gets to change with private Sams. Pvt. Sams gets to change with private Jones." What could be the good news and the bad news of authority in our gospel lesson be for us?
Jesus had authority from who he was and gave his disciples authority. He has sent disciples out on two occasions to exercise that authority. They were also given responsibility to carry a transforming Gospel and to be a blessing on those they encountered. They likewise received a blessing from seeing lives changed. Exercising their authority would have its challenges Jesus’ realized so told them to shake the dust off their sandals if they were not accepted. The good news is that this authority comes to us as the priesthood of all believers. The bad news is that we can abdicate it.
San Juan Capistrano, California –The LA Times reported last week that the city of San Juan, Capistrano fined Charles and Stephanie Fromm $300 for holding their regular Bible study groups, according to a statement from the Sacramento-based Pacific Justice Institute.
The couple appealed the fine and was told subsequent fines would be enhanced if they continued holding the study group without a conditional use permit -- a specialized permit allowing the activity under prescribed conditions, according to the statement.
City spokeswoman Cathy Salcedo in an email said according to the Times that the city does not prohibit home Bible studies. The Fromms' case is about when a residential area has been transformed into a place where people regularly assemble. "The Fromm case further involves regular meetings on Sunday mornings and Thursday afternoons with up to 50 persons, with impacts on the residential neighborhood on street access and parking," she wrote.
The city exercised its authority. What was the Fromm’s authority?

Last Wednesday night in Jackson, Georgia at 11:08 PM Troy Davis was executed under the state’s authority. Davis, 42, had been convicted in 1991 of the 1989 shooting death of Savannah, Ga., police officer Mark MacPhail. According to newspaper reports, the NAACP, Amnesty International USA, celebrities, elected officials and people around the world had rallied around Davis, pointing out that several witnesses from the original trial had signed affidavits recanting their testimony implicating Davis. MacPhail's family however maintained their belief that Davis committed the crime and relied on the testimony from the trial. Was the execution a result of the proper use of the authority that God has given us? Did it proclaim a Gospel of God's mercy?
Prior to today's gospel lesson in Matthew, Jesus curses the fig tree because it is covered with leaves but bore no fruit. Allegorically the cursing of the fruitless fig tree relates to the religious establishment of Jesus day. Jesus will subsequently proclaim a series of "woes...” on them (Matthew 23:13 – 36).
The religious leaders in today's gospel lesson intended to trap Jesus but they ended up trapping themselves. Have we not been given the authority and the responsibility as the disciples were to share the Gospel? Aren’t we to bring the good news of Jesus? If we say "yes" but do not bear the Gospel we become like the fruitless fig tree and the second son. We in effect trap ourselves.
Today we have the opportunity to say, "yes". We can say “yes” in the Creed. We can say “yes” in the Eucharist. We can say “yes” in the closing prayer. Finally, we can say “yes” in our lives in the world. What will be your response to Jesus? How will you exercise your authority this week?

14 Pentecost, Year A, 18 September 2011

2011-09-21T14:55:00.000-04:00

Genesis 16:2-15; Psalm 105:1-6, 37-45; Philippians 1:21-20; Matthew 20:1-16.
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

When I was in seminary in Austin, a Friday tradition was to go to The Posse for lunch. The Posse was a pub a couple of blocks from the campus, right down the hill. We would all head down after morning classes and get a burger and a beer. And maybe another beer. And then it would be time to leave…except you had to walk UP hill from the Posse to get back to the campus. So it was often easier to just stay and have yet another beer. Or two.

One such afternoon, I was listening to a group of my classmates complain about one of the professors. Then they complained about all of the professors. And then they complained about the library staff. And the food in the cafeteria. And anything else they could think of to complain about. Finally I got up to leave, and announced “I am officially renaming you all the Gripe and Moan Society—you’ve done nothing else for the last forty-five minutes!” I don’t think they even recognized what they were doing. It had just gotten so easy somehow, to sit and grumble.

There’s an awful lot of griping and moaning and carrying on in our readings this morning The children of Israel complain to Moses and Aaron in the wilderness. “You should have left us in Egypt—at least there we had something to eat!” They have already forgotten the forced labor—making bricks with no straw—and the abuse they suffered at the hands of the Egyptians. Now they are hungry and tired and far from the only place they’ve ever known as home. And they are frightened. When they set out on the journey, it was new and exciting and everyone was ready to got. But now they’ve been walking for a long time, and they’re starting to wonder “How much longer? Are we there yet?”

You know how you feel when you’re hungry and tired and afraid and far from home? Yeah—like that.

Moses and Miriam and Aaron feel that way too. And they are the ones who are supposed to be leading this parade! They’re not sure if they’ve been getting the daily memo from the Lord…and don’t we always want it? Written down on an official papyrus scroll, with detailed instructions. “Go here. Do this. Stop for the night at…” It’s much easier that way, you know. There’s no discernment required. No waiting or watching, prayer or thought demanded. Everyone just follows orders and it’s all okay.

The children of Israel demonstrate their own fear and hunger, tiredness and anxiety in this complaining. This will become one of the themes of the wilderness journey—the people complain or act out of fear, and the Lord provides for them even in spite of their fearful, anxious griping, moaning and carrying on. Over and over again, this pattern appears as the story goes on. It is as if the writers want future generations to understand without question that in spite of the people’s fear and complaint and uncertainty, God was—and is—faithful to provide for those in need. Especially when it is God who has called them into the desert in the first place.

When Jesus tells the parable of the workers in the vineyard this morning, it is only a very few verses before he himself will be called into a place of danger and uncertainty, and will himself wonder “Are you still there, God? Are you with me?” We’re reading this passage in the fall, but were we to keep reading directly through Matthew, in just a few verses we would hear the crowd shout “Hosanna in the highest!” as Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey. It is nearly the last week of his earthly ministry, in fact. Time is running out, and Jesus knows it.

He tells this story of a landowner who goes early in the morning to hire day laborers to work in his vineyard. As soon as we hear of a vineyard, our ears ought to perk up—because that image is one that occurs throughout scripture. A vineyard, a piece of land where grapes are cultivated for the production of wine, is a very special place. It is a place where human beings and God work together. It takes time for the plants to grow and produce fruit, and in the meantime they must be pruned and watered. Someone (or many some ones) have to take care of them. If there is too much, or too little rain or sunshine, the grapes may be compromised. And if all goes well, then when harvest time comes, there is no end of work until the grapes are gathered and the young wine is pressed and stored. There is always some work for the workers in the vineyard to do, but as every good gardener knows, human effort can only do so much. We can help make the conditions for growth more favorable, but we humans do not cause the growth to happen. That’s God’s work. (We can, all too easily, interfere with and block growth—in all young growing things. That is why we are called to be stewards of the creation, not owners and landlords. The creation is not ours to own. But that’s another sermon.)

The image of the vineyard as a place of peace and stability and cooperation between human effort and divine nourishment and growth appears over and over in the Bible. Jesus is intentionally using that tradition to talk about the dominion of God, its priorities and values.

The first group of workers arrive early, but then more workers keep coming. More and more, every few hours another group arrives. There is clearly plenty to be done, what with weeding and pruning, tying up and smoothing out, watering and fertilizing and all the rest. But it must have been a very big vineyard indeed, to have so many workers in it. I can just see them getting in each other’s way occasionally—two wheelbarrows approaching a corner of the garden path from opposite directions, CRASH! Head-on collision, soil goes flying everywhere…and still more workers coming! Where will they all go?

finally the whistle blows, the workday ends, and the workers line up to receive their pay. The newcomers are paid first—the usual daily wage, as was customary. The others, who have been there all day, see this and think to themselves “Great! If they’re getting the usual daily wage, then we’ll get even more!”

And then—Surprise!

First, they’re shocked. Then, they’re mad! And then the complaining and moaning and carrying on starts up. “We’ve worked ourselves into the ground all day long, and you’re giving them the same amount you’re giving us? That’s not fair!”

It’s not that the workers who have worked all day think themselves ill-compensated as such. They received what was customary, to which they had agreed at the beginning of the day. But they were upset because the latecomers (“them people!”) were, in their estimation, being paid too much. “They haven’t earned the right…”

The Landowner of the vineyard (or perhaps Land LORD would be the better term—the LORD of the vineyard, the land, and indeed all of creation) is having none of it. The phrase in Greek is wonderful: “Is your eye evil because I am good?” Are you giving someone the stink eye, or looking down your nose at someone, because of my kindness? “Are you envious because I am generous?”
YES…great big pea-green YES right there!

They’re right about one thing. It’s not fair. At least, not in the way we usually mean that word. The only reward that the early arrivals have, other than the agreed-upon wage, is the satisfaction of knowing they did much good work there in the vineyard.

Jesus tells this parable to his inner circle of friends, after he has told them (and many others within earshot) how difficult it will be for those who trust in their bank accounts and many possessions to see and participate in the dominion of God. We didn’t read that passage in the Sunday lectionary—we skipped over it from last week to this. He is not condemning anyone—not those who have wealth (and by extension, the good opinion of society in general) nor those who do not have wealth (and perhaps are looked down upon as a result.) What he intends them to understand is that the dominion of God, the inbreaking of God’s values and priorities into human culture and society and experience, looks weird. It’s not “fair,” it’s not “normal” in many ways. It goes absolutely against the grain of all our hierarchies and systems and structures that serve the status quo. “The first shall be last; the last shall be first; a little child shall lead them all…the wolf and the lamb shall lie down together.”

In a very short time Jesus himself will come face to face the principalities and powers of the world, which function by violence and coercion, fear and death, and on the cross will overcome and reconcile them all. He will meet violence with peace, coercion with invitation, relentless hatred with equally relentless mercy and forgiveness and love.

No, it is not fair. It is not natural. It is a deep mystery of the reign of God, which still to this day confounds and confuses, undermines and subdues the powers and practices of the world.

Dear ones, this week—this day, this very moment—may we turn in repentance from grumbling and complaining, fear and anxiety, and learn more deeply to trust the love of Emmanu-el, God-with-us, walking side by side with us, at all times and in all places.

May we, more and more, day by day, become co-conspirators with Jesus, as we practice his transformational way of life in our own time and place.

May it be so for us; may it be so among us.

12 Pentecost, Year A, Sept. 4, 2011

2011-09-19T10:22:00.000-04:00

Exodus 12:1-14; Psalm 149; Romans 13:8-14Matthew 18: 15 – 20
Becoming reconciled, Preached by The Rev. Will Carter

Doing what today's gospel requires is difficult. My great-great grandparents in Tennessee were “churched” many years ago. They were expelled from their Baptist church. They had sponsored a dance for their daughter who had just returned from New York. Their solution was to start their own church. The church is still doing well today but perhaps this is the reason for so many denominations and churches. It may seem easier to separate from someone who offends you then to become reconciled. The church can miss the point of the Gospel when we separate from each other. We miss the opportunity to be blessed and be a blessing as reconcilers. We miss the focus of Jesus call and His love.

Our daughter, Shara, is a perfect example. When she was two, she and her brother were having a fight and she came running to her mother. “Punish Jason,” she pleaded. Her mother, in her wisdom, told her instead, “Go tell your brother that Jesus loves him and so do you.” Shara darted off and said, "Mother said „Jesus will get you and so will I.‟" we can reframe reconciliation in the guise of vindication.

Many times, when others wrong us, we want to settle the score rather than become reconciled with them because it is difficult to become reconciled. Many times it seems easier to turn our backs on the offender and walk away. “Weren’t we right?” we might ask or “They should say that they were sorry to me.” Reconciling is an act of Faith which requires our vulnerability.

Many may see reconciliation as an official duty of the priest at the absolution and miss our individual duty. As Episcopalians we do make acts of reconciliation with God and each other at the Eucharist each week. We confess our sins and ask to be reconciled to God. After the General Confession (The Prayer Book also provides an order for reconciliation of the penitent.) The Priest gives absolution on behalf of God in Christ but this does not relieve individuals from being reconcilers. The peace which follows the confession is meant to symbolically allow us become reconciled with each other before coming to the altar for Holy Eucharist. This follows Matthew’s “binding and loosening of sins” on earth. What about our duty to deal with each other to affect personal and corporate reconciliation?

The church has experienced internal difficulties ever since its birth. In Paul’s letters and Acts we hear of strife between members and against the community. In I Chorinthians 1:10 Chloe’s people complain to Paul about church rancor. In Acts there are complaints about unequal distribution of bread to the widows of the Jews and Greeks.

In this week’s Ecrozier Bishop Benhase wrote of an incident during the passing of the peace at a Roman Catholic Church in Southern California when basketball star, Kobe Bryant grabbed a man’s cell phone. He hurt the man’s wrist in the process. Bryant seemed to be concerned that the man was trying to take pictures of him and his family during the Eucharist. It turned out, it seems, that no pictures were found on the man’s cell phone. Laying aside the issue of guilt and fault in this case, of both Bryant and the man in question, didn’t each miss the meaning of the Peace? 9/4/2011D 2
Reggie McNeil in his book, “Missional Renaissance” comments that the mission of the church is to be a blessing to our families, communities and the world. If we are caught in disruptive relationships and there is no harmony, how can we be blessed or can we be a blessing to our families or communities? How can we model reconciliation and reintegration into the community of Christ?
The steps are simple but to take them is difficult. For instance going to the one who sinned against you can be monumentally difficult. They may reject you out of hand and become permanently alienated from you. This possibility increases as you bring two or three witnesses with you who have recognized the offense. When you arrive at having the church consider the offense, things can become especially difficult.

We need to be reconciled because God created us to be at one with him and in harmony with our brothers and sisters. When we experience life that is in disharmony then the tempo of life is disrupted. Recently I had a grandfather clock cleaned and adjusted and it seemed to run fine for a while. Then without warning it just stopped. I would try to restart it and each time it would run for a short while then stop again. When I contacted the “clock man”, he said “It may be out of tempo.” When we are not in harmony with each other, our lives may have become "out of tempo". "Out of tempo" lives will require continually energy to restart life. The “clock man” readjusted the tempo and now the clock runs perfectly. Today's gospel is about getting a lives back into tempo by addressing disharmony and reestablishing harmony.

Has someone wronged you? Are there people you try to avoid? Individuals could be within the community, the church or at work. Why not take a first step to seek them out and attempt to reestablish harmony by expressing your feelings and perception about being in an un-harmonious relationship. By taking this first step you should have started a journey which may model for others coming into a relationship.

Consider the tempo of your life as you go through the next week recognizing that the Gospel today is not about "Jesus‟ going to get you" but about Jesus desiring you to be reconciler and to be reconciled.

13 Pentecost Year A: September 11, 2011

2011-09-14T14:52:00.001-04:00

Exodus 14:19-31; Psalm 114; Romans 14:1-12; Matthew 18:21-35
Preached by The Rev. Jason Haddox

The rabbis tell a story that, when the children of Israel had safely crossed the Red Sea and escaped from slavery in Egypt, as they stood on the shore and watched the waters roll over the Egyptian army, the angels around the heavenly throne wanted to sing and rejoice at the downfall of the Egyptians. But God stopped their singing, saying, “The works of my hands are drowning in the sea, and you wish to sing praises?!?”
The deliverance of the children of Israel came at a price. The Egyptians could have let them go—God knows, by that time, the Egyptians themselves had suffered from frogs and locusts and boils and the death of the firstborn. You’d think they’d have figured it out!
But no, again they came after the children of Israel, chasing them even into the sea. Did they mean to kill them there on the shore, or take them back in chains to slavery again? In any case, they pursued the Israelites intending to destroy them, but their destruction came back upon themselves.
God did not rejoice wholeheartedly that day. Some of God’s children went out to freedom, and for them there was a new beginning. But some of them went down to their deaths, driven by the merciless arrogance of a ruler whose powers had been thwarted. No, God did not rejoice in that.
We have to be careful, when we assume that God is always and forever on our side, to the exclusion of someone (or someones) who differs from us. Paul writes to the Christians at Rome this morning, cautioning them about how they deal with one another—and these are all followers of Christ! “Who are you to judge your sister or brother?” again and again he asks. If you keep feast days or not; if you eat or if you do not eat, give thanks to God and do not look condescendingly upon those who do differently—for none of us are in this alone. This work of being Jesus’ followers, of seeking to embody the work and witness of the Risen Christ in our own lives, is never a solo virtuoso act. “We do not live to ourselves; we do not die to ourselves…whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s. Christ lived, and died, so that he might be Lord of all—the living and the dead.” And so we say or sing these words at funerals—declaring in the very face of death, that death has not, shall not have, the last word.
Judge not your brother, or sister—because you do not know how to judge rightly.
Judge not—except in the way you wish to be judged by God.
“Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us” we will pray momentarily. In other words, Treat us, O God, as we treat one another.
Lord, have mercy upon us!

And guess what?
He does. For no reason at all, except that God is determined to love us into the kingdom of love, by love and love alone, he does indeed have mercy.
This is what it looks like, to be one of God’s people. This is what it looks like, to be a follower of Jesus.
In this work of being Jesus’ followers, Peter comes to Jesus with a question. Lord, if someone sins against me, how many times shall I forgive? As many as seven?
Try Seventy-seven times, Pete. Or how about four hundred and ninety…
Which is to say—stop counting. God has given up keeping the heavenly log books of who’s naughty or nice—why do you insist on keeeping score?
So he tells this outrageous story, just in case they still don’t get it.
Ten thousand talents is a sum beyond imagining. It is not possible that an ordinary slave, in Jesus’ culture, would ever have had access to that kind of money. Whole national economies would have not involved that kind of funding. Jesus is drawing the picture as big as possible, just to get the point across.
The master—the king—forgives the debt. And as soon as the slave is released from that debt, he goes and starts insisting that a fellow slave, who owes him roughly a few months’ wages—petty cash in comparison—pay up or get carted off to debtor’s prison.
The other slaves see this exchange and go running to tattle.
And the parable ends with the wicked slave being handed over, “to be tortured until he would pay his entire debt.”
What I want to know is, how’s he supposed to pay anything if he’s being waterboarded and electroshocked?

This is not a subtle parable. Jesus is hitting them over the head with the point: Forgive one another, as you hope to be forgiven yourselves.

I ddin’t pick these readings, friends. The lectionary appointed them for this Sunday years before today—before the events of ten years ago, when in the aftermath of September 11th, the temptation broke upon us as a nation to lash out in anger, to seek vengeance, to find someone (or someones) to blame. Clearly that temptation has been around for a while—several centuries at least—and when we succumb to it, God bids the angels to silence again. “Why are you singing, when my children are destroying one another?”

Unforgiveness damages everything it touches—most of all, the one who will not forgive. Forgiveness does not mean forgetting what has happened—as if that were possible. It does not mean that everything goes back to the way it was before. It does not mean “kiss and make up.” Rather, it means freedom…from the past, from old anger and resentment and bitterness and being “stuck”—or even “enslaved.” I don’t think it’s by coincidence that Jesus contrasts slavery—a common enough cultural reality in his day—with forgiveness, as a synonym for being set free.

“Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” (Last week—in fact, only three verses earlier!) Jesus gives his followers—that’s us, folks—the power to set each other, and ourselves, free.

The children of Israel went into freedom through the sea. Perhaps, in their haste and joy, they had forgiven their captors in Egypt for what they had suffered there. The armies of Egypt came in haste and vengeance to the sea, and went in to their own destruction. They had neither forgiven nor forgotten. They were willing to perish themselves rather than let go of the past. They became the agents of their own destruction.

Forgive us…as we forgive. Each one of us; and all of us together.
May it be so for us; may it be so among us. Amen.

11 Pentecost, Year A, August 28, 2011

2011-09-14T14:49:00.001-04:00

Exodus 3:1-15; Psalm 105; Romans 12:9-21; Matthew 16:21-28
Preached by The Rev. Jason Haddox

Last year when we began to plan for Holy Week, I asked about a wooden cross we might use for Good Friday. There was no such object, so I asked Bob Hatcher to make one for us—and did he ever come through! Made from two huge tree branches, and rope to lash them together, “Old Rugged” is outside in the churchyard if you haven’t seen it already. Sometimes we hear Jesus’ words in the gospel this morning “Take up your cross” and imagine that he’s talking about something that big and rough and heavy, that we’re literally supposed to lug around with us. I don’ t think that’s the point.

Let’s review. Last Sunday’s gospel (Matthew 16:13-20) was part one of this morning’s story—Jesus asks this followers “Who do you say that I am?” And Peter responds, that Jesus is the Messiah, the Christ, God’s chosen and Holy One.

No sooner has he said this, but “Jesus [begins] to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.”
All of the Christian scriptures were written after the resurrection, so the raising on the third day is a given in the minds of the hearers. It is the lens through which they read the scriptures, and through which they see and make sense of the world they live in.

“Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.” Peter’s response is perfectly understandable. We’ve just established a few verses ago that Jesus is the Messiah, the Christ, the chosen Holy One of God. What on earth could Jesus now mean by saying all this about suffering and being killed? What self-respecting Messiah would put any of that on his to-do list? The Messiah should go to Jerusalem, certainly, and be hailed as the hero who would restore the fortunes of Israel and put the Davidic monarchy back together…but this agenda Jesus suggests is not only inappropriate, but foolish and degrading and just WRONG! Jesus, Jesus—what are you talking about?

“But he turned to Peter and said ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”
Now it is Peter who is rebuked—and the word here is most apt. “Satanas” is a proper name, often associated with “the tempter,” as we learned back in Ch. 4, in the wilderness after Jesus’ baptism. In fact, the words Jesus uses here to address Peter are EXACTLY the words he uses to rebuke the third temptation in the wilderness (Matt. 4:10).

“You are a stumbling block to me”…you are causing me to fall down, get distracted. “Stumbling block” is our translation of the Greek word skandalos…from which we get our English word “scandal.” Someone falls down in public and we laugh. Someone in public authority is discovered to be all too human, and we rush together to hurl insults and place blame. It is death by stoning in a media-soaked culture, where every move is known almost as it happens.

You, Peter, are causing me to get distracted, to go in the wrong direction. “For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.” Better translation: You are not thinking of God-things but of man-things. (from Greek, anthropos, so “human” is okay, but the NRSV is avoiding “mannish” language and so loses the God/man contrast.)

In other words—you, Peter, have just not two minutes ago said as plainly as can be that you understand who I am—but you don’t. Not really. You still think it’s about the power game as Jerusalem and Rome have set the terms.

He calls everyone together and says “Look y’all, here’s the deal…
If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or, what will they give in return for their life?”

The NIV translates “save/lose his soul,” which is also proper, but problematic (to say the least!) in the first instance… the possibility of “losing one’s soul” is not the same question.

Nevertheless, it’s a worthy question. Life (in the abundance that Jesus intends for his followers) or Soul (in its fullness, in this world and the life of the world to come)—what is the price of such a treasure? And how is it to be gotten and kept? Jesus seems to be telling them—and us—that it is not by the ways we think. That holding on to status or dignity or our own notions of how power in this world works, will ultimately prove a disappointment. That in fact there is something far deeper and more subtle at work here…something in which the universe itself has a vested interest.

This language of self-denial and carrying the cross is, and has been, a profound part of our vocabulary as Christians. I would argue that it is profoundly powerful language—and as with any great power, it can do great harm, or great good.

The great danger is that it be given as counsel or guidance too soon, or wrongly. For someone who is not yet sure of who they themselves truly are—because of being chronologically or emotionally young or unformed—“deny yourself” might be used as a means of control. For someone who has been the victim of systemic oppression or even abuse, “Deny yourself” could be a distorted use of scripture, an attempt to justify that abuse or oppression to the one victimized.

Jesus does not ask anyone to pretend that they themselves do not exist. That is not what’s going on here.

He tells the disciples, Peter and James and John and Magdalen and Joanna and all the others who were within earshot: “You know what you have seen and heard while you have been with me. And you know that some of it has not made sense—not in the ordinary way. Not in the same way you were taught to understand, and to see the world. But I’m telling you, this is the God-way of seeing, and understanding, and exercising leadership and power. It’s not about forcing other people to do things against their wills—it’s about looking at your own will, and desires, and fears and worries, and saying “In spite of all of this, I will follow the way of God. Which is not violent, or coercive, or angry—even when it is met with violence and anger and coercion.” Which does not insist on winning at any cost; which is even willing to suffer the indignity of death rather than meet hatred with more hatred.

Paul is telling the Romans the same thing. “Bless those who curse you; do not avenge yourselves; give food and drink to your enemies when they hunger and thirst.” It is beyond strange—such actions overturn the world’s values, by intentionally and consciously and repeatedly choosing to follow a different way of life.

That’s what Jesus is telling his hearers this morning. I am taking a road to God, which will be misunderstood and feared and scorned by the powers of this world as impotent and foolish and useless. And I’m inviting you to come with me. No obligation; no coercion. You can try to go it alone, the way you always have, the way the principalities and powers of Rome and Jerusalem, Washington and Wall Street and Beijing tell you you’re supposed to. But I have something wonderful, something they can’t even imagine, that I want you to have also. And I want you to share it with everyone you meet. Come with me and see—you’ve begun to discover it already.

Every time we baptize, we brand the new Christian with the cross. In water and oil, with the words “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own for ever.” We don’t have to go find a cross to carry, or ask someone to build one for us from tree branches and rope—it’s already on us.

The question then is: What are you—what are we—going to do with it?

9 Pentecost, Year A, 14 August 2011

2011-08-15T13:05:00.000-04:00

Psalm 133, Genesis 45:1-15, Romans 11:1-2, 29-32, Matthew 15:21-28
Preached by Rev. Erwin Veale

I usually like to preach on the gospel lesson, the good news. Today’s gospel is a hard one for me so I want to take a different approach. I love the Old Testament story we see concluded today. Joseph had a chance for revenge. He had all the authority and resources behind him to wipe his brothers from the face of the earth. What would we have done?
Has anybody done you wrong? What has your response been? What is your attitude about that issue even in this very moment? I’d rather you answer these questions! I would not want to tell all with regard to my story and that of my family. What are we to do? We are to do as Joseph does in what we call the Old Testament.
Joseph’s actions precede those of Jesus and we are to also do as Jesus does. Jesus knew the story of Joseph very well. He was beginning to understand his role in this world. I believe he knew the power he had behind him to judge the world with a power even greater than Joseph had.
Joseph forgave. Jesus forgives. We are to do the same.

The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost, Year A, 10 July 2011

2011-07-11T10:22:00.000-04:00

Genesis 25:19-34;Psalm 119:105-112;Romans 8:1-11;Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
Preached by Reverend Lou Scales

I once heard it said that the reason God created human beings is that God just loves good stories. In fact, God loves good stories so much that he gave Jesus the gift of being the Master Storyteller for us. For the next three Sundays, the Lectionary gives us Jesus’ parables from Saint Matthew’s Gospel.

Parables were Jesus’ favorite way of teaching. According to many scholars, the parables revealed the religious experience of Jesus and his insight into God in Heaven. Parables demand thought, and are often difficult to understand. Both today and next Sunday, in the two parables of the Sower (which may be different versions of the same parable) are part of a tradition of parables of reassurance, of encouragement, of confidence. They are paralleled by another tradition of parables of warning, of challenge, of urgency.

The trouble with parables is that they are disturbing, baffling, and puzzling. That Jesus intended them to be like that, as a tool for thought and insight, should go without saying. In fact, Marcus Borg tells us that the parables of Jesus “function in a particular way: they are invitational forms of speech. Jesus used them to invite his hearers to see something they might not otherwise see. As evocative forms of speech, they tease the imagination into activity, suggest more than they say, and invite a transformation in perception.”

It is significant and important for us to hear, and tell, these stories over and over again. In the telling and the hearing, time and again, we find new insights into ourselves, into those around us, and into God’s kingdom. Some times we’ll use the metaphor of God as Farmer to help us understand the way God seeks to grow us into the kingdom of his love and grace, and the patience God exercises in that effort. Hearing this parable again in these terms helps us to see how we can grow and mature in faith, depending on the kind of grounding we have in Word and Sacrament. We’ll use the metaphor of how the seed is planted to help us understand what happens to our efforts in evangelism. Same story, different insights for different times and circumstances in our lives. Different glimpses of the same loving God who continually calls us to a deeper knowledge and acceptance of grace and love.

And in that sense, today is no different, because you are not going to hear about either of those. Instead, you are going to hear, and, I trust, think and meditate, about what this parable tells us of how we deal with failure. In a world that seems to be consumed by the effort to succeed wildly in everything, we inevitably face that reality of not winning them all. We will not make a perfect score on every exam. We will not be the prime candidate for every job we want. We may not be admitted to the best university because there are others deemed more successful and having more potential that we do. In attempting to support our friends, spouses and children in their efforts to succeed, we will offer sound advice and guidance, based on our best intentions and considerable experience, only to have that advice and guidance graciously (and sometimes Ungraciously) rejected or ignored.

When it comes to facing failures in life, the farmer in Jesus’ parable sounds a lot like you and me. We work hard, and we only sometimes succeed. A lot of the best things we give to others are not well received by them. Much of what we want to plant in the lives of those around us doesn’t “take”…doesn’t become rooted and permanently planted in their lives. All of us have to deal with failure. All of us know those areas in our lives and the lives of those around us, where the best we give or attempt for ourselves comes up lacking, falling short of our hope, our dreams and our great expectations.

Some biblical commentators suggest that this parable of Jesus is somewhat autobiographical, and that well could be true. Jesus certainly had to face a great deal of apparent disappointment. He knows full well the pain of failure.

Jesus was born and raised in Nazareth, and his own hometown folk rejected Him. The people of Israel rejected both Him and his message. His handpicked twelve apostles? Well, one of them sold Him out for thirty pieces of silver, and the others fled when He was arrested, tried and crucified. Moreover, Peter was not too swift to take His message to heart. Thomas was the Doubter, and the others were not much better, either.

He died a criminal’s death, and was buried in a borrowed tomb.

Elijah, long before Christ, along with Jeremiah and other prophets as well, were notable failures, most of them ending up against the outside wall of Jerusalem on the receiving end of deadly stone throwing attacks.

The Apostle Paul would not make the “short list” of aspiring rectors anywhere in this area – what with his contentious relationships with authorities, his numerous arrests and convictions, his unwillingness to stay in one place for any length of time; his candidacy could not possibly survive the background check.

We know about missed opportunities, unfulfilled dreams and unmet expectations. We know the pain of giving it everything we had, and coming up short. We know the terrible agony of moving along, minding our own business, and then being devastated by a disaster of sickness, death, betrayal or catastrophe. What this parable invites us to re-discover is the goodness and strength that come through surviving and enduring the trials and disappointments. The parable of the Sower invites us – challenges us - to look again at how we deal with our losses and disappointments, and whether we allow them to beat us down, or choose to grow from them and become stronger because of them. Over the centuries there are marvelous stories of those who, when faced with the overwhelming option of quitting, refused to give up, refused to be beaten. I will remind you briefly of three:
John Milton wrote the classic Paradise Lost at the age of 60 – after he had been blind for 16 years.
After years of progressive hearing loss, by age 46, German composer Ludwig von Beethoven had become completely deaf. Nevertheless, he wrote his greatest music, including five symphonies, during his later years.
Franklin D. Roosevelt was stricken with polio at the age of 39, yet went on to be elected President of the United States – four times.

The stories of people who learned and grew and overcame obstacles and refused to quit go on and on. And Jesus knew those stories when he told his parable, and tried to let us discover for ourselves the liberating and challenging truths that only failure, disappointment and hardship can teach.

Some of our efforts will fall on the path, and will amount to nothing but birdfeed. Other efforts will fall on rocky ground, come up quickly, and wither just as quickly. Still other efforts will look, sound and feel good, only to be cruelly choked off before they really produce. But other efforts will find their way to success and faithful completion, not because we are lucky, but because we are faithful, persistent, and trusting in God’s never ending love for us and presence with us.

Listen to the words spoken by God through God’s servant Isaiah: “For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return until they have watered the earth, making it blossom and bear fruit, and give seed for sowing and bread to eat, so shall the word which comes from my mouth prevail; it shall not return to me fruitless without accomplishing my purpose for succeeding in the task I give it.”

Hope, encouragement and reassurance, spoken when we need it most. Jesus’ followers from then on, even to today, have needed to hear the same good news, and be reminded that our courage and persistence is born of hope in the risen Christ, and the complete trust in the reality of the risen Christ in our world and in our lives now.

As we come to the Eucharist feast, we may be coming bloodied, bruised and almost beaten, possibly disappointed and dejected. But coming to this feast is the renewal the parable calls us to remember. While our disappointment and frustration may be great, the goodness of love that is before us is absolutely overwhelming. Saint Paul reminds us, again and again, that we are the daughters and sons of God, and forever receive the indescribable gift of God’s love and grace. Again, Isaiah calls us to hear the words of the never ending promise of God who loves us: “Come to me and listen to my words, hear me, and you shall have life.”

So come to the feast, buy bread and wine without price, without cost. Know you are comforted and challenged, renewed and called to be the sons and daughters of the risen Christ.

The Third Sunday after Pentecost, Year A, 3 July 2011

2011-07-05T10:11:00.000-04:00

Genesis 24:34-38, 42-49, 58-67; Psalm 45:11-18; Romans 7:15-25a; Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

In a scene from the movie “Julie and Julia” (released 2007?) Julia Child and her French cooking colleague, Simone Beck are waiting for their American hostess, Avis DeVoto, to meet them at the train station when they arrive in Boston. Simone asks Julia what Avis looks like, and Julia refers to her last letter from Avis: “Look for a middle-aged woman in a plaid jacket.” Simone realizes from this that, in fact, Julia has never met Avis in person, despite having been in regular written contact with her for many years. Julia is in the midst of explaining how this is possible when, in the background, a very short and petite middle-aged woman in a plaid jacket and hat (this is the late fifties, after all) comes running into the station, looking around the waiting room with great excitement. They see one another, and realize that yes—there she is, that’s the one. They stand face to face at last, and the viewers are simultaneously touched at this joyful meeting and amused at the disparity between their heights—Julia towers over Avis by at least a full head or more in stature.

“What are you looking for?” In this case, a plaid jacket, worn by a middle-aged woman. That was all she knew to look for.

In some respect, all of our lessons this morning are dealing with that question, What are you looking for?
The story from Genesis is almost a children’s bedtime story. “Once upon a time, in a far-away country, a man went on a long journey in search of a wife. Not for himself, but for the son of the man he worked for.
He sat at the place near the town where the young women would come in the evening to draw water for their families and animals, and there he saw her for the first time. But he didn’t know if it was really her, at first…he had to find out for certain.”

All he knew for sure was that he was looking for a wife for Isaac, from Abraham’s ancestral family. But who? Who was she, the one who would leave family and home and everything, and travel such a distance to live with someone she had never seen or met? Isaac, back home with Father Abraham, was still mourning his own mother Sarah, who had died some time before this. How could Rebecca know that this was a good thing to do?

But it happens…Rebecca goes with the man all that great distance, to become Isaac’s wife. I wonder what SHE was looking for, when she saw him walking in the field at evening, coming out to greet the travelers as they arrived. What did she think, when she saw him for the first time? Did she walk directly up to him and look right at him at once? Or did she hang back, watching and waiting to be introduced to her husband for the first time? I wonder.

In our gospel lesson this morning, John the Baptist is in lurking in the background. He needs no introduction, Jesus’ hearers all knew who he was. This morning John the Baptist is in prison, locked up for his criticism of King Herod. (By the way, this is not Herod the Great…more like Herod the Inadequate. Or Herod the Neurotic.) In a few chapters John will be executed, but for now he’s merely out of circulation. He has sent some of his own disciples to talk to Jesus, to ask him “Are you the one who is to come, or should we wait for someone else?”

This is the same John the Baptist who, at the beginning of Matthew’s gospel, when Jesus comes to the Jordan River to be baptized, says in no uncertain terms, “I need you to baptize ME! What are you doing here?” (Matt. 3:14) This is Matthew’s version of the story, wherein the theme of Jesus’ impeccable qualifications to be “the one, the Messiah, God’s chosen servant and messenger” is always front and center.

“Are you the one, or should we wait for another?” And Jesus, rather than answering the question directly, sends them back to John with the instructions “Go tell John what you yourselves have seen: The blind receive their sight, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” (11:5-6)

“What are you looking for?”

Jesus asks the crowd standing nearby the same question. “You all went out to the wilderness to hear John the Baptist—why? What were you looking for? Lovely scenery? A celebrity press conference? No…a prophet. And what a prophet, like none other ever before!

“What are you looking for, even now? John came to you as a prophet, a stern austere ascetic preacher of the straight-and-narrow way and you said “Oh he’s nuts. He’s possessed. Don’t worry about him.”

“The Son of man came, eating and drinking and gathering people in convivial community and you say “Look at him—carousing and drinking and hanging out with THEM PEOPLE—what a lousy example of moral rectitude!”

What are you looking for? Dear God in heaven…these people are impossible!

And indeed, Jesus turns to God in prayer—and a strange and complex prayer it is. We’re still in Matthew’s gospel, but this sounds like something out of John. “No one knows the Son except the Father/No one knows the Father except the Son, and those to whom the Son reveals the Father.” That interpenetration between God and Jesus, the inseparability of them, is given a tiny bit of explanation here.

“Come to me, all you burdened and troubled ones, weighed down with your own struggles and troubles and worries, and I will give you rest.” We love that passage.

But here’s the funny thing of it. Jesus tells them to take another burden, another weight. To exchange their own heavy yoke of struggle and difficulty for a different one—a lighter one, perhaps, but another one nevertheless. The exchange is not “Sit down here and rest and don’t move any more.” MY yoke is easy; MY burden is light. This, only verses after he has told the disciples “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me.”

There is a price to all this.
What are you looking for?

Paul, in the passage from Romans, is in a rough patch of theological weeds this morning. I would advise you to go home and read the passage in context, because what we’ve got in front of us is a dense and somewhat frantic extract from a larger argument that Paul is making.

Grace—God’s unearned, unmerited gift and favor—is over all. And Paul wants to insist on this throughout. But Sin (and that’s Sin with a capital S, again…not just individual misdeeds) is still interfering. Or trying to interfere…showing up in the individual misdeeds of which Paul is currently obsessing just a bit. At the end of it all (“I do not do the thing I want to do, but the thing I do not want is the very thing I do…”) he exclaims “Who will save me from all this dreadfulness? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!” Immediately followed by “Therefore, now there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

No condemnation. No condemnation whatsoever. In Christ’s life, and death, and resurrection from the dead, Death itself has been put to death, and we are caught up into the Resurrection even now. It may not feel that way some days, we may struggle to believe that that is the truth of it, but it’s not about how we feel on a given day. It’s much bigger than that.

It just may be that insisting on our own limited ability to perceive and understand—what Jesus describes as “sitting in the marketplace refusing to either mourn or dance” is a refusal to see, or to be pleased, with anything at all. Neither mourning nor feasting, but sitting in a pouty attitude with our arms across our chests and our lower lips thrust out. “Come to me” he invites…and that invitation to release our own burdens and struggles is not compulsory. We can hold on to our own “Stuff” for as long as we like—He will not force us. But then we’re stuck with it all.

The wisdom of the mysteries of the Kingdom of God are open, not to the wise and understanding, but to “little children”…for they themselves are open to receive them.

What are you looking for?

The Second Sunday after Pentecost, Year A, 26 June 2011

2011-06-29T14:31:00.000-04:00

Genesis 22:1-14; Psalm 13; Romans 6:12-23; Matthew 10:40-42
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

As I looked at the lessons for this Sunday, I was grateful that Father’s Day was two Sundays ago, and that I did not have to deal with the reading from Genesis then. This story, known as “the binding of Isaac,” is usually interpreted as demonstrating Abraham’s great faith in God to do what God has promised (“I will make of you a great nation”) in spite of this “testing” of seemingly demanding child sacrifice. Elsewhere we know of the revulsion with which such an act, in and of itself, was regarded in ancient Israel—but here it appears that “It’s okay because God told me to do it.”

I have to confess, I don’t like this story. Not at all. God is either insane or insanely cruel, to even ask such a thing. Abraham would be in prison or on the Jerry Springer show for such an action, and where is Sarah in all this?

But the story is here, and we have to wrestle with it. What does it mean to go to the very edge of everything we think of as appropriate or suitable or “normal” and trust that even there, God is present and will act?

In looking at the reading from the letter to the Romans, we need to back up a few verses to get the context. Paul, addressing the Christians in Rome, reminds them that “All of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus have been baptized into his death…just as Christ has been raised from the dead, by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his. We know that our old self was crucified with him so that…we might no longer be enslaved to sin, for whoever has died is free from sin.
We know that Christ, being raised from the dead, will never die again; death no longer has dominion over him. The death that he died, he died to sin, once for all; but the life he lives, he lives to God. So you (y’all) also must consider yourselves dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus.” (6:2-11, roughly)

This is not about “sins” as in misdeeds, even willful ones. This is about “Sin” with a capital-S, the power in the universe that is inherently opposed to God’s very being. (Paul does not use the personification of resistance to God by naming it “Satan” or the devil, but that’s one way of thinking about this.) Paul assumes that everyone—absolutely everyone—is under the authority of some other power structure larger than him-or-herself. The image of “slaves to sin” states it explicitly—not meaning that anyone was a particularly notorious sinner, but that they were under the control and authority of something beyond themselves, which was NOT God. Which was, in fact, the opposite.

But NOW, Paul tells them, you have been given the power to abandon that other power structure, that other system of values, that other way of living—which is ultimately a dead end—and in the freedom which comes from God alone, you have come under the dominion and the authority of God’s household.

All through Easter season, we’ve been singing the verse above: “Christ, being raised from the dead, will never die again; death no longer has dominion over him.” The idea is, that in dying, Christ is freed from the dominion of Sin-with-a-capital-S. He “goes out from that place” and is no longer a citizen of the country where that system is in control. Therefore he is no longer under that influence, where a dead end is the only available option.

In his resurrection from the dead, Christ is raised into a new dominion, a new place, a new country, a new reality—the kingdom and dominion of God. And the good news for us, as his followers, is that we are invited as citizens, as “slaves” however much we might dislike that word, into that new reality and new dominion as well. Out of the dead ends, out of the domination of the old system, into God’s dominion and family and household.

This is amazing stuff, and hard to get our arms or our brains around. And beyond that, even if we do manage to “figure it out” somehow—we don’t even get to take credit for it ourselves. It’s not something we DO at all, it is simply given. In Christ’s life, death, and resurrection, it is accomplished without any contribution on our part whatsoever. “Christ, our passover, is sacrificed FOR US. Therefore, let us keep the feast.” We don’t get it by earning it or being more clever or skillful or wise or anything—it is God’s gift. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…

This is the good news of the Gospel. But it’s not always immediately good news to everyone. For those who want to think well of themselves, because they believe they have gotten their lives together by their own efforts and have earned the right to look down on “them people” who are still outside the inner circle, this word of grace is a call to think again. To change the mind, to go in a different direction. Metanoia, again.

When Jesus speaks to his followers this morning about “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me,” there is an implication behind that. Which is explicit, if again we back up a few verses. “I tell you, I have not come to bring peace, but rather division…Those who lose their life for my sake will find it.” (10:29)

This sounds like a word of anxiety, not grace. Certainly not peace. But again, context is everything.

Matthew’s gospel begins with Jesus’ genealogy. An explicit tracing of his family heritage—and we, as southerners, get why that’s of interest. “Who are your people?”

These are his people. Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, King David and Solomon and all the rest. It is his pedigree, and his resume in a way—his qualification to be the Messiah, God’s chosen one. But the problem is, from the beginning of the story itself, the people who ought to get it, don’t; and the people who are outside the inner circle and should, by all logic, remain exactly there…they’re the ones who understand and come running to him. King Herod and the court officials should be the ones who understand about Bethlehem and the Messiah and all the rest, but it’s the wise men from the east—the foreigners, “Them People” again, who see the star and pack up to come find out what’s going on. Over and over this is a theme for Matthew’s gospel—those who get it, and come to find out, and those who do not, and turn away. Who cannot, or will not, hear the Good News because it challenges who they think God is, or who they think they are themselves.

All Jesus is saying, is that this is how it will be for his followers. And not to be surprised when it happens. “Whoever does receive you, I’m there too. And God is there also. And even the littlest and least significant gesture (a cup of water) done with me in mind, is an outward and visible sign of that grace that is present, right then, in that moment and place.”

How are we challenged by the Gospel this morning? How does the word of God’s amazing grace and power to overthrow the systems of the world we live in, invite us into a new way of thinking, and living? How are we, like Isaac, released from our bondage by God’s providence and mercy? And how are we prepared to follow the risen Christ, through the waters of death and rebirth, into that new kingdom?

I wonder…

Trinity Sunday, Year A, 19 June 2011

2011-06-24T09:37:00.000-04:00

Psalm 8, Genesis 1:1-2:4, 2 Corinthians 13:11-13, Matthew 28:16-2
Preached by Rev. Erwin Veale

“God in three persons, blessed trinity.” The hymn “Holy, Holy, Holy” is one of my favorites. It reminds me of happy days in church as a child and the seedling days of my faith journey. It is bittersweet, too, because it was the one hymn sung at the funeral of a friend. It was one of his favorites.
When the death of a friend fractures our soul how will we respond? When the other hurtful events of life come our way what will we do? Will we still look for the Light of Christ to shine through the prism pieces to make a rainbow shine through or will we stay bitter and angry? It’s hard to choose the first one, I know. It is a choice, though.
I think of this hymn today as we celebrate together Trinity Sunday. I smile, I’m even tempted to laugh out loud, as I think of how many times I’ve supplied in a variety of congregations on this first Sunday after Pentecost. Preaching about the Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit is simple, right?
WRONG!

However we approach our understanding of this mystery my we honor what I believe to be another profound truth: Our loving God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit has created, still sustains, and will forever protect all things bright and beautiful. And that includes us. Thanks be to God.

The Day of Pentecost, Year A, June 12, 2011

2011-06-17T11:20:00.000-04:00

Acts 2:1-21; Psalm 104:25-35, 37; 1 Corinthians 12:3b-13; John 20:19-23
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

I want to tell you the story of a hat. But not just any hat. This was a very special hat.

This Hat was created to be like no other hat, ever.

She had a small oval face, pleasant but not particularly notable. Rather empty and vacant-looking, in fact. On either side—Antlers! Swirling up into the air, swooping and sweeping and swinging around to create all sorts of exuberant patterns. Or maybe they were flames of fire. Or ribbons. In any case, there was a lot of energy there in those swooping, sweeping, swinging sidebars.

This Hat was made for a purpose, to make others take notice. And they did.

When she would go out, all the other hats would notice her, and look at her with that sneaky sideways squinty look, you know… “There she goes again. Who does she think she is, making all that hullabaloo? She needs to learn her place.”

The Hat didn’t mind. She knew who she was, and what she was about. So she just let those other hats give her those sideways squinty looks.

And then one day, an invitation arrived, to a Very Important Wedding. A Royal Wedding, in fact. All the Very Important Hats would be there, with their Very Important People below them. And this Hat was invited.

So on the day of the wedding, she went into church on top of her Very Important Person. As they entered, the other hats saw her, and gave her that sneaky sideways squinty look like they always did. “Look at her, making such a commotion. Who does she think she is? She really ought to learn her place.”

She went into the church , and was seated behind a VERY VERY Important Hat indeed. And every time the photographers and television cameras turned to look at the Very Very Important Hat and her Very Very Important Person, the other Hat was in the picture too.

She had a purpose for being there, you see. She was there to remind all those other Hats about a Hat who was absent, who had not been invited to the Very Important Wedding. Every time she was seen, and someone wondered “What is SHE doing here?” they had to remember the other hat—and the other person—who had not been invited. Who had not been welcomed. Who had been ignored, and kept away.

That hat was there to make those Very Important Hats—and their Very Important People—a little bit uncomfortable. Or maybe more than a little bit. She was there for a reason.

By now you are wondering, what on earth does this hypothetical hat have to do with the Day of Pentecost, which we celebrate today?

Listen again to the Epistle…

(1 Corinthians 12:3b-13))

No one can say ‘Jesus is Lord’ except by the Holy Spirit.
Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good. To one is given through the Spirit the utterance of wisdom, and to another the utterance of knowledge according to the same Spirit, to another faith by the same Spirit, to another gifts of healing by the one Spirit, to another the working of miracles, to another prophecy, to another the discernment of spirits, to another various kinds of tongues, to another the interpretation of tongues. All these are activated by one and the same Spirit, who allots to each one individually just as the Spirit chooses.
For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free—and we were all made to drink of one Spirit.

Each of us was given some manifestation of the Holy Spirit, for the common good.

We didn’t earn these gifts. We didn’t go out and buy them, or pick them off a tree, or find them in the washing machine when we cleaned out the lint trap. There were given to us, free and clear and not even the least little bit because of our doing.

“To one is given through the Spirit the utterance of wisdom …”, and knowledge, and faith, and healing, and so on… and all with a purpose. All this with a single goal in mind: that God’s people shall be made more and more into the image and likeness of Christ. More and more converted and transformed into the body of Christ in this world.

Your gift is your gift. You did not choose it, but it was chosen for you. (As Jesus tells the disciples in the Upper Room, “You did not choose me, but I chose you.” (John 15:16) And it may be that you’ve looked at some other gift, someone else’s particular (or even peculiar) adornment with that same sideways squinty look, wishing that you could have had that gift. That you could have worn that hat instead.

Do not wish it. Your gift is your gift, it was chosen for you. That hat was made just for you.

Every gift, every skill, every experience, even every struggle and challenge, has a place. I do not believe that God desires anyone to experience suffering; I do believe that God can, and does, act in and through any experience, including suffering and disaster. The image of the healthy well-functioning body, the complex psychological and physical system which knows instantly of distress in the extremities or deep within the core, gives us an image of what this “Body of Christ” business might be about. All the parts are different—they do different things, they look very different from one another. All are necessary; all the parts are “for” one another. In just a few sentences, Paul reminds his hearers that “If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together.” (I Cor. 12:26)

When Jesus speaks to his friends in the gospel reading, we are told that it was evening, “on that day.” What day?

The day of Resurrection—Easter Day. We’ve gone through the fifty days of Easter season and we’re right back where we started from: With the disciples in the upper room, locked inside, windows shuttered, in fear of what might happen next. And Jesus is there, right there with them. What does he say? “Peace be with you!” No recrimination, no blame, no “Look what you did to me!” He does show them his hands and his side, but not to put them on a guilt trip—they’re already doing that well enough to themselves!

Peace be with you. Not once, but twice. And then the giving of the Holy Spirit—this is John’s version of the story of Pentecost.

If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven;
if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.
(Peterson: If you forgive someone’s sins, they are gone for good.
If you don’t forgive sins, what are you going to do with them?”)

This gift, he gives to everyone. Not just the select few.
All can forgive sins.

Not all have wisdom, or knowledge, or healing gifts, or all the rest. But forgiveness is for all.

On the day of Pentecost they were together in one place. On the day after Pentecost, they all went in a thousand directions, as the Spirit led them out to tell the good news they had received. To share the gifts they had been given.

There are lots of different ways of being Christ’s body in the world. Lots of outward and visible signs of the inward and spiritual grace which is ours, not by our own doing, but as gift.

What is your outward and visible sign? What does it look like, that unique, particular, even peculiar hat, specially crafted and chosen for you? And…what will you do with it?

The Seventh Sunday of Easter, Year A, 5 June 2011

2011-06-10T10:00:00.000-04:00

Acts 1:6-14; John 17:1-11
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

“He will come again in glory, to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end…We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen.”

We’ll say these words together in a few minutes. We say them every Sunday, so easily and quickly that they can fly by without our ever really taking notice of them. What do we think we’re talking about?

Thursday night I went to Giuseppe’s Italian Restaurant for dinner, over on Wheeler Road. When I arrived I was seated in the dining room, where I listened to a man seated at the next table tell his dinner companions about his exact views on “the coming kingdom of God,” and exactly how to get there, and exactly who would be welcome. And what would become of those who didn’t learn the secret handshake, in time to enter this exclusive club before disaster struck.

I was fortunate that this individual’s remarks were not directly addressed to me, but I kept wondering if I was on a TV reality show. The level of anger and hate and aggression in this man’s voice and body language were palpable in the room. As the waitress dropped the bill at my table I remarked “Y’all do get all kinds of folks in here.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, we certainly do!”

This man believed that he knew—beyond a shadow of a doubt—how it was going to happen. If I’d had the nerve to ask, he’d have probably been willing to tell me when and where as well.

The international foolishness a couple of weeks ago, with the followers of the radio evangelist Harold Camping predicting the beginning of the end on May 21st, is another instance of the same impulse, the same desire. The disciples ask the question in the reading from Acts this morning: Is this the time? Will the end of the world as we’ve known it, the restoration of all things, happen right away? Is God going to jump in and punish our enemies and fix all our problems?

And Jesus answers them: You don’t get to know that. Period. Full stop.

And then he’s gone.

Traditional representations of Jesus’ ascension shows a view of Jesus’ feet only, peeking out of the bottom of a cloud, as the disciples stand below, slack-jawed, looking up into the sky.

Two men dressed in white robes—a literary convention telling us that these are the heavenly messengers, sent to explain what’s going on—speak to the disciples. “Why are you standing around with your mouths hanging open? He’ll be back, just as you saw him depart. But stick around…don’t go anywhere just yet.”

The disciples are in a very in-between place just now. They’ve seen one chapter of the story end, in front of their very eyes—but the new chapter hasn’t quite started just yet. So they’re in-between…which is a very uncomfortable place to be.

We’ve all been there, in those uncomfortable in-between places. In some ways it is the human condition—to be on our way from birth to death, and always transitioning from one thing to another. We get comfortable in one place, or one condition or state in life, only to discover that we are called to go from that place or condition, to somewhere or something else. God may be timeless and unchanging, but God’s people are the heirs of Abraham and Sarah, who left their homeland to follow God’s call into in strange and foreign places.

I’ve kept watch many times with folks who are getting ready to die, and with their families. It is a desperately hard place, and the great temptation is to try to do something, try to fix it, try to somehow make it better. But other than bringing hot coffee and cold water and kleenex and just sitting there, being together, there’s usually not a lot to DO. The work is in the waiting, and it is hard work indeed.

The disciples are told today to wait. That something is going to happen, and they need to be together when it does. So they go to the place where they last were together with Jesus, in that upper room where they ate their last meal together, and they wait. Someone brought food, someone else water, someone else a vessel of wine, someone else brought pillows and blankets, and some first-century version of hot coffee and kleenex.

They are gathered in expectation that SOMETHING is going to happen. But what—and when—and how—they do not know. (You’ll have to come back next week to hear what does happen…)

The Gospel lesson, a part of Jesus’ prayer in the garden of Gethsemane before his arrest, reflects this in-between waiting as well. He has washed the disciples’ feet, and told them that this—loving service and care for one another—is to be the sign by which his followers will be recognized, by one another and by all the world. And he is on his way to the cross, which in John’s gospel is Jesus’ ultimate triumph over the powers of death and destruction and disaster. In his death is the new beginning of all things, prepared before the beginning of all things.

In the garden, in this in-between place, Jesus prays. Not for himself—not for deliverance from his coming trials—but for his followers. For those whom God has brought to him—Peter and Mary and John and Martha and James and John and Magdalene. And Marilyn, and Liz, and Naomi and Helen; Lynn and John and Faye, and Gary and Toni and Robert and Emily, Kim and Charlie, and Genie and Mort and Kai and Bekka and Josh and Maddy and Nancy and Bob…for all of us.

The writer of John’s gospel is adamant in understanding—and in expecting us, the readers, to understand—that Jesus and the Father are one. That in seeing Jesus in human form, the disciples and followers saw and experienced God present in this world.

And this Jesus, now, prays for his followers: “That they may be one, as you, O God, and I, are one.”

It would appear, from this passage, that it is Jesus’ intention that his followers—which includes every one of us—should experience a connection with, and presence of God, just as much as Jesus himself does.

We talked about this in Bible study on Wednesday morning. I drew pictures on the whiteboard in the vestry room—a ring of three double-headed arrows pointing back and forth between God, and Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. The vocabulary word for the day was—and is—Perichoresis. (Per-ih-kor-EE-sis) This used to be translated as “interpenetration,” and referred to the active inter-relatedness of the three persons of the Trinity.

From the Greek: Peri, meaning around or about or “in the vicinity of.”
Choresis, from the root word “Choreo”, where we get the English words Choral, chorale, and carol. A verse-and-refrain musical structure, where a soloist sang the verses, the whole group sang the refrain, and the participants held hands and danced in a circle together.
So better than “interpenetration,” we use the word perichoresis to describe the Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—as three eternal dance partners.

And apparently, Jesus wants us in the dance too.

“That they may all be one, as you, O God, and I are one.”

By this prayer, Jesus asks God to ask us—all of us, each and every one—asks God to invite us into the dance. To bring us into a relationship, a way of being, that transforms us, and everyone around us, in ways that we cannot begin to imagine.

Now, for those of us for whom dancing is not second nature (or even third, for that matter) this may not register as good news. Two left feet, right here...or so we may think.

The old African proverb comes to mind:
If you can talk, you can sing; if you can walk, you can dance.

It’s not about perfection, or some external checklist that we have to work through in order to make ourselves good enough for God to love and welcome us. (In fact, that’s the false gospel the guy in the restaurant the other night was preaching—that we somehow have to EARN God’s love and acceptance and forgiveness.) Dear friends, if you take home nothing else from church today, take this with you: We do not earn the love of God by our good-doing; nor do we lose the love of God by our not-good-doing. We are loved by God—each and all of us—unconditionally and without exception, because that is who and what God is.

The most we can do—the most we can ever do, and this also by God prompting us through the Holy Spirit in our own day—is to say “Yes, thank you, I would love to dance.” And step out onto the floor, leaning on the Everlasting Arms.

May it be so in us; may it be so among us.

The Sixth Sunday of Easter, Year A, 29 May 2011

2011-06-10T09:59:00.000-04:00

Acts 17:22-31; I Peter 3:13-22; John 14:15-21
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

“My dear Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in all things.”
In our reading from Acts this morning, Paul is standing in the Areopagus, an open air gathering place in the city of Athens (Greece, by the way…not the one up the road here…) addressing the his most educated audience thus far. And his most self-satisfied. “Preaching to Boston”…or Savannah…or Charleston. He begins talking to them “where they are”…using the objects, and literature, they already know and live with.

“I see how religious you are. How careful to honor all the potential gods and goddesses, even the ones you’ve never heard of.” They’re covered up in temples and shrines and altars in Athens, on every corner and in every public place.
“But now, Athenians…Let me tell you of something you ought to know…The One God, creator of all things, ruler of all things, has acted. Has done something so noteworthy that I have come all this way to tell you about it. All of these things we’ve made, and imagined, and cooked up that we think will bring blessing and keep away disaster—forget that! God is more than you—or any of us—can even begin to imagine. Certainly more than we can make up ourselves. God doesn’t need all of this stuff from us—God created everything in the first place. Everything that exists, and all of us.”

For the Athenians, this is—was—a new worldview. From many gods and goddesses, to one only. And one who not only creates all things, but then proves to be victorious over death itself by raising his chosen one, Jesus, from the dead.

Paul goes and meets his hearers where they are. He uses language they understand, quotes poetry they recognize, points to ordinary objects in the vicinity, and uses all of this to tell them about what God, in Jesus, has done. Is doing, even then.

What would it look like for the followers of Jesus, in 21st century America—in Augusta, Georgia—to meet people out there, where they live and work and hang out? Not expecting them to come in here, and learn our language and objects of worship, but going out and learning who THEY are, engaging them in conversation, where they are right now? I wonder…

When Jesus speaks to his friends in the gospel, he’s also using language they understand, and pointing out the reality they are living in already, to bring them further along in their faith. “Those who have my commandments and keep them are the ones who love me, and those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them.”

He’s just washed their feet—gotten down on the ground with a bowl and a towel— performed an action so embarrassingly servile that Peter is utterly aghast. “JESUS, Jesus, what are you DOING down there??” And then after all that, he tells them “Now look y’all—you saw what I just did? That’s what it looks like, in this kingdom of mine where you’re all so eager to have the second-in-command position. It’s not about having others doing stuff for you and you lording it over them; in fact, it’s the other way around.”

“If you love me, keep my commandments.” The English composer and musician Thomas Tallis set those words to music, several hundred years ago, and I can’t NOT hear the opening chords when I read these verses. And Jesus has already given his followers that new commandment, that Mandatum Novum (as it is called in Latin) from which we get our English phrase “Maundy Thursday.” Namely: Love one another, as I have loved you. Care for one another, as I have cared for you. This is what it looks like.

And when you do, I will be there.

He’s getting them ready, you see.
1) For the disciples in the gospel story, he’s getting them ready for his departure.
2) For the first hearers and readers of John’s gospel, he’s getting them ready for their own life and ministry, without those early disciples and apostles. The second, or even third generation of Jesus’ followers, are being reminded of what they have already experienced—that when they are gathered to worship, and when they go out into the world to serve in Christ’s name, he is with them. The Holy Spirit, the Advocate, whom they already know, oh so well.
3) For us, two thousand years later and on the other side of the world, he is getting us ready, strengthening us, also. Reminding us of what we know—that we are not alone. That we are not left as orphans, but that we have a Father in heaven; we have an elder brother in Jesus; that we have a sister and companion in the Holy Spirit who blows where she wishes, and seldom in directions that we expect. And not always in directions, or ways that we even would choose, all things considered.

Now, we don’t have to say yes to all this. We can resist and refuse, of course…we always have that option. God will never force us to follow. We can try to go it alone, or have things our own way. But then…just maybe…we might discover that we are resisting and refusing God’s action, in our time, in and among and through us. Just because it makes us nervous, or uncomfortable, or challenges us somehow.

“Do not fear what they fear” says the writer of First Peter. “Do not be intimidated…but always be prepared to make a defense of the hope that is in you.” That hope we carry, and share (I hope we share!) when opportunity presents itself—that Christ suffered death, once for all (All means all, by the way. All. Everyone. No exceptions) in order to bring us all to God. As sons of Adam and daughters of Eve we all share in the fall of creation; as brothers and sisters of Jesus, crucified and risen, we all share in the resurrection and restoration. We didn’t earn it; we don’t deserve it; it is given because God loves us and will have us, even with and in spite of our resistances and hesitations and refusals.

This Thursday is the Feast of the Ascension. It is no accident that our epistle reading points in that direction at the end: reminding the hearers of their “...baptism, [which is] not the removal of dirt from the body, but as an appeal to God through the resurrection of Jesus Christ, who has gone into heaven and is at the right hand of God, with angels, authorities, and powers made subject to him.” Because of the resurrection, death no longer has the last word. Because of the Ascension, our physical bodies and the created order itself are redeemed and brought into God’s dominion. Because of Jesus, the world itself is changed, and all of us along with it.

And that, my brothers and sisters, is good news worth sharing.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

5th Sunday of Easter, Year A, May 22,2011

2011-06-07T08:44:00.000-04:00

1 Peter 2:2-10; John 14:1-14
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

When I was growing up, I loved spending time at my grandparents’ house. This was a place where I experienced absolute acceptance, and love, and welcome. To this day, a certain smell—a combination of laundry soap, fabric softener, and lemon cookies—immediately transports me back to their kitchen in Liberty, Texas. The toys and books I played with at their house were mostly ones that had belonged to my mother and uncle when they were children—slightly worn around the edges, but well-loved. Best of all was a mesh sack filled with real wooden building blocks. Mostly just cubes, but some were triangles or semicircular or other shapes. I would spend hours on the floor playing with them…sometimes with a plan in mind, sometimes just going for height, to see how tall I could make the tower before it all fell—CRASH!—to the floor. Even as a bored teenager, when I would visit my grandparents I would sneak over to the closet where the blocks were kept, and play with them in the front room where nobody could see.

In the passage from the First Letter of Peter, the author is “playing with building blocks.” He’s using the imagery of the great Temple in Jerusalem to describe the new relationship between God and God’s people. The temple in Jerusalem has been destroyed; now they themselves will be the temple. Not a house made with hands, of stone or wood or concrete beams…but of people, who together make up the dwelling place of God. Here on this earth, in this world.

YOU (all) were once no people; now you (all) are God’s own people.

You (all) are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, the ones set apart “to offer spiritual sacrifices through Jesus Christ.” The language of priesthood is used in two ways in the New Testament: Jesus, and the baptized community. Individual leaders were not “priests”; it was the role and right of the congregations to speak of God to the world, and pray to God for the well-being of the world.

It’s useful to remember always that the destruction of the temple in 70 AD was a seminal event in the life of most of the people we meet in the New Testament. In the loss of the temple, the author of I Peter is re-appropriating this idea of intercession and offering of spiritual sacrifice, relocating it as the work of the entire community.
What does it mean to have been the recipients of mercy? Of absolute forgiveness, and inclusion, and welcome? For that, says the author of First Peter, is who we are. Not by our own deserving, or because we earned it by following the rules or living up to some impossible standard—but just because God, in the person and work of Jesus Christ, has made it so.

In the gospel reading from John, Jesus is getting the disciples ready for his departure. In a very few hours he will be arrested, and imprisoned, and executed. He is getting them ready, by reminding them of what they already know.

“I AM” the way. And the truth. And the life. Again with “I AM” statements…reminding us, two thousand years later, of what John’s author wants us to be absolutely clear about: that this Jesus is God’s own self-revelation in the world in which we live. “Show us the Father!” Philip asks, and you can just see Jesus placing his face in his hands. “Phil, buddy—where have you been?” I am in God; God is in me; there is no difference. And you (all) too, will share in this reality.

To the first hearers of John’s gospel, this was not new news at all. But it was something that they needed to hear again; an essential reality of which they sometimes needed to be reminded. They were wondering, after many years, “Is this it?” Jesus had not returned to earth in bodily form, as they had been expecting. Most of those who had known Jesus in the days of his human existence had themselves died. So now what are we supposed to do?

Let’s just say that getting rid of all human responsibilities, and sitting on a mountaintop waiting for the Second Coming didn’t seem to be on Jesus’ agenda for his followers. Not then; not yesterday or today or tomorrow.

“There is a place prepared for you (all)”…but before that, something else. Whether the day of going home is soon, even as soon as yesterday or many years in the future, until then there is something else. “You (all) will do the works that I do, and even greater works than these.”

He has washed their feet—an act of complete service and care, disregarding all the social conventions of the day. He has gotten himself a reputation for hanging out with the absolute wrongest kind of people, and eating and drinking and talking with them. He has healed the sick and given sight to the blind, and raised the dead. And “You all”—he says—meaning them, and us too—“will do even greater things.”

Are we ourselves able to see the work of God’s Spirit even now, in our lives as Christ’s hands and eyes and ears in this world? Do we expect that we would? And if not, why not?
To live in faith does not mean that we ask no questions; it does not mean that we are forever satisfied with easy answers, or that we do not seek to understand more deeply the mysteries of the universe, be they physical or metaphysical—but that at the bottom of it all, is a trust that God is God, and we are beloved. No matter what we’ve done, or left undone; no matter who we are or think we ought to be, but only and all for love.

We love, as well and as fully as we are able, because God in Christ has loved us first.

“Through many dangers, toils and snares, we have already come;
‘Tis grace that’s brought us safe thus far, and grace shall lead us home.”
Amen.

Good Shepherd Sunday (4 Easter), Year A, May 15, 2011

2011-05-16T14:07:00.001-04:00

Acts 2:42-47; Psalm 23; I Peter 2:19-25; John 10:1-10
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

One of my all-time favorite recordings is Emmylou Harris’ version of the song “Green Pastures” from the album Down From the Mountain. Harris sings this country paraphrase of the 23rd Psalm with all the artistry of the trained musician, and all the simplicity of a young child. I will not attempt to sing it for you this morning, but I would advise you to go and check Youtube or I-tunes (if you do that sort of thing), or the Augusta Public Library if you don’t. It’s worth a listen.

I’ve had that song in my head all week, working on the readings. The fourth Sunday of Easter season is always dedicated to the image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd, and so today we remember our neighbors on Walton Way, and other congregations for whom this is their patronal feast.

The image of Jesus the Good Shepherd is one we know very well, or at least we’ve seen it a lot. The most popular image shows the shepherd (a young man) with the lost sheep slung around his neck, coming back to the gathering of the other sheep who are waiting very patiently for his return.

But there’s something missing in the Gospel lesson today, something that isn’t actually there. Notice Jesus’ words: I am the gate for the sheep…I am the gate.” In this gospel passage, he never calls himself the shepherd; he calls himself the gate. (He does call himself the shepherd elsewhere, but that’s another sermon altogether…)

The gospel of John is filled with examples of Jesus making “I am…” statements. I am the vine/you all are the branches. (15:5) I am the light of the world. (8:12) I am the bread of life. (6:35) And all of these “I am…” statements are signposts. They are to point us, the readers and hearers, back to the original “I AM” statement—made by God to Moses, in that encounter with the burning bush, when Moses asked “If I go back to Pharaoh as you say, and tell him ‘Let my people go’, who shall I say has sent me?” And God answered him “Tell them ‘I AM’ has sent you.”

All of the “I Am”-s in John’s gospel remind us over and over of what the author is at pains to keep in front of us—that Jesus is one with God, not only as God’s messenger, but God’s own self, present in this world. That he is the I-AM.

I am the gate. Whoever enters by me…will go out and come in, and find pasture. The thief comes to kill and to steal and to destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.

In the early centuries of the Christian church, throughout the Sundays of Easter season, those who were newly baptized would sit near the front of the room, dressed in their white baptismal robes. They would have been almost entirely adults, most of whom had come to Christianity from one of the pagan religions, or no religion at all. They would have known what it meant to have run away from the voice of strangers, false leaders whose voice would lead them “on to despair.” Now they were hearing the voice of their true shepherd and guide, who is also (by his own self-description) the gate—the way in, and the way out.

It occurs to me that, in addition to Psalm 23, we need Psalm 24 today. Look in the Prayer Book, on page 614, verses 7-10.

Lift up your heads, O gates;
Lift them high, O everlasting doors;
And the King of glory shall come in.

“Who is this King of glory?”
The Lord, strong and mighty,
The Lord, mighty in battle.

Lift up your heads, O gates;
Lift them high, O everlasting doors;
And the King of glory shall come in.

“Who is he, this King of glory?”
The Lord of hosts,
He is the king of glory.”

For those of us with Handel’s Messiah on our internal soundtrack, it’s hard to divorce this passage from the season of Advent. But, since many things can be (and are) true at once, we will assume that this likewise is a timeless truth. Open up, you gates and doors—something, some ONE, is waiting to enter!

Gates keep out the threatening others. Wolves and coyotes and sheep rustlers, in this morning’s gospel; invaders and conquering armies and thieves and robbers—“them people”—in other cases.
Gates also keep anyone from leaving. Jesus and his hearers all knew that once the city gates of Jerusalem were locked every night, nobody was going outside until morning.

I am the gate, Jesus says. What sort of gate?

He is the true gate. “The thief comes only to steal and kill…I come to bring life.”
He is the open gate. “Those who come in and out through me will find good pasture…”

And he is the destroyer of gates.

Traditional Eastern Orthodox icons of the Anastasis (often incorrectly called the Resurrection in the West) show Jesus rising from the grave, reaching down and grabbing the wrists of Adam and Eve, bringing them into the light, and along with them all the souls bound in the darkness and shadow of death. They are surrounded by broken chains and shackles, which have shattered at Jesus’ coming. Satan is bound, pushed down into the darkness, often depicted as having been impaled by the Cross. Jesus himself stands on two boards, arranged in the shape of a cross—the broken gates of hell itself.

In Jesus’ death and resurrection from the dead, the gates of hell are broken. Shattered. Ripped down from their hinges. Those who were bound in darkness and despair, rise up at the voice of the one who calls them by name, as he leads them out, going ahead of them into the light of Easter morning.
This event, the Harrowing of Hell, has somewhat fallen out of our awareness as Christians. And yet we speak of it every time we recite the Apostles’ Creed: He descended to the dead. Why? To set them free. To do for them what he did—and does—for all of us. Hell is empty. We may try to put ourselves—or others—back in it. And we’re good at doing just that. But that’s us, trying to play God. Jesus keeps calling us, in the voice we will recognize and trust, if we listen. And even if we don’t listen…he still keeps calling us into the light.

How are we called out, out of our own darkness and despair? Out of our own little daily deaths, into the abundant life Jesus promises?
Out of legalism, imagining that we must somehow earn God’s forgiveness before we can be worthy—into ecstatic, foolish, exuberant joy that we are forgiven, simply because God loves us and will have us for his own?
Out of consumerism, which tells us that we are only as valuable as our bank accounts or the quantity of possessions we have—into a profound awareness of the abundance which God has bestowed upon us, that all may have enough and to spare?
Out of any and every “-ism” that ever was or shall be, that seeks to produce the illusion of safety by slamming those diabolical gates and keeping out “them people”—out of our own self-imposed captivity, into the gateless archways through which God’s people come streaming, from north and south and east and west, into the kingdom of Christ’s resurrection.

New life. Abundant life. Here, in this life, right now. Right here.

May it be so for us. May it be so among us.
Amen.

Green Pastures
Troubles and trials often betray us
Causing the weary body to stray
But we shall walk beside the still waters
With the Good Shepherd leading the way.

Chorus: Going up home to live in green pastures
Where we shall live, and die nevermore;
Even the Lord will be in that number
When we shall reach that heavenly shore.

Those who have strayed were sought by the master
He who once gave his life for the sheep
Out on the mountain, still he is searching,
Bringing them in, for ever to keep. (Chorus)

We will not heed the voice of a stranger
For he would lead us on to despair;
Following on with Jesus our savior
We shall all reach that country so fair. (Chorus)

From http://www.lyricsbay.com/green_pastures_lyrics-stanley_brothers.html

The Third Sunday of Easter, Year A, 8 May 2011

2011-05-09T09:23:00.000-04:00

Luke 24:13-35
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

At our spring Clergy Conference this week, one of my colleagues remarked that when he looked at the Sunday scriptures his first thought was: “What am I going to do with this?” I wanted to slap him. If the Episcopal Church did not require its preachers to deal with a lectionary, I would preach every week on either the Prodigal Son or the Road to Emmaus—because for me these are two of the key gospel stories. God’s unconditional welcome, and God’s triumph, manifested in the breaking of bread at the dinner table.

Let’s look at this story. “On the same day two of the disciples were going to a village called Emmaus…” On what day?
The day of resurrection. Easter day, in the afternoon. Mary and Joanna and Magdalena and the others had gone that morning to the tomb and seen angels, who told them “Jesus is not here, he is risen as he told you.” But they hadn’t seen him yet. So they were, all of them, confused and bewildered and amazed. What is going on here?
And these two travelers are also wondering “What is going on here?” as they walk together, talking about all of these strange things. And then a third traveler joins them, but they do not know who he is. The stranger asks them “What are you talking about?” They are amazed at the question. “Don’t you know what all has happened here in Jerusalem the last few days?” “No, tell me…”
And they begin to tell him about Jesus, and all that had happened. The crucifixion, and the news from the women that morning about the angels and the empty tomb. But “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”
We’ve been talking about seeing and perceiving and understanding a lot at St. Augustine’s this spring. Our Lenten Wednesday Series was all about our windows here in the church, and learning to read and speak the language of the windows. It’s been a struggle, because it’s not always obvious, even though the images are right there in front of us. Sometimes we don’t see what is right under our noses.

These two disciples, Cleopas and the other one, have no reason to expect to see anything out of the ordinary. They’re on their way to Emmaus, a few miles from Jerusalem, and they know every landmark on the way and every rut and bump in the road. Ho hum, nothing new here. Same old-same old. Or so they think.

“How foolish and slow of heart you are!” their traveling companion cries out to them. In the Bible, “Heart” usually refers to the Will, to human intentionality. Here, the meaning is slightly different. It seems to have something to do with perception, comprehension, understanding. He’s asking them, “Don’t you get it?”
He begins to interpret the scriptures—that is, the prophets and the psalms to them, concerning the role and work of the Lord’s Messiah. They have a good rabbinic conversation as they walk along together.
At their parting of the ways, Cleopas and his friend urge the stranger to come in and have supper and stay overnight, which he does.

“When he was at the table with them he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.” Sound familiar?
“Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’”
Their eyes were opened. They saw—for the first time in Luke’s gospel—the risen Christ, at the moment that the bread was broken and shared.
“Were not our hearts burning within us…?” This is not the kind of heartburn that asks for bicarbonate of soda or an antacid tablet—this is the heart rising in joy, perceiving by intuition even before full awareness dawns. Their hearts were warmed because they knew, even before they knew it, that something amazing was at hand. That their world was about to change in ways they could not begin to imagine.

How clever of Jesus, to reveal himself in conversation and the stories of scripture.
How clever of him, to show himself to them most fully at an ordinary dinner table, in the breaking of a loaf of bread. In an act, a gesture, so completely ordinary and unremarkable that only eyes truly opened by God, only hearts truly filled with the Holy Spirit, could have seen anything extraordinary in it at all. And there, they saw everything at once.

In the remarkable movie Babette’s Feast, the title character is the housekeeper for a pair of unmarried elderly sisters in Denmark. A refugee from civil war, Babette is a stranger in the tiny, close-knit and highly religious village where the sisters have lived all their lives. She takes care of the sisters, and through their various ministries to the village, ultimately she takes care of all of the townspeople. One day word comes to the village that Babette has won the French national lottery: ten thousand francs—an enormous sum. The villagers all assume that she will now take the money and return to Paris. But before she does, she asks permission to cook a real French dinner for the sisters and their guests, in honor of the birthday of their father, the pious clergyman who founded this little community where they live.

In the course of consuming this amazing meal, and the conversation at the table that accompanies it, old suspicions and long-held ill feelings between the townsfolk simply vanish, and every person who sits at Babette’s feast goes away changed forever. They are no longer who they were, when they sat down at the beginning. They see—they perceive in their hearts—that the world itself is full of glory and wonder, and they themselves are filled with that same wonder and glory.

How clever of Babette, to serve them a meal that would transform them from the heart, inside-out.
How clever of her, to work such a miracle in a rough kitchen, and at a plain wooden table, in a tiny house in an obscure corner of the Danish coastline.
How clever, that the act of eating and drinking together, with eyes to see and hearts to understand, might tranform old hurts and wounds, hardness of heart and stubbornness of soul, into wonder and joy in the presence and glory of God’s good creation. Might transform God’s people more and more into the image and likeness of the risen Christ himself.

Will you pray with me?

Open our eyes, O God, to see your hand at work in the world about us. Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal. Let the grace of this Holy Communion make us one body, one spirit in Christ, that we may worthily serve the world in his name.

Risen Lord, be known to us in the breaking of the Bread.
Amen.

Easter Day 2011, Year A, April 24, 2011

2011-05-09T09:21:00.000-04:00

Acts 10:34-43; Psalm 118; Colossians 3:1-4; John 20:1-18
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

Sadness, sleeplessness, frantic confusion, panic, incomprehension, bewilderment. The disciples are worn out—they don’t know what to do. They saw Him on the cross on Friday morning, they saw him laid in the tomb that afternoon as the sun was going down. And now—the tomb is open, there’s no body inside. What are they to think?

Mary stands, at the end of her strength, at the end of her wits, at the end of her rope. In her tears and confusion and grief she doesn’t even really look at the mysterious figure who appears at her side.

Until he calls her by name. “Mary…”
Then she sees…through her tears, through her pain, through her bewilderment, the One who is there, right there with her.

“Do not hold on to me.” Do not cling to me, do not hold me in a bear hug as if for dear life itself, for there is work to do. We cannot stay here in the garden alone, as pleasant as that might be. I have work to do, and so do you. Go, and tell the others what you have seen and heard. And I will meet you later.

And she does. She goes and tells Peter and John and James and Andrew and all of them. And then Peter, in our Acts reading this morning, goes and tells Cornelius and all his family and household. And Paul writes and preaches to his congregations around the Mediterranean basin. And they all told others too.

And so we are here, two thousand years later and half a world away. Because someone told us. We heard a word, somewhere from someone, that there was good news here. Rumors of resurrection. Stories of salvation. Tales of transformed lives—not just in some vague future time far in the future, after death—but now, here, in this life, in this world. And so we came looking, and wondering. Hoping that it might be so.

And what do you see? Flowers—yes! The floral guild has gone berserk this time! And a very decorated room, and a well-scrubbed congregation. We do clean up well. What else do you see?

A vessel of water, where new birth takes place. An open book, telling of the mighty acts of God among and through God’s people in the past. A group of Jesus’ followers, any one of whom can tell you stories of God’s action and salvation in their own lives.

And a table, set with silver and candles, bread and wine, where in eating and drinking together we meet again the Risen Christ present among us, just as he was for Peter and John, Magdalene and Mary and Martha and all the others.

From this table we are sent, with Mary and Martha and Peter and John, and Augustine and Matthew and Brigid and David and all the others, to tell what we have seen and heard. That Death itself is overcome by Life; that catastrophe and destruction are swallowed up in God’s salvation. We have heard more than rumors of resurrection—and Jesus tells Mary, and us—Go. Tell the others. I will meet you there.

Palm Sunday/Sunday of the Passion, Year A, April 17, 2011

2011-05-09T09:17:00.002-04:00

Matthew 26:14--27:66
Preached by Rev. jason Haddox

“Woe to the one by whom the Son of Man is betrayed! It would have been better for that one not to have been born.”

In a moment of utter despair, George Bailey, the protagonist in Frank Capra’s movie It’s A Wonderful Life, wishes just that thing—that he had never been born. And his prayer is heard and answered. He is allowed the privilege of seeing his hometown as it would have been if he had never existed. And it is a dreadful sight.

His brother Harry is dead—because George was not there to rescue him when he fell through thin ice, out skating one winter day. His mother is living in poverty and bitterness, widowed and utterly alone. His three children do not exist, for he himself was never born. The neighborhood of Bailey Park, a pleasant community of homes for hardworking families, is no home for anyone except the dead—it is a cemetery. “Potter’s Field”—a not-so-subtle allusion to another verse in the Passion narrative we have just heard.

To say, even in desperation, that “it would be better not to have been born” is a dreadful thing indeed.

But what if it had been so? What if Judas Iscariot had not been born, or not been around that day to do what he did?
What if Pontius Pilate had heeded the advice of his wife, and let Jesus go free?
What if the story had been different?

From the moment that Jesus prays in the garden, with the disciples sleeping in the background, “Father…your will be done,” it is all already finished. There is ironic truth in the taunt later, “He saved others; he cannot save himself.” The drama that has been set in motion will be played out to its appointed end. It will not—it cannot—be otherwise.

We move from “Hosanna!” to “Crucify” with terrible swiftness—it cannot be otherwise, for we are fickle, we human beings. Idolatry is our natural condition, and the higher the pedestals we place beneath our idols, the farther and more swiftly they fall when we find our own plans and agendas disappointed or confounded.

We hope, as Christians, as followers of Jesus, that we would have done otherwise. We would like to imagine that we would, at least, have been there with Mary and Magdelena and Mrs. Zebedee, with Joseph of Arimethea and Nicodemus, to watch and wait—and not to run away. Perhaps we would have. Perhaps.

All that they—and we—can do now is watch, and wait, and keep faith by so doing.

Watching and waiting leads to perception. And although perception is closely linked to reality, it is not necessarily the same thing. What we perceive is our working reality, but there is often more to it than just our perception at a given moment.

Jesus groans from the cross, “My God…why have you forsaken me?” He speaks from what he feels—ultimate abandonment and betrayal.
But the story does not end there.

Mary and Magdelena and Mrs. Zebedee sit near the place of burial, as Joseph and Nicodemus heave the stone into place across the mouth of the tomb, shrouding themselves in loss and grief and sorrow.
But the story does not end there.

The disciples are hiding, behind locked doors, in fear and despair and shame. Perhaps feeling that it would have been better if they themselves had never been born.
But the story does not end there either.

Abandonment, grief, shame and despair, fear of loss and loss itself—all these things, and more—Jesus and his followers knew, in all their fullness and terror.
But the story does not end there.

Come back again, and see—for there is more. Even in the very heart of despair and grief and death itself, God is doing a new thing. Wait, and watch; come, and see…

Good Friday, Year A, April 22, 2011

2011-04-22T13:56:00.001-04:00

John 18:1-19:37
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddoz

Many things can be—and are—true at the same time. Many things can be—and are—going on at the same moment. And all of this is so, in the passion narrative we’ve just heard.

It would be impossible to say everything there is to say about this portion of John’s gospel. Rivers of ink have been poured out in interpreting and discussing these two chapters. Far more subtle minds and articulate tongues have exercised their best efforts on this same piece of text. But for today, for us, a couple of things are worth noticing.

First, Jesus’ title: He is the crucified Savior King. We’re so used to that language that it has ceased to shock us. But it is shocking, and impossible, and just plain weird. The King, the monarch, the leader of the leaders, who comes to release his people from the oppression of foreign invaders, ought not to be arrested and put on trial and put to death. This is bizarre. The chief objection the early followers of Jesus had to deal with, coming from critics outside the faith community, was that they worshipped a crucified God. What sort of God was this, who was so powerless, so unable to defend himself, that he would allow such a thing to happen?

We still hear an echo of this in the question: Why does God allow bad things to happen?

I wish I had an easy answer to that question. Believe me, I do wish it. I’ve asked that question myself, more than once. Why, O God? Why this war, that family, this person’s death?

As I stand on my front porch, looking to heaven asking such a question, the answer—or the response to the question—often comes in through the back door.

Jesus, at the end of it all today, says from the cross: It is finished. All that he has intended, all that God has intended for him, has been completed. John’s way of telling the story is unique. For the writer of John’s gospel, Jesus has done exactly what he came to do. All the way back in chapter 3, in the conversation with Nicodemus, we heard Jesus say that “…just as Moses lifted up the [bronze] serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. For God so loved the world…” (John 3:14-16a) And later, almost immediately after he has entered Jerusalem in triumph to the cries of “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” he says again “when I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself.” (12:32)

His power as the chosen messenger, the God-bearer, comes to its greatest and most obvious climax this day with those words: It is finished. All the sins and ignorances and willful horrors of humanity are assembled at the cross, the place of the skull, and somehow Jesus, the Lamb and Servant of God, deals with them in that place. He knows exactly who he is, and what he is doing. When Pilate asks the seemingly sarcastic, or world-weary question, “What is truth?” we are to hear echoes of Jesus’ statement to Thomas only a few chapters earlier: “I am the truth. And the Road. And Life itself.” The Truth—with a capital T—is standing before you, Pontius. Do you have eyes to see?

We’ve talked a lot this Lenten season about seeing what is before us, but what is perhaps not immediately obvious. Learning to read a new language, as it were, as we have studied and examined and—I hope—prayed through our windows here at St. A’s. These windows invite us, like the Gospel today, into a deeper relationship with the symbols and stories of the Christian faith. We cannot get there, into that deeper relationship, by soundbytes and snippets of scripture. We have to be willing to sit with the images, and the big chunks of scripture, and be open to what they have to teach us. It takes time, and it’s not always easy.

Mary and the beloved disciple are present today at the cross. Learning for themselves—and helping us to discover—what is to be learned there. Jesus sees them there, along with Magdelena and Mrs. Clopas, and says to his mother—referring to John—“here is your son.” And of Mary, he says to John—“here is your mother.” He gives them to each other. A new family is born here, putting flesh and blood and breath around the bones that Jesus laid out in the upper room after washing the disciples’ feet: Love one another, as I have loved you. With all due respect to the feast of Pentecost, it is here, at the foot of the cross, that we see the birthday of the Church, when Jesus commends Mary into John’s care, and vice versa. Or at least this is the act of generation, the beginning of the process which will come to birth later.

It is finished, because Jesus has done what he was sent to do. Human sin and hatred and jealousy and meanness has been unfailingly met with love and grace, and the people who followed in that Way that he proclaimed have been given into each other’s temporal care. Now he is in God’s hands, and knows himself to be so. Now God will do what God will do.

For which, you must come back again tomorrow night. And see for yourself, with Magdelena and the disciples and Mary and John. Come, be open to see that which is perhaps not immediately obvious, but is nevertheless right before us all.

Amen.

Maundy Thursday, Year A, April 21, 2011

2011-04-22T13:50:00.002-04:00

Exodus 12:1-4,(5-10),11-14;1Corinthians 11:23-26;John 13:1-17,31b-35;
Psalm 116:1, 10-17
Preached by Reverend Lynn Anderson

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

The e-mail from my fellow deacon, Rev Warner, came in late March stating that he and the other clergy from St Augustine were requesting that I consider preaching on Maundy Thursday. Sure, I fired back, I would be honored. Honored to be asked because this day is considered the “Deacon’s Homily.” This is the scripture in which Jesus models servanthood. The Deaconate is known by most as the “servant ministry.” One of the reasons that is true is that as part of a Deacon’s Ordination in the part called the Examination, the Bishop says to the ordinand,

“My sister, every Christian is called to follow Jesus Christ, serving God, the Father, through the power of the Holy Spirit. God now calls you to a special ministry of servanthood directly under your bishop. In the name of Jesus Christ, you are to serve all people, particularly the poor, the weak, the sick, and the lonely. …You are to interpret to the Church the needs, concerns, and hopes of the world….At all times your life and teaching are to show Christ’s people that in serving the helpless they are serving Christ himself.”

One of the questions we are asked is: “Will you look for
Christ in all others, being ready to help and serve those in need?”

Is “looking for Christ in all others, another way of saying ’LOVE ONE ANOTHER’? Is not our Gospel lessen tonight “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another; that you too love one another, as I have loved you; it is by this that all will know that you are my disciples – if you have love among each other.”

The parallels in the lessons and particularly the Gospel tonight and the words during the ordination service for the Deacon are clear to me. Reflection on the lessons for tonight began a wrestling match within me as strong and as tiring as that endured by Jacob..

It has been said that each and every one of us has one homily message in us and we keep saying it in different ways. Sometimes we say it in words, literally as a homily and always we give “our homily” by our actions. That one message is the central point of our own belief system, the driver of our actions. I have known that my one homily most simply put is “Love one another” So; I was on solid ground with the “new Commandment” right? This was my chance to give my one homily full out. But I quickly discovered in my wrestling that although I believe that Love one another is the answer, the commandment to the believers that matters most, it is also the most difficult to discuss and the most difficult to carry out. The stumbling block for me was,” as I have loved you.”

Jesus knew this was the last night of his life and his last chance to help his disciples whom he loved understand. Perhaps the path to understanding this “”new command or (mandate)” is to work on describing how Jesus loved his disciples. In his study of the Gospel of John, William Barclay who wrote extensive bible studies from the 1960’s until his death, describes this love with four adverbs. He describes the love of Jesus for his disciples as selfless, sacrificial, understanding, and forgiving. Who among us can consistently love selflessly, sacrificially, understandingly and forgivingly? Those are some very difficult targets for humans. But Jesus of course understood humanness. Barclay summarizes the love of Jesus, this way.

His love was selfless. He never thought of himself. His one desire was to give himself and all that he had for those he loved.

His love was sacrificial. There was no limit to what his love would give or to where it would go.

He loved his disciples with understanding. He knew them very well. He loved them not as he “imagined them to be,” but as they were. The heart of Jesus is big enough to love us as we are too.

He loved them with forgiveness. Peter denied him. Judas betrayed him. None of them ever seemed to understand him. In the end, they were cowards that deserted and hid. But Jesus held nothing against them. So we too must consider that real love, enduring love must be built on forgiveness, for without forgiveness, love is bound to die.

So, what does all of this mean for us, and for our relationships with one another? After he had washed their feet, he said to them, “Do you know what I, your Lord and Master, have done to you? I have given you an example that you should do as I have done. He goes on to tell us that it is by this, following his example that the world will know that you are my disciples.”

If we are to take this seriously, if we want to be Disciples of Christ, we had better learn to love the people in our families, our circle of friends, our parish, our workplaces, our neighborhoods and our lives. Love even the ones that we don’t like much, the ones that God puts in our way, the ones with whom we might prefer not to even have dinner. The aggravation we feel, the angst we generate abates when we begin to look for the Christ in each other. When we begin to open to all that the Father Gives, peace enters and the wrestling is over.
Help us God, to learn to love as Christ loved. Help us to forgive those who have wounded us. Help us to remember they are limited people with a limited ability to love, just like us. Receive our lonely, broken hearts, God and know our desire for healing and mercy. Amen

First Sunday in Lent, Year A, March 13, 2011

2011-03-15T11:54:00.000-04:00

Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7; Psalm 32; Romans 5:12-19; Matthew 4:1-11
Preached by Rev. Haddox

Our scripture readings this morning present two stories—two deep, strong, rich stories about God’s invitation and how people responded to that invitation. Our first lesson, from the Book of Genesis, tells of the coming of evil into the created order. Adam and Eve walk together with the Lord God in the garden—full of beauty and abundance, plenty to eat and sustain life. And yet, there was something missing…

They both had wondered about that tree, you know. That one, particular, peculiar tree. It didn’t really look any different than the others, but somehow, at certain times of the day, it did. They both walked past it, looking and wondering.

The serpent was watching, to see what they would do. How they would react, just by walking and looking and wondering. And when he saw an opportunity, he took it. He promised them that they would be like God’s own self. And they both took, and ate, and were transformed by what they had consumed. And thus began a transaction, the story of a single moment, that has informed our imaginations and our theology for centuries.

What changed, that day? For the story says that, at least at that moment, they did not die. They didn’t fall down dead on the spot. But they knew something that they had not known before, something that changed everything: their relationship to each other, and to God, and to the creation. They were vulnerable to that knowledge—frightened by it—and confused and ashamed. And they tried to hide—from God, from each other, from themselves. They gained knowledge, and a sort of wisdom. But at a price.

God did not leave them there in that condition. It wasn’t safe, not now. They knew just that much too much—not enough yet, but enough to be disastrously dangerous if they were left alone. So God did not leave them there—God sent them out, and barred the way back. But God did not stay behind in paradise, watching them leave through the whirling of that fiery sword. God went into exile with them, away from Eden, every step of the way into the rest of their lives. They were not simply abandoned to their own devices even then.

In the Gospel, Jesus is sent out into an exile of his own, after his baptism. He has heard the voice of God over him, descending like a dove as he rises, dripping, from the waters of the Jordan River: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” And straightaway he is “led up by the Spirit into the wilderness, to be tempted by the devil.” (Mark says that “the Spirit drove him out into the wilderness.”) A mysterious, irresistible force compels him to go, fasting for forty days and nights, into the place where the children of Israel went wandering for forty years. Into the place where Adam and Eve were sent. And there he too is watched and observed, to see what he will do.

When he is vulnerable and tired and hungry, the tempter suggests that Jesus manipulate or fix the situation. “If you are the Son of God…you can make bread from these stones. You can fly through the air. You can have all the kingdoms of this world at your feet.” Physical comfort; amazing wonders; POWER! In other words—you will be just like God’s own self—you will need nothing, no one. You can have it all, all by yourself.

This lie, the same one told in the garden to our first parents, is the same one we hear every day of our own lives. That if we just buy this product, or follow that program, or eat this or drink that or whatever it may be—that we will have it all. That we will never get old, or sick, or vulnerable. That we will need nothing, no one. That we can be God, all by ourselves.

Jesus will have none of it. He quotes scripture, refusing both the physical comfort of food to relieve his hunger, and the pyrotechnical display of unassisted flight to shore up his ego. Then third, and last, he asserts unequivocally: God is God, and no one else. And no-thing else.

“If you are the Son of God” is just as unequivocal. For Matthew, that’s exactly who Jesus is. No question about it. But ultimately Jesus does not—will not—use that identity to his own advantage. He willingly allows others—those who follow him, and those who turn away from him, and even those who put him to death—to choose their own way. He does not force them to love him, or receive him, or follow him. That knowledge for which Adam and Eve paid so dearly—the knowledge of good and evil, the ability to decide and to act, based on that knowledge—is not taken away from their children.

That contrast, the choice between the two ways of life or death, appears in the second lesson this morning. In the letter to the Romans, Paul is setting forth two lists, two stories. He compares the action of Adam (the willful disobedience of one man) with the action of Jesus (the intentional, self-conscious obedience of one man) as the antidote, the latter for the former. The argument is typical Paul—looping back on itself, contrasting between “the way of sin and death” and “the way of grace and life.” At its heart is the understanding that in Jesus, by his death and resurrection, we too are raised from death (in whatever form it may come) to new life. Hear again verse seventeen: “If, because of the one man’s trespass (that is, Adam), death exercised dominion through that one, much more surely will those who receive the abundance of grace and the free gift of righteousness exercise dominion in life through the one man, Jesus Christ.”

“Those who receive…grace and…righteousness.” That’s US, folks. You and me, and all who have claimed and looked for, sometimes begged for, and even sometimes run away from, the presence of Jesus in our lives. That’s what Paul is claiming as a foundational reality for all of us—that in Jesus, in his death and resurrection, we are put back into right relationship with God, restored to the condition from which Adam and Eve turned away.

That is quite a claim, isn’t it? And it’s not about whether we “feel like it” or not. Sometimes we don’t feel that way at all. “Exercising dominion in life” feels very far away indeed. We’re sometimes up, and sometimes down, and sometimes almost to the ground. But even then, even in the midst of ugliness and horror, even when the circumstances of our own lives are a complete mess, even when the nightly news is screaming panic and disaster in our ears…even then—even now—we are part of something bigger than our own feelings. Bigger than all our fears. Bigger than anything we can dream of. We’re part of Jesus’ work of redeeming—which means we’ve been bought back from the slave-traders who would hold us captive. We are made righteous—set into right relationship with God, and with one another. We are not who the advertising agencies or the critics or the powers of darkness want to tell us we are; in Jesus Christ we too are the sons and daughters of the most high God.

Jesus knew that, when he went into the wilderness. And when he taught and healed and fed people who needed him. And even when he hung on the cross. That was who he was; that is who we are. And no power, in heaven or on earth, can undo that essential reality, or take it away.

This is not the truth of the right hand, the logical brain; but rather the truth of the left hand, of the intuition. Such a story cannot be described; it must be sung.

So then, let the poet come.
From the hymnwriter John Mason Neale (Hymnal 270):

Gabriel’s message does away
Satan’s curse and Satan’s sway,
Out of darkness brings our day.

He that comes despised shall reign;
He that cannot die, be slain;
Death by death its death shall gain.

Weakness shall the strong confound;
by the hands in graveclothes wound,
Adam’s chains shall be unbound.

Art by art shall be assailed;
To the cross shall Life be nailed;
From the grave shall Hope be hailed.

So, behold, all the gates of heaven unfold.

So, go then. Go this week, to the places of wilderness and trial where God may send you, in the sure and certain knowledge that this is who you are. And whose you are. Now and always.
Amen.

Ash Wednesday, Year A, 9 March 2011

2011-03-15T11:52:00.000-04:00

Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

Before it was about anything else, the church season of Lent was about getting ready. The event had been on the calendar for months, even years in advance, and this was the time to make the final preparations for the great day.

At first it was just a day or two of preparation—the kind of last minute anticipation that makes it almost impossible to eat or sleep, because you’re just so excited. Over time it became a week of anticipation, and the whole church family would assist by preparing themselves as well, with prayers and rereading the great stories of Scripture, and worrying less about “what shall we eat, or what shall we drink” just as Jesus had said in the Sermon on the Mount. Simpler food means less time spent in the kitchen, and therefore more time to pray and study and be together; less meat on the table means less money spent on groceries, and therefore more money to give to the poor and needy.

All this fasting and prayer, reading of the Bible and caring for those in need, had a goal in mind. These were never meant to be activities for their own sake, or for the super-religious people within a given congregation. All this was—and still is—about preparing us for the event we call Easter.

And it is “event” by the way, not a series of “events.” They are all one unit. Good Friday and the Resurrection are two sides of the same coin— one cannot exist without the other. Without the Resurrection, Good Friday merely commemorates another violent death among the millions that have occurred since the world began. Without Good Friday, the Resurrection is simply a celebration of spring and flowers and birds migrating north; or as I have called it before: “Bunnies and bonnets and brunch.”

It is more—so much more than that. And the fasting and prayers, the bible study and almsgiving, are all encouraged to help us get ready for the Easter event. And particularly, all these good things to do in the season of preparation are leading toward the event we know as Holy Baptism.

Long before baptism had any associations with white lacy christening gowns, and photographs with the baby, and a special dinner, and a big beautiful cake…it was about conversion. It was about Metanoia: the realization that you were going in the wrong direction, and the moment of turning around. Not only that you were going in the wrong direction, but that you might be about to drive off of a cliff!

Wake up! Heads up! Pay attention! This is the shout of Isaiah in the first reading: All your good-doing may look very well, but you’re not changing your hearts or minds or attitudes in the slightest. Never mind all the religious activities—what about how you deal with one another? What about how you deal with those nearest to you—and those it would be easy to ignore or overlook? What about how you deal with yourselves?

Sometimes we go very far out of the way before we realize we’re lost and need to turn around. The Recovery Minstry folks among us would use the language of “hitting bottom”, when we finally, at last, figure out that to go any further in some direction will lead to death—physical or otherwise.

Sometimes it’s not nearly as dramatic as that. We realize earlier, when it is much easier to change direction, that we want to follow the way of God. When I was in middle and high school, my family attended a couple of churches that had spring and fall revival meetings. A speaker would come to preach the services, often a famous evangelist, who would share his (always his) testimony about God’s saving help delivering him from the powers of drugs or alcohol or some depravity or other—and it was always very exciting. And I remember thinking three things—all at once:

1) That’s really great—thank God for this mighty work!
2) I’m really glad I didn’t have to go through all that!
3) I kind of wish I had a story like that…that would be cool!

What I didn’t realize then was that I did have a story—about how God had worked in my life. And so do you. So do all of us.

We each have our own story to tell, to share with other people. Not to force on them by sheer brute willpower, or with the threat of damnation if they don’t accept it immediately. Not at all. But to tell someone who is going in the wrong direction, “Hey, I think I know what you’re going through. I’ve been there…let me show you something wonderful, that might help.”

For those of us who have already been baptized, Lent offers a chance to re-examine what that means.
So what—that we are washed with water and adopted into the family of Jesus?
So what—that we are anointed with oil and sealed by the Holy Spirit, and marked as Christ’s own forever?
So what—that sins are forgiven, and we are restored to grace and holiness of life?

So—what, indeed? What about it? What do we do with it?
What does that reality call us to do? And how are we already doing it, maybe without knowing it?

Because this is NOT about “Doing More Stuff” in order to earn God’s approval. In fact, that may be a sort of moral hoarding—salvation by busyness.

Maybe God’s call is for us to DO less. One year Shannon and I gave up church for Lent. We realized that every night of the week one or the other of us had some church activity or appointment on the calendar, and we said “this is nuts.” We agreed to come on Sundays, and Thursday night was choir rehearsal, but everything else we just said “See you after Easter.” And we spent that time together—walking and reading to each other and reconnecting. That was a very good Lent for us.

The getting-ready season is just that—getting ready for what is to come. It’s about simplifying the clutter, clearing away the trivial and the unnecessary, to make room for what is truly Important. Maybe taking on something as a cultivated habit—daily prayer, or Bible reading, or acts of service to the poor and needy—in order to honor what is truly Important. Above all it is about Paying Attention—to the story of God, revealed in the Bible, and discovering where our story—yours and mine, and ours together—is woven into that great Story.

May it be so for us; may it be so among us.

Eighth Sunday of Epiphany, Year A, 27 February 2011

2011-03-07T10:24:00.000-05:00

Isaiah 49:8-16a; Psalm 131; I Corinthians 4:1-5; Matthew 6:24-34
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry…”

But Jesus, you don’t understand! There’s so much to worry about! And life is complicated…much more so than it was then, there, in that part of the world, in that time of history.

Or so we’d like to think—that it was much easier then, much less complicated, they didn’t have all the things we have to worry about. No, but they had worries enough.

The “therefore” in this Gospel passage is the hinge. There’s a transition in that moment. Jesus has just been speaking to those who listen to him and saying “You cannot serve two masters.” No slave can be loyal to two sovereigns—they will either love one and despise the other, or they will be devoted to this one and hate the other; they will be going back and forth and back and forth and make themselves sick. That divided loyalty gets you nowhere, except spinning in circles.

For this reason—therefore—do not worry about these things, because that worry will only distract you.

You cannot serve God and wealth. The word “wealth” in this passage is an Aramaic word, “mammon”—some of us may remember that word in the older translations—it is sort of a personification of “Stuff.” When I moved to Georgia from New Jersey, a hundred and fifty boxes of books went on the moving van. And I looked around my library this week, as I was preparing this sermon, and thought “Now, come on.” And yet three more arrived from Amazon.com this week.

We may have a problem.

For someone else it may be shoes. Or hats. Or—who knows what? But this notion that Stuff, somehow in and of itself, is salvific, that by having enough of IT, whether it is money or degrees on the wall or cans of tuna fish in the pantry or whatever—that in and of themselves those things have the ability to save. They do not.

And Jesus is not condemning Stuff as such. This is the same Jesus of whom it is said: “For God so loved the world, that he sent the only-begotten One…not to condemn the world but that…the world might be saved.” That’s not just the good people, or the smart people, or the people who seem to have gotten their lives together, that’s the World, the created order itself. And before that, in the Beginning…God created, God created, God created and God said : It is good, it is good, it is very, very good. We have as our first reading this morning the passage from Isaiah that ends with this striking image: “I have carved you on the palms of my hands.” (Preacher touches his own hands, then gestures to the cross hanging over the altar)

And there in the window, the Hand of God, reaching to create the proto-atom—which is also the proto-Adam. All sorts of images at play, in this place today.

So Jesus is not speaking against creation, or the created order, or any of the stuff in it. But he is saying something about how it is to be valued. This passage, like all the passages we’ve been reading the last few weeks as our Gospel lessons, from the Sermon on the Mount, all say the same thing, they are all pointing in the same direction, which is about re-orientation. It is about recognizing a different set of values by which the Kingdom of God is enacted in this world.

“Metanoia”—turn around, you missed your exit on the freeway, you don’t want to go to Columbia, you want to go to Atlanta. Turn around!

It’s not all about us, for one thing. Look with me in the prayer book, Psalm 24 on page 613.

The earth is the Lord’s, and all that is in it; the world and all who dwell therein.
For it is he who founded it upon the seas, and made it firm upon the rivers of the deep.
Who can ascend the hill of the Lord? Who can stand in his holy place?
Those who have clean hands and a pure heart, who have not pledged themselves to falsehood,
nor sworn by what is a fraud.
They shall receive a blessing from the Lord, and a just reward from the God of their salvation.

The earth is the Lord’s. The earth is the Lord’s. We are stewards, we have opportunities to share these good things and to use them, but they are not ours by possession. And this language of “purity of heart” reminds us of an earlier moment in the Sermon on the Mount: Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. That dividedness, that “trying to serve two masters” is the antithesis of purity of heart. This is not a moralistic quality, it is an intention. “I’m going this direction, I’m going to do this thing, my heart is set, my mind is made up, my intention is clear, here I will go.” No turning back, no turning aside. The slave who attempts to serve two masters just ends up seasick and spinning in place.

One thing is needful. One heart, one loyalty, one mind, one intention.

It’s not that the stuff doesn’t matter, of course it matters. Jesus is very clear: Your heavenly Father knows you need food and clothing and shelter and all of these things. But “you” is collective: This is “y’all”…it’s not just about my needs on a given day, it is about the needs of the world. And how it is possible for me to have much, and share with someone who has less, who has need of some books. Or some shoes. Or some food, or a place to sleep.

Hospitality to the stranger, and comfort for those who are lonely or sick or in prison. And when you go out of church this morning, when you walk out those doors, and you are confronted again with those windows in the narthex, down at the bottom: Drink for the thirsty and food for the hungry, clothing and shelter and freedom for the prisoners—remember, and take heart. For this is the Kingdom of God come among us, and of which we are called to be agents, stewards, servants, God’s ministers in this world.

May it be so for us;
May it be so among us.
Amen.

6 Epiphany, Year A, 13 February 2011

2011-02-18T09:01:00.000-05:00

Deuteronomy 30:15-20; Psalm 119:1-8; 1 Corinthians 3:1-9; Matthew 5:21-27
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

My friend Diana is terrified of spiders. If she sees one anywhere near her, she lets out a bloodcurdling screech and comes to tell you “It was THIS BIG!” (Holds out hands as wide as possible) Really? Well, maybe not quite that big.

Today’s vocabulary word is hyperbole (high-PER-buh-lee.) For instance: “I’ve told you a hundred million times: Don’t exaggerate!” Hyperbole: to draw the picture as large and oversized as possible, so that no one can misunderstand the message.

Jesus is using some hyperbolic speech this morning, as we continue to listen to him in the Sermon on the Mount. Last week we were alerted to the fact that he is using figures of speech, with these words:
“I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” That was the last word, last week, and the verse immediately preceding our Gospel reading this week. So we have to hear today’s portion with those words still ringing in our ears.

The scribes and the Pharisees are the professional religious people. They are as exacting as they can be about following the rules and regulations, and they encourage others to do the same. To outdo them in this good-doing is out of the question. But that’s not what Jesus is talking about. He is, in fact, up to something entirely different—something very strange, or at least unexpected.

“You have heard it said…but I say to you…” What is it that we have heard said? Murder is bad—the worst of sins. One of the Big Ten, in fact. And yet Jesus turns the order of things upside down: Murder is still bad no question. But now anger, even unspoken, merits the same punishment as murder. Insulting someone is even more dreadful; and speaking with a mean mouth to someone puts you in hell. You have murdered the spirit of another person by speaking of them, or to them, in that way. You don’t need to wait for hell after death; you’re already there.

Adultery is bad. Not sex in general, but a specific act. Intercourse between a man, who is not married to a particular woman, but she is married to someone else. So this is about property rights, among other things. Again, one of the Big Ten, but Jesus doesn’t leave it at that. Insofar as you have looked and imagined the act, it is as if you have done it. The thought is parent to the deed, and both are outside of the Kingdom’s way of life.

Let us be clear: Jesus is not setting up a new moral theology, a new set of rules that simply make the old rules tighter and more restrictive. He is not introducing a new pious hierarchy by which we (or anyone else) can work our way into the kingdom.

We have to go back to the beginning of the sermon. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.” Remember in Jesus’ time, the heart was understood as the seat of the will, one’s entire intentionality. It is the Hokey-Pokey of the moral life: You put your whole self in, when you speak of the heart. We’ll use the language of the heart in just that way in a few minutes. I will bid you “Lift up your hearts!” And you will answer me “We lift them to the Lord.” We intend to place our whole selves, hearts and souls, bodies and minds, warts and imperfections and all of what makes us who we are, to the presence of God.

To be pure of heart is to will and intend a single thing, not to be distracted and overwhelmed by many divided intentions. To hunger and thirst for righteousness is not about moral rectitude, but about orientation. The repeated, deliberate reorientation of ourselves in the Godward direction.

And we need this repeated reorientation because we forget. We do get distracted, and overwhelmed, and disoriented. That’s why we say the confession every Sunday; that’s why you’ve heard me talk about repentance. Which does not mean beating ourselves up or feeling miserable for things we have done or failed to do. Repentance—metanoia—is that moment when we recognize that we have gone in the wrong direction, and we change direction. You just missed your exit—turn around!

When Jesus tells his hearers “Let your yes be ‘yes’; let your no be ‘no’” he is inviting us to an awareness of, and truthfulness about, ourselves. God is God, and we are not. The job description of “Savior of the World” is already taken—you can’t have it. And neither can I.

Jesus invites his hearers into that awareness and that truthfulness so that they—we—can be about the ministry of God in this world. So that we can be the Body of Christ in this world. Here, in the Sermon on the Mount, we get a glimpse into what that looks like.

We have to live into that reality, and live with that reality, in order to discover it more completely. Remember the 3-D drawings that were popular a few years ago? You’d stare at a page of colored dots that looked like nothing at all, up close and far away and everything in between…until all of a sudden, BOOM, there it was: the prow of a ship sailing out of the page, or a football spiraling through the air, or a cat licking its paw and washing its face.

The Sermon on the Mount invites us to sit with, and discover, a reality that Jesus is forever indicating and pointing out for those around him. It is an awareness of both thought and action—for both are necessary—that takes us beyond our own pet projects and plans, into the very life of God and God’s kingdom.

May it be so for us; may it be so among us.

Thanks be to God.

5 Epiphany, Year A, 6 February 2011

2011-02-09T08:48:00.001-05:00

Isaiah 58:1-9a; Psalm 112:1-10; 1Corinthians 2:1-12; Matthew 5:13-20
Preached by Rev. Jason M. Haddox

Do you remember the three-dimensional images that were the new cool thing a few years ago? You would stare at a page of what appeared to be nothing but multicolored dots. You would see nothing at first, just those dots. You would sit with it—looking close, then far away, then somewhere in between. And then, out of the corner of your eye, something would start to emerge. If you looked directly at it, it would vanish. You would have to be very patient, and relax your focus until suddenly it would appear: a house, with a picket fence and smoke coming out of the chimney. Or a cat, licking its front paw and washing its face. Or a football (we have to remember Superbowl Sunday today, after all) hurtling toward you from the printed page. And there it was. But even then…You had to look at the image carefully but not too closely, in order to see it. If you tried to focus your eyes, it would disappear. It was almost like looking through the paper, at something on the other side.
The author of Matthew’s gospel is very crafty in the way he tells the story. And by “crafty” I don’t mean deceptive or sneaky. I mean crafty in the way that Don Rief takes a piece of canvas and a bag of colored yarn and makes something beautiful with it, one single stitch at a time, over many hours and days. Or the way a carpenter takes wood and nails and glue and stain and varnish and makes a piece of furniture, with great craft and care and attention to detail. But to see the crafty-ness you have to look at the whole object, and then the details, and then the object. Close up and from a distance, and even then you might see something new each time you come back to it.
This morning, Jesus speaks to his hearers in the second part of the Sermon on the Mount. One of our folks at the Bible Study on Wednesday morning remarked that the passage for this week “…starts out easy to understand, and then gets really complicated.” She saw lots of dots and details, and not as much of the house, or the cat, or the football. Or the needlepoint banner, or the hand-made bookshelf.
The author of Matthew’s gospel is crafty—he is designing something very intentional in the way he builds the story. And in the Sermon on the Mount, we see this design. Now, Jesus did not have secretaries following him around taking dictation. And the Gospels are all written between seventy and a hundred years after the events they describe. So it’s not likely that Jesus said all these things in exactly this way. But the writer of Matthew has a story to tell, and means to tell it in a very particular way.
So what does he say? A few things, and we will begin at the wrong end. First of all, the final portion of the passage this morning: “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Whenever Jesus speaks of the kingdom of God or the kingdom of heaven, he’s usually talking about here and now. “The kingdom of God is among you, it has drawn near, it is here, turn around, do you see it?” This is not about “going to heaven when we die.” Most of our images of heaven and hell do not come from the Bible at all, but from an amazing work of thirteenth-century science fiction, the Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri. So this is not Jesus lecturing on the life of the world to come—he’s teaching about God’s life, in this world, the world in which we live right now.
Second, he says “I tell You…unless YOUR righteousness is thus and so, YOU will never…” As Bishop Benhase reminded us last Sunday, Jesus is a Southerner. “You” is second-person plural: It’s “y’all”. It is NOT “You and you and you and you…” It is all-encompassing.
Y’all are the salt of the earth. Salt is good for many things, but at bottom it’s about bringing out the flavor of the food. One of the translations we read in the adult Bible study this morning translated this as “You (all) are the seasoning, to bring out the God-flavors in the world…You (all) are the light, to show off the God-colors in this world.” No one person can be all the colors at once—we need yellow and green and red and pink and blue (Preacher gestures toward the stained-glass windows of the church) and all of the colors, and even then we have to sit with the mosaic and see what God is showing us in it.
For God is showing Godself in it. Bishop Benhase told us that last week too—that the Sermon on the Mount is a portrait of God, what God’s kingdom looks like. And we are part of that portrait, in all its various colors and flavors and textures.
We are invited—this day and every day, at every moment—to be a chunk of light and color, in the multicolored mosaic of the People of God.
May it be so for us; may it be so among us.
Thanks be to God.

4th Epiphany, Year A, 30 January 2011

2011-02-04T12:00:00.000-05:00

Micah 6:1-8; Psalm 15; I Corinthians 1:18-31; Matthew 5:1-12
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

“The White House announced on Thursday that the economy will show significant improvement by September of this year.”

Well, not really. Our vocabulary word for today is Synecdoche (Suh-NECK-tuh-kee), which is a substitution of a single image or object for an entire complex of persons and events and intentions. We say “the White House” when what we mean is the presidential administration.

For Paul in the letter to the Corinthians this morning, the Cross serves as such a synecdoche. The Cross functions as a symbol (or kind of shorthand) for the life and death and resurrection of Jesus. The Incarnation, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection and the Ascension are all in it.

We are surrounded by images of this complex of events in this room. Right up front, we see the pendant cross over the altar. But it is missing something—it is all Resurrection and very little crucifixion. You cannot see the nails in the hands and feet; there is no sign of bloodshed. For that, we need the fourteen wrought iron crosses around the sides of the room, the Stations of the Cross. Good Friday in detail. And the windows—from the Creation through the Final Consummation of All Things, with the Incarnation, Crucifixion, Resurrection and Ascension at the center. All these events and episodes, represented by one image: The Cross.

And it is STRANGE beyond our comprehension. God became one of us; to live and show us how to live in God’s world, as members of God’s family. We were so frightened by that new proclamation—which made no sense to us at all. “Blessed are the poor? Blessed are those who are hungry and thirsty? Blessed are the powerless?—God is with ‘them people’ and not the obviously powerful and well-connected and we’ve got it together?”

We were challenged by that preaching and teaching, by this Jesus who was clearly not interested in cultivating the kind of power-and-authority that the world he lived in—the world we live in—was interested in. Some of us were drawn to him, wanting to learn more. Some of us recognized ourselves in what he had to say about those who are poor in spirit, or those who long for justice and right dealings among human beings. Or those who are grieving over the state of the world. Or those who know they don’t have it all together, and are almost able to say so, in so many words.

Some of us were angered by these things. By the fact that Jesus seemed indifferent to “the rules” as we had always been taught them. That he sat down and ate and drank and hung out with the wrong kind of people. That he loved the unlovable, and forgave the unforgivable, and gave generously to the unworthy and ungrateful. That he did justice, and practiced mercy, and walked humbly and securely in the love and presence of God. And taught that that was what living in the kingdom of God looked like.

So we had to get rid of him. The world of “common sense and the way things are” could not bear to have its assumptions challenged in such a flagrant and subversive manner. So the powers that be—of privilege and status and being somebody by keeping somebody else under our feet—rose up in fear and hate and violence, and made an end of him.

But that wasn’t the end. God wasn’t finished, not by any means. When we had imagined and crafted the most horrible, degrading, shameful punishment that human beings could conceive, and had executed it upon a mere nobody (as it seemed to us at the time) God had something else in mind. Our loudest, most clamorous NO was met with “yes.” God’s Yes, in Jesus. The resurrection is God’s refusal—then and now—to take no for an answer. When we wanted to do away with the call of God to us—each and all of us—and slam the door and holler “No I won’t you can’t make me la la la la la…” God would not leave us alone in that shut-away stubborn fearful place. God refused to take no for an answer.

The Cross is the sign and symbol and synectoche for that reality. For us as Christians it is not merely two sticks tied together—it summons and evokes an entire story and identity and purpose. It is the sign of life, and more than just one life—of all our life in Jesus. It is the lens through which we see and make sense of the world around us; it is the banner that leads us on our life’s journey. It is the standard which judges the actions and behaviors of humanity, beginning with us who bear it on our foreheads and in our hearts. In it, we see the death of all things, and the new life which God promises. Jesus’s resurrection is for us all, and for the entire creation itself. And this is the scandal—the point of stumbling, the place of disbelief and mistrust and wonder: How can this be?

It is, because God will have it so. And declares it so: Out of the worst that humanity could imagine or do, God brings God’s best. Life, and light, and joy, and transformation.

In the font this morning there is water. I intend to have the font out in the aisle, with water in it, every time we have the Eucharist. (Altar guild, take note.) I invite you, when you come forward for communion, to take some water and mark the sign of the cross on your forehead with your thumb. Remember that you are baptized with the sign of the cross, and water, and the name of God the Holy Trinity. Remember that you are more than a consumer of commercial goods; that you are more than a cog in some enormous impersonal machine. In the water, under the cross, we are joined into something larger and more powerful than we can begin to imagine. It is as old as the cosmos, and it is as new as this new day. It is the way of life for us as Christians; the way that leads to real, true, full life. God’s life, in this world and in worlds we have yet to experience.

3 Epiphany, Year A, 23 January 2011

2011-02-04T11:58:00.000-05:00

Isaiah 9:1-4; Psalm 271, 5-13;1 Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23
Getting Ready to Go Fishing, preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

Last weekend your Vestry on went on retreat in the Wilderness, down in south Georgia at the Honey Creek Camp and Conference Center.
We went to get know each other better—you have a new priest, I have a new vestry, we have new vestry members and officers, and we wanted to spend some time together.
We also went to acknowledge, and wrestle with the fact, that the world most of us grew up in is not the world we live in now.

Most of us remember the Blue Laws. Sunday was protected by the culture. No movie theaters or stores or unnecessary businesses of any kind were allowed to open on Sunday. No youth sporting event would have been scheduled before 1:00 on Sunday afternoon. Schoolteachers were encouraged not to give homework on Wednesday nights—because that was midweek prayer meeting and youth group night.

We are no longer receiving those kinds of subsidies from the wider culture. The church is one of many options on Sunday morning, and we are working in a time and place that is increasingly disinterested in institutional maintenance for its own sake. The fastest growing religious group in North American culture are those who label themselves: “None of the above.” They have little or no background or exposure to organized religion as such. This does NOT mean that they are “irreligious” or without a potential for deep faith. The fact is, we all worship something or someone. But these folks are suspicious, at best, of institutions.

How do we reach out and touch those folks? How do we speak to them, minister to them? That’s the big question we wrestled with, on our retreat at Honey Creek.

In our gospel this morning, Jesus has just come back from his own retreat, in the wilderness, after his baptism. You remember the baptism. In the Jordan, with John the Baptist, and the Spirit descending like a dove, and the voice from heaven: “This is my Son, the beloved, in whom I am well pleased.” Immediately after which, out he goes into the desert for forty days and forty nights to be tested, to wrestle with the demons. And today he comes back to discover that John the Baptist is in prison, and the world as he knew it is no longer the world in which he lives.

He relocates to Capernum, a village near the Sea of Galilee in northern Israel, which will be his home base for a while. He’s already getting a reputation, and his message is consistent: The kingdom of God is at hand. It is near, it is here, do you see what is right in front of you? Open your eyes; clean the wax out of your ears; here and now God comes to bring you into his new way of living.

Jesus walks this morning by the Sea of Galilee. This is actually a large freshwater lake, along whose western shore a major highway connects Jerusalem and the south to the northern provinces. Fishing and farming are the major industries there, in Jesus’ time. Fishermen like James and John and Peter and Andrew had their own boats and equipment—they were professionals, businesspeople. They knew how to do things—in particular how to catch fish.

Jesus calls to them, with a strange and even bizarre proposition. Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.

The King James Bible puts it rather more colorfully: I will make you fishers of men. It’s actually a play on words…from “fisher-men” to “fishers-of-men” that we lose in the more contemporary translation.

Fish and fishing images come up throughout the gospels, perhaps most notably in the accounts of Jesus’ feeding miracles. With five little loaves of bread and two fish, Jesus is able to feed thousands of people. The early Christians cherished the story of that miraculous event, and understood it (among other things) as an interpretation of what happens at the Eucharist—a very small amount of “stuff” becomes the sign and vehicle of God’s abundant bounty and goodness.

We’ve all seen THE FISH on people’s car bumpers around town. In early Christian art, the image of a fish was frequently depicted—long before anyone dared to paint or sculpt the Cross, in fact. The Cross itself was still too raw; too contemporary as an active method of political execution. But the fish was an interesting alternative. In Greek, the common word for fish is Ichthus. This word (Iota; chi; theta; upsilon; sigma) can be read as an acronym for the phrase “Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior.” One of the early writers and teachers of the Church, a man named Tertullian, compared all Christians to smaller fish, following Jesus our great Ichthus in a “school..” Fish were often depicted in mosaic work on the floor of baptismal pools, playing on this image of Christ as the one we little ones follow through baptism.

Peter and James and John and Andrew follow him—without a single word, they drop everything and go. We don’t know if they’ve ever even met before—this could be the first time. He must have really been something special, for people to respond like that. But he didn’t beat around the bush either. “Come with me. Come and see.” A simple, direct invitation—and then they had the choice.

They chose to follow. And this morning, in this gospel, they’re getting ready for a big fishing trip that begins in a few verses. We’ll hear about it next Sunday.

I’m not much of a fisherman but I know that getting ready to go fishing takes some preparation. You want to lay out the equipment, gas up the boat motor, make sure there’s enough ice in the cooler for the beer we’re taking and the fish we’re bringing home. Where are we gonna go? Someone knows—they’ve been there before. They’ll navigate us safely there. Out on the water, look out for the right conditions…hopefully someone of the group knows what to look for. Ideally everyone does, but maybe some are still learning.

Getting ready is important. If you don’t have what you need (Bait, nets, mosquito repellent, beer) this will not be a good experience, you will not be able to do what you came to do. If we as St. Augustine’s do not have what we need (prayer, worship, Scripture, service to the community) in order to do the work, we will “miss the boat”—figuratively and perhaps more profoundly than that.

Last weekend the vestry of St. Augustine’s went on a retreat together. “Vestry Lock-In” as someone called it later. We were at a place where none of the vestry had ever been before, down in south Georgia on the marshy area behind the barrier islands. A holy place, a treasure of the diocese of Georgia. A place where fish leap out of the water during the Sunday Eucharist; where wild herons settle in the marshes and sing with the angelic choirs. We went there to get to know each other, and to learn some skills, and to get ready to go fishing.

Come, follow me, Jesus invites Peter and John, Andrew and James. And us, each one and all together. Come and let me show you how it’s done. Healing the sick, and casting out the powers of darkness, and teaching and telling folks “Something amazing is here—come and see. Open your eyes, turn around, heads up!” See what is already before you; welcome what has already arrived.

All Saints Sunday, Year C, 7 November 2010

2010-11-08T11:48:00.000-05:00

Daniel 7:1-3, 15-18; Psalm 149; Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-31
Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

From the letter of Paul to the Romans:
“To all God’s beloved in Rome, who are called to be saints: Grace to you, and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.” (Romans 1:7)

From the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians:
“To the church of God that is at Corinth, to those who are sanctified in Christ Jesus, called to be saints…Grace to you, and peace, from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.” (1 Corinthians 1:2)

From the letter to the Philippians:
“To all the saints in Christ Jesus who are in Philippi, with the overseers and the helpers: Grace to you and peace…”(Phil. 1:1-2)

Anyone notice a theme going on here?

All these letters and many others in the Christian scriptures open with a greeting directed to “The saints who are at…” this or that place. Today we celebrate the feast of All Saints, one of the principal feast days of the Church—a day that is so important that it can “take over” the Sunday following its proper date of November 1st.

All of which raises a question. What does it mean, to be a saint? Who gets the title?

As shown above, it’s a common form of address in Paul’s writing. The phrase is literally “The holy ones”, and is related to the same root word from which we get words like sanctify and sanctity. All of which point back to the original meaning, which has nothing to do with morality or a particular sort of behavior as such, but rather with being set apart. Chosen and designated for a particular purpose by God—and decidedly “different” in many cases. To be holy is to be distinctly Other-than-ordinary. Unusual. Even a bit odd. Or a lot.

The truth shall make you free, one of my professors used to say, paraphrasing the gospel of John. But first it shall make you STRANGE.

In a few moments we will sing the song of ultimate strangeness, ultimate otherness, ultimate out-of-the-ordinary. Not once, but three times: “Holy! Holy! Holy! is the Lord, the God of hosts.” We might well rethink those words: Other! Other! Other! Not like this, not like that, not like anything we can imagine or envision. God is always and forever, More Than.

God’s chosen ones, God’s set-apart-for-a-purpose ones, God’s particular, peculiar ones: The saints.

I grew up in the evangelical Bible-belt culture of southeast Texas. The saints, insofar as I ever gave them much thought at all, were long ago and far away in Bible times, or they were a somewhat dubious devotional practice of my Roman Catholic neighbors and school friends. Kind of like Mary—who got unwrapped, along with the strings of lights and glass baubles and green scratchy garlands around the first of December—and then around the first of January disappeared again for the rest of the year. I had to discover a little more about life, and about the mystery of God active in my own life, before I could reimagine what a saint might look like.

A story is told of a Sunday School class where the teacher asked “Who is a saint?” One of the children, remembering the stained glass windows in the church, replied “A saint is a person with the light shining through them.”

A person with the light shining through them. The colored glass of the image itself may be dusty, or cracked, or flawed in all sorts of ways; but the light shines through anyway.

The second letter to Timothy says that “In a large house there are utensils not only of gold and silver but also of wood and clay, some for special use, some for ordinary use.” (2 Tim. 2:20) Some vessels of gold or silver, or pottery or glass, or wood…all with a purpose, all with a designated use.

Who are your saints? Who have been the people in your life “through whom the light has shined?” Who have been the vessels of God’s grace and love and mercy to you, when you were in need of those gifts?

We have built a place of remembrance for those people, an All Souls altar, in the narthex of the church this morning. You have brought pictures and objects of remembrance to share those stories, and I hope that you will take time during coffee hour to tell each other about our own saints.

Many years ago, a young mother wanted to teach her children about the saints. So she began to think of some of the big names: St. Luke the physician, the writer of the Gospel; Margaret of Scotland, who built hospitals and churches and encouraged the clergy to preach better sermons; Joan of Arc, who left her farm and village and challenged the crown prince of France to drive the English soldiers out of his country. And that young mother sat down and wrote a poem about the saints. She never intended to publish that poem, or that anyone outside of her family would ever hear it. These are the words she wrote:

I sing a song of the saints of God, patient and brave and true;
Who toiled and fought and lived and died for the Lord they loved and knew.
And one was a doctor, and one was a queen,
and one was a shepherdess on the green;
They were all of them saints of God, and I mean, God helping, to be one too.

We’ll sing those words in a few minutes. They have become one of the most beloved hymn texts in the Episcopal Church, and with good reason. Lesbia Scott wrote them to be easily understood, an explanation of the words of the Creed: “I believe…in the communion of the saints.” The words of the last verse move the singers out of the long-ago and far-away, into here and now:

They lived not only in ages past; there are hundreds of thousands still.
The world is bright with the joyous saints who love to do Jesus’ will.
You can meet them in school, on the street, out at sea;
In church, on the bus, at the store, on TV;
(Okay, yes, I changed those last two lines up a bit…)
For the saints of God are just folk like me, and I mean to be one too.

The saints—the holy ones, the set-apart ones who have been God’s vessels of grace and mercy—the sometimes cracked, dingy, spider-web-covered ones through whom the light has shone in spite of their flaws—are all around us. What we look for, we will see; what we seek, we will find.

And so my dears, this week look for the light shining around you. Look for the light of God in the world, even and especially in the most unlikely people and places. And when you find it, put yourself in front of it. Open up to let it shine in, and through, you.

Amen.

23 Pentecost, Year C, October 31, 2010

2010-11-01T09:39:00.001-04:00

Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4; Psalm 119:137-144, 2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12;
Luke 19:1-10
Today, Salvation Has Come preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, "Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today." So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. All who saw it began to grumble and said, "He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner." Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, "Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much." Then Jesus said to him, "Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost."

Much of my ministry so far has been some form of “talking people down out of trees.” You know what I mean? Someone will come into my office or call me on the phone and be completely in a fizz about something or another—maybe they’ve gotten really bad news that day. Or maybe they’re angry with someone else, so angry that they can’t speak to that person without yelling and ranting and raving. Maybe they’re sad and upset about a situation they can’t control or fix or influence…the reasons are infinite. I find myself with them, sitting and listening as hard as I can. Just being with them—sitting and hearing what they need to say.

Eventually the flood of words slows down to a stream…then a trickle…then finally silence. And then—only then—I look over and ask, “Would you like to come down out of the tree now?”

Nothing outwardly has changed, the situation is still whatever it was in the first place. But inwardly they have already “come down out of the tree” and are perhaps ready to get back on the road. Maybe they remembered there is something they can do, some word they can say, some gift they can bring. But in any case, they’ve discovered that they themselves have changed in the encounter, in the conversation.

Conversation—talking—and conversion—turning around—are from the same root word, which has to do with change. See the thing anew; change your mind; go in another direction; remember what you are intending and pursue it. Come down from there, get your feet on the ground again.

Zacchaeus is, literally and figuratively, up a tree this morning. He’s worked himself into quite a fizz indeed trying to see Jesus, “to see who Jesus was.” We know that Zaccheus is a chief tax collector, and that he was rich. We heard last week about another tax collector, or as I described him: Extortionist Goon. The neighbors feared him and hid their children when he passed by; he was in cahoots with the occupying Roman military and political system, he could get away with almost anything. Clearly one of the bad guys, outside all bounds of decency and acceptable social acquaintance.

And he wants to see who Jesus is. I wonder…how did he know about Jesus in the first place?

Maybe there had been a conversation. Maybe Zacchaeus overheard someone else—some of his own servants or entourage—talking about this rabbi from Nazareth who healed the sick and fed the hungry, who had a reputation for hanging out with the wrong kind of people and telling wild upside-down stories about tax collectors and Pharisees. Clearly the word had gotten around, because this crowd has gathered to meet Jesus on his way through town, and Zacchaeus can’t see what’s going on.

He could have easily gotten one of his entourage to break through the crowd for him. Sent one of the under-goons to knock some people out of the way—but he does not do that. Instead he does something altogether different, something humiliating to his own dignity, something a child would do. He runs ahead of the parade, and climbs a tree at the side of the road.

Jesus comes along, surrounded by the crowd, everyone talking at once. He looks up, and sees—and everyone else in the crowd sees as well—Zacchaeus hanging from a branch over the roadway.

I mean, really!

Zacchaeus, the chief tax collector of the district, the baddest bad guy in town, hanging over the path, with his robe hitched up around his knees, hat knocked half-off to one side…they could hardly stifle the giggles, not daring to openly guffaw, but what else could you do?

And in the midst of all this commotion, Jesus stands looking up. Gazing at a man hanging from a tree, the object of laughter and derision by the crowd. He sees Zaccheus there, really sees him. He stands, not saying one single word. And when the laughter stops, he speaks so that everyone can hear.

Zacchaeus—come down ! Hurry, do not delay, for I must stay at your house today.

What did he say? He’s going to stay at HIS house? Surely not—of all people, can you imagine, I never heard of such a thing, what could he be thinking…chatter chatter chatter, pick-a-little-talk-a-little, cheep cheep cheep…

And so they arrive—Jesus, Zacchaeus and this entire entourage of people, sweeping up to Zacchaeus’ front gate. Poor Mrs. Zacchaeus, whose daily routine has just completely been thrown for a loop, looks with dismay at this enormous lunch crowd. Signaling the cook to put some more water in the soup and mentally counting the extra vessels of wine in the storeroom, she comes to greet the guests.

Zacchaeus stands there, and says to Jesus—with everyone in the crowd overhearing every word—“Look, half of everything I own, I will give away; if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.”

“IF I have defrauded” indeed! They all know who he is. Everyone within earshot has been affected, one way or another, by his defrauding others—the neighbors who were victimized; the members of his own household, servants and syncophants and all who benefitted from his shady doings.

It’s not just Zacchaeus’ own decision, you see. Everyone else has a stake in this too. What he does, or does not do, affects many people besides himself. Some who had been struggling and suffering will be relieved; others who have been important and well-off because of his patronage will have to adjust their own expectations. We heard this all the way back at the beginning of Luke’s gospel, in the song of Mary:

God has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.

The grammar of the statement is worth noting. Our translation renders it as a future action: “I WILL give back, I WILL repay four-fold.” But it’s actually not even that far in the future—it might be rendered just as rightly “Even now, see, I am giving back…I am repaying even now…” Did he take out his moneybag and start handing out funds right then and there? Can’t tell…the story doesn’t say.

Jesus approves Zacchaeus’ action, but more than that, he approves Zacchaeus. “Today salvation has come to this house, because he, too, is a son of Abraham.” Today salvation has come--not in some distant, future, life-after-death understanding, but now, even now, this day, this moment—the mysterious power of God arrives, to take and bless and gather and restore a broken life into something new, something it had not been before.

For the writer of Luke’s gospel, the use of possessions—wealth—the Stuff, matters enormously. As does the gathering in of those who were outsiders and strangers, the feared and mistrusted ones. Them People.

We’re on the verge of election day, as you have perhaps noticed. The ads are flying thick and fast, with seemingly little regard on either side for careful thought or conversation. The general intention is to get as many voters as possible well and truly “in a fizz, up in a tree.” One of the favorite tools toward this end is fear—fear of “them people”, whether that means out-of-touch leaders in the state house or out-of-sight strangers who want to take over and ruin everything for “US.” Whoever “US” might be imagined to include—it certainly requires someone to be “not US.” Them people, again.

Jesus confronts this notion this morning. In the presence of people on both sides—those who have been victims of an deeply unjust system, and those who have benefitted from it—he welcomes even the man who stood at the heart of it all. He tells him who he is—a son of Abraham, one of the people of God, no questions asked. And Zacchaeus, for his part, begins something new altogether. His hands and heart are open to give; in the same instant, they are open to receive.

Today salvation has come, because today he gives and shares?
Or, today he gives and shares, because today salvation has come?

Yes. Exactly. That’s just it.
May it be so for us; may it be so among us.

22 Pentecost, Year C, 24 October 2010

2010-10-26T08:53:00.002-04:00

Preached by Rev. Jason Haddox
Joel 2:23-32; Psalm 65; 2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18;Luke 18:9-14

Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, `God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.' But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, `God, be merciful to me, a sinner!' I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted."

Jesus and his followers are getting close to Jerusalem. They’ve been on the road for a long time, and they can almost see the temple mount in the distance. Time is running out; they know what’s going to happen when they get there.

What they don’t want to talk about—nor do we—is that death awaits. The world as they have known it will come to an end. Jesus has been very clear with them that he is on the way to his final departure, his “exodus” as it was called earlier in the gospel, and like the Exodus in the earlier history of Israel, this crossing over will lead his followers into a new life they cannot yet imagine.

Jesus has been teaching them about the Kingdom of God all this time. This strange kingdom is like no other kingdom they—or we—have ever known. It is not about power or prestige; it is not about dominating other people or remaining dignified and aloof. Quite the opposite.

Jesus tells a parable this morning about two men, praying in the temple. One man is clearly the good guy: He does all the right things; he observes the rituals of his religious tradition; he gives ten percent of his income (that’s before taxes, by the way) to the priests. We would like him. This is someone we would welcome with open arms into our congregation, and probably send his name to Bill Mccuch as a potential vestry member.

The other man is a T-total mess. Our translation has “tax collector” but the term “extortionist goon” might be a more dynamic image. This is someone who has sold out to the occupying Roman political system, and is shaking his own people down for everything he can get out of them. He has grown rich by the exploitation of others; his own mother and brothers cross the street to avoid him; he is corrupt to the core.

And there they are, both of them together in the temple. Why they are there—who knows? The good guy would probably be there anyway, he was certainly one of the regulars. Maybe he was serving as the Vestryperson on duty that morning. Tony Soprano over in the corner there hasn’t darkened the door of the place in years…not even at the high feasts.

The good guy is thanking God for…well, for being himself. And that’s not a bad thing to be grateful for. But he’s more than a little impressed with his own good-doing, you’ll notice. “Thank you that I’m not like ‘them people’”. Especially THAT guy over there… And Jesus’ hearers would agree, that being THAT GUY would be a terrible thing.

Meanwhile Tony in the corner—for whatever reason he even showed up that day—looks down at his shoes. Won’t even lift his face to see the other people in the room. “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” He knows who he is, that he is NOT one of the good guys, that he does NOT have his life together in any ordinary sense of the term, that he is totally outside the boundaries. Definitely and assuredly one of “Them People.” Completely and Wholly Other.

This one, Jesus says, went home justified before God. He knew he needed mercy, and he asked for it, and God gave it.

Justified and justification are some of those churchy words that have picked up a lot of associations over the years. But I want you to think for a second in a slightly different context. As I write the words to this sermon, I can decide how I want the printed page to look. I can, with a couple of keystrokes, cause the words of the paragraph to line up vertically on the left, or on the right, or both at the same time. I tell the computer: “Justify the text”—that is, set the words in a particular relationship with one another. The words themselves—black dots on a white screen—have no agency in the situation, I can do with them whatever I like.

God’s justification—sometimes called “rightwising,” setting in right relationship, putting back in order—is frequently unlike our notions of such things. We want an apology when we have been wronged; we want to see the guilty punished and the innocent vindicated; we demand to see suffering visited on those who have caused suffering. (“O daughter of Babylon”, Psalm 137 again…) But this is not what Jesus is up to; not today, not on the cross of Calvary. (My ways are not your ways; nor are my thoughts your thoughts, says the Lord. Isaiah 55:8)

Tony goes home justified before God apparently because God desires Tony, and responds in mercy to his plea. Our good guy, our friend who does all the right things and keeps himself out of trouble, whom we would far rather have as a next-door neighbor, as a colleague, as a leader in any religious community, apparently thinks that he’s got it all together. That he’s doing fine—thanks God, much appreciated—but that that’s all he needs.

“Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves, and regarded others with contempt.” One of the most common and most seductive ways of making ourselves feel better about who we are, is to calculate who’s below us in the pecking order. We’ve all seen the bumper sticker: “I may be slow, but I’m ahead of you!” But then again, we’re all behind someone too…staring at their backside, possibly tailgating a bit, or a lot. This is the calculation of the old kingdom; the power plays and one-upmanship; the endless competition and addiction to success that the world has known from the beginning.

Jesus comes, preaching and teaching; healing the sick and raising the dead; proclaiming a kingdom that is in, but not of, that world and its addiction to success. In fact, he tells his hearers, the kingdom is found in the unlikeliest places and people. Among the last, the least, the lost and the dead is God most often found—for they know they don’t have their lives together, not even in the slightest. And in losing, and getting lost, in giving up the old game and dying—not just the big final breath, but all the little deaths and losses along the way—we also have the opportunity every day to find the kingdom. To cry out, when we can’t even take our eyes off our own shoetops: God, have mercy on me, a sinner. To repent, to turn around, to return to the God of mercy and welcome and healing and forgiveness and resurrection from the dead. The dying and rising of Jesus is the pattern for our lives as Christians; day by day, minute by minute, we are invited into deeper awareness and enactment of that reality. It is not about good-doing (although that may be a by-product); it is not about one-upmanship or a kind of churchified competitiveness that is simply the same-old-same-old with a cross stuck on top of it. It is about entering into a living mystery that changes us, first and last, into the image and likeness of Christ.

In the short story Revelation, Georgia author Flannery O’Connor tells of a day in the life of Ruby Turpin, a woman who has spent most of her life quite convinced that she is on the side of the good guys. But on this particular day, that certainty is compromised. In a doctor’s office waiting room, Ruby is attacked by a young woman with the remarkable name of Mary Grace—who literally throws a book across the room at her. In the melee which follows, Mary Grace and Ruby Turpin are very close together, and Mary Grace says to her: “Go back to hell where you came from, you old wart hog.”

Ruby is stunned by this communication, and goes home and thinks about it. She demands an answer: How am I a good person, and a wart hog from hell too? At the last, she is standing out in a field, angrily yelling at God: “Who do you think you are?”

…The sun slipped behind the treeline. Mrs. Turpin remained there… At last, she lifted her head. There was only a purple streak in the sky, cutting through a field of crimson and leading, like an extension of the highway, into the descending dusk…A visionary light settled in her eyes. She saw this streak as a vast swinging bridge extending upward from the earth through a field of living fire. Upon it a vast horde of souls were rumbling toward heaven. There were whole companies of white-trash, clean for the first time in their lives, and bands of black [folk] in white robes, and battalions of freaks and lunatics shouting and clapping and leaping like frogs. And bringing up the end of the procession was a tribe of people whom she recognized at once as those who, like herself and Claud, had always had a little of everything and the God-given wit to use it right. She leaned forward to observe them closer. They were marching behind the others with great dignity, accountable as they had always been for good order and common sense and respectable behavior. They alone were [singing] on key. Yet she could see by their shocked and altered faces that even their virtues were being burned away…In a moment the vision faded but she remained where she was, immobile.
At length she got down…and made her slow way on the darkening path to the house. In the woods around her the invisible cricket choruses had struck up, but what she heard were the voices of the souls climbing upward into the starry field and shouting hallelujah.

1 "Revelation" from Flannery o'Connor: The Complete Stories,(New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux; 1971), p. 508

19 Pentecost, Year C, 3 October 2010

2010-10-18T09:53:00.000-04:00

Lamentations 1:1-6; Psalm 137; 2 Timothy 1:1-14; Luke 17:1-10
The Waters of Remembrance, preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

“By the waters of Babylon, we sat down and wept, when we remembered you, O Zion.”

The people of God are in exile, carried away as prisoners of war from their homes, their very lives, everything they have known. They have seen their houses destroyed; they have seen the city, the temple, in ruins; they have seen it all. They are on the verge of forgetting who they are: If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its skill/Let my tongue adhere to the roof of my mouth.” The singer, the musician, pleads to be rendered mute and silent, in the face of this tragedy. “How CAN we sing the songs of God, away from God’s house, away from our own home?”

They have seen what no one should ever, ever, ever have to see. And in remembering that sight, their sadness turns to rage. To anger. To a call for vengeance.

“Oh Daughter of Babylon…happy the one who takes your children and dashes them against the rocks!”

They have seen what no parent should ever, ever, ever have to see. And we see their anger, their rage—which we do not want to see, or hear, or experience. Because it makes us too uncomfortable.

Until the current revision of the Sunday lectionary, whenever this psalm was appointed for public worship, it cut off after the sixth verse. Sadness—that was more or less okay. Anger, rage, fury…we can’t talk about that here. Not in church. Not where we’re supposed to all be nice, all the time.

I have two words for that. One is Bull. The other sounds like Spit. Which is what I sometimes want to do, when I see or hear things that no one should see or hear. If we cannot tell the truth here, in the assembly of the baptized, in the presence of God “to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid” then what exactly is the point of all this?

We get angry. We feel rage. We long to see vengeance visited on those who have wronged us, or have violated those whom we love. Think of 9-11. Where were you, when you heard the first news that morning? And felt all the shock, and grief, and heart-stopping fear…all that at first, and later the other.

It’s not pretty, and it’s not easy, and it’s not nice. But it is real. We did, and we do, feel all these things at times. And the psalms, more than any other book of the Bible, deal with that reality. Never more so than in this passage this morning.

This is the voice of a parent—a mother, a father—who has witnessed something unspeakable. And yet they must speak now, even as they struggle for the words. The words come forth unbidden, even unwanted…but fierce and raw and searing in their power.

Two Saturdays ago I went to Savannah, to attend a training for clergy and church staff and volunteers, called Safeguarding God’s Children. This is a nation-wide program of the Episcopal Church intended to make churches and church workers aware of, and attentive to, the issues of sexual misconduct and abuse of “the little ones.” The statistics are horrifying: one out of every four women, and one out of every five men, has been a victim of such abuse by the age of eighteen. Over sixty percent of these acts are performed by people who are known to the families: friends, community leaders, authority figures of some kind. I saw, on the video interviews with the victims and their families, the same sorrow and grief and anger of which the psalmist sings.

I heard stories that turned my blood to icewater. Stories of experiences that no one—especially a child, one of the little ones Jesus speaks of—should ever, ever, ever have to go through. And the common theme through all of these, articulated by the victims, by the parents and families, by the community leaders of church and school and social agency, was always: We should have talked about this before it happened. We should have told someone what we saw. We should have said something.

Silence can be golden—but it can be deadly as well.

The reason for this Safeguarding God’s Children training, is to open the conversation at all levels—the local parish church, and in and around family tables, and at the diocesan and national levels too. To go ahead and Say Something while there is time—not to create fear and anxiety, but to build strong boundaries in our churches. To let our communities of faith know “This is a safe place for everyone.” And to let anyone who might have mischief on their minds know “This place is too difficult for you—you won’t get the silence and secrecy you need—move along!”

We may not be able to change national statistics. But we can change what we do, here at home, about keeping our life together as safe, and honest, and transparent as possible. And please understand—I am not suggesting that “we have a problem” here at St. Augustine’s. But I want to see that we don’t. So here’s my pledge to you, as your priest in charge:

• We will watch over each other, and speak up if we see or hear something inappropriate or even just a bit “off”;
• We will observe appropriate boundaries, honoring one another physically and emotionally, while continuing to love and care for one another;
• We will make this place a safe place for all people, as we seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves and as we respect the dignity of every human being.

In your bulletin this morning there is an insert, with some information about these things. Phone numbers, and contact data. Please take it with you when you leave church. Put it somewhere visible—on the refrigerator or your dresser mirror. Know that if you call one of those phone numbers, you may do so with complete anonymity. You don’t have to “get involved” beyond that. The people trained in these matters will do the work that may need to be done.

If you have a story to tell, and would like to tell it, I want you to call me. Or email me…I will be the only one who hears or reads what you have to say. We can meet here at church, or go to lunch, or find a time and place that is agreeable. But part of this whole process of getting real, is getting the stories out there. Not for general examination and discussion and dissection—but so that healing can happen. So that those feelings of sadness and grief and anger and hurt and all of it, can be released, to burden you no longer.

When Jesus addresses his friends this morning in the gospel lesson, he’s talking to the inner circle—the leadership. Remember that the gospels are not eyewitness accounts of the events they describe, but rather are written down quite some time later. So it’s just possible that Jesus, as Luke tells the story, is addressing the leadership of a second or even third generation of church authorities. “Don’t think that YOU all are the masters of all this, folks. You are here to serve those who are in your care—the little ones. The vulnerable ones. The ones to whom the Kingdom of God belongs…God’s kingdom and power and authority are not your possessions to hold onto. And they are certainly not to be used against the little ones. Anyone who abuses their power like that is better off with cinderblocks on their feet, in the middle of the Savannah river.”

The letter to Timothy takes this theme as well. The language of being “the prisoner of the Lord” is similar to Jesus’ language of slaves and service. Jesus and his friends and contemporaries knew that the world they lived in was hierarchical—that everyone was under the supervision and authority of someone else. Maybe another person, but even more likely a power or energy or spirit that was entirely nonhuman. (We don’t like that idea, we rugged individualists. Independence, free agency—that’s our preferred mode of operation.) But the fact is, we’re all somewhere in the pyramid. We’re all under the authority, and the influence, of someone—in fact, many someones—other than ourselves.

To be “in Christ” as we read this morning, is to place ourselves under Christ’s authority and protection and leadership. The one who is “in Christ” has become a servant in the household of God. We who are in Christ will deliberately, intentionally, and continually reject all those false gods and promises which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God. We will “repent and return to the Lord” (Metanoia again, you remember that word) when we fall into sin.

You may have noticed I’m quoting the baptismal covenant quite a bit. I hope you did—because I meant that you should. These words are words of transformation for us, who claim Christ as Lord and Savior (yes, even in the Episcopal Church!); they are for us a symbol of our identity. They are the articulated reminders of “our highest joy”, our Jerusalem, our true home. They are not a talisman against bad things happening to us, they will not protect us from trouble as such. But they are who we are; they are our constitutional identity as the people of the crucified and risen Christ, in whose death and rising from death all our life, and all our death, is transformed and made new.

As you come to communion this morning, I invite you to dip your hand in the water in the font, there in the aisle. Put some on your forehead, with the sign of the cross. Remember your baptism: remember who you are, and whose you are. This is the sign, this is the mark, this is the brand by which we are known, sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked as Christ’s own for ever.

By the waters…we remembered. And we are re-membered, put back together as God’s beloved. For that is who we are, when we feel like it—and even when we don’t.

21 Pentecost, Year C, October 17, 2010

2010-10-18T09:49:00.002-04:00

Jeremiah 31:27-34; Psalm 119: 97-104; 2 Timothy 3:14-4:5; Luke 18:1-8
Justification, Redemption and the Hokey Pokey, preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

For some years now I’ve been musing on the theological implications of the Hokey Pokey. You remember the Hokey Pokey? How does it go…you put your right hand in, you put your right hand out, you put your right hand in, and you shake it all about. You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around; that’s what it’s all about.

Depending on who’s calling the song lyrics, this can go on for a LONG time. Elbows, knees, your backside, any and all body parts are eligible to be included in the dance.

I was thinking of the Hokey Pokey this week, because of all the body parts mentioned in the appointed scriptures. Jeremiah, still held captive in Jerusalem, writes to the exiles in Babylon and quotes a proverb: “The parents have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.” This seems to be another way of saying that the consequences of sin are multigenerational. But, says Jeremiah, this is about to change. “No longer shall that proverb be used…no longer shall they teach one another…but all shall know me, and all shall carry my teaching written on their hearts.” God is doing a new thing, and everyone—the tall and the small—shall be restored.

To carry God’s teaching written on the heart is not merely a mental exercise. For the people of Jeremiah’s time, and Jesus’s followers as well, the heart was the seat of the will and the intention. The whole self was symbolized by the heart—the emotional center was located further south, in the bowels. (Charles Wesley, the famous 18th century hymn writer, used that imagery when he wrote a lyric addressing God’s kindness: “To me, to all, thy bowels move.” We don’t sing that anymore. For good reason.)

Lift up your hearts! I will bid you in a few minutes. We lift them to the Lord! you will answer back. There too, the heart represents all that we are, our totality as individuals and as a community. Not just our emotional state at the moment.

When the psalmist sings this morning “How sweet are your words to my taste! They are sweeter than honey to my mouth” he is using a metaphor (the mouth, eating, as the “consuming” of God’s teaching ) describing the antidote to that nerve-jangling sour experience Jeremiah mentions, of the children’s teeth set on edge. He describes his own behavior: “I restrain my feet from every evil way/ that I may keep your word.”

And yet in the second letter to Timothy we hear of feet that go wandering away to strange teachings. We hear of “itching ears” that want to hear comfortable and easy and soothing words, rather than the message that God intends to send. Never mind them Timothy; you have your work before you. And you have the tools with which to do it—from childhood, when Mother and Grandmother told you the stories of faith and prepared you for this ministry which you now have taken on. Never mind the scoffers; you know what to do. You know the message you are bringing.

Jesus and his friends are walking the way to Jerusalem. Their feet, and their hearts, are pointed in a particular direction. And it’s getting a little bit scary—they know it’s not going to be easy. Jesus tells them a parable which, Luke says, is “about their need to pray always and not lose heart.” But I’m not sure that’s really what it’s about at all. The story of the unjust judge, as it’s often called, is troublesome—mostly because it makes us reevaluate who we think God is. The language of judges and judgment is alarming to many of us, because we’ve been taught to believe, in our heart of hearts, that for whatever reason we’re going to come up short. That we are lacking something, somehow. That we are not good enough.

This judge in the story is apparently not very good either—he would be properly disbarred by the Jerusalem judicial review board. At the least, we know he’s not interested in proving himself to anyone—God or humanity. But he is an important person in the culture. Some Body.

A widow comes to him. We’ve been talking about Bodies—and here is the No Body to beat all. No husband, no children, no means of support…she is as good as dead in that time and place. She’s not quite as far over the edge as the ten lepers in Samaria, but pretty close. And she keeps bugging him, day in and day out. Give me a favorable ruling against my adversary.

She has no merit to her case, no real grounds for action—and the judge first refuses to have anything to do with it. But finally he’s so tired of listening to her, he throws up his hands and says “Okay, enough, you win!” I will give you justice—actually, I will JUSTIFY YOU—before your adversaries.

I will justify you. You have no merit to your case, you’re wearing me out talking, you’re as good as dead—I will justify you. The unjust judge doesn’t care to be known for his fairness in making judgments—he gives justification even to the unworthy, the frivolous, and the dead. He is indiscriminate in his awarding vindication to those who do not deserve it in the slightest.

Jesus is on his way to the cross. To the place of death, and destruction, and the loss of everything—and there he will justify us all. The tall and the small, the great and the miniscule, and especially the least, the last, the lost and the dead. Regardless of merit, regardless of deserving: his unjust death in a place of degradation and rejection will become the instrument of justification—rightwising, the restoration of right relationship—for all of us.

At the end of the Hokey Pokey, however long it has gone on, and however many strange body parts have been involved, the final verse of the song calls the dancers to “put your whole self in, and shake it all about, and turn yourself around…” All the testing and trying and half-attempts now come together—everyone in, all that you have to bring, now. Heart and mind and soul and body. Jesus comes to the cross in the fullness of his own self, and in that fullness he redeems the fullness of all that we are, or were, or ever will be. And it is this faithfulness—not our own belief, much or little as it may be—this faithfulness of Jesus, even unto death, to which we look in hope, at the coming of the Son of Man on the day of judgment and grace.

18 Pentecost, Year C, September 26, 2010

2010-09-29T14:49:00.000-04:00

Jeremiah 32:1-3a; Psalm 91:1-6, 14-16; 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31
There’s Always More , preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

A great writer, or painter, or composer always creates more than he or she knows at the time. That’s why certain literature and paintings and music are great—there’s always more to learn, each time you hear that music or see that painting or read that story. There’s always more there to discover, the next time and the next.

In our gospel this morning, Jesus has been teaching and preaching and getting a lot of attention, and some of it decidedly negative. The Pharisees and the scribes are eavesdropping on him, as he tells his close friends the story about the Shrewd Steward (our Gospel lesson from last week) and how they also should be a bit street-smart about dealing with “The Stuff”—the possessions, the wealth, the skills they have been given, for the good of God’s kingdom.

A verse we did not read this morning, tells us that the Pharisees and scribes were “lovers of money.” This is a useful accusation if you’re intending to do a little character assassination—in Jesus’ time and in our own. The author of Luke is setting up a distinction, between those who hear Jesus’ message and follow him—which includes being generous with the Stuff—and those who do not follow, but cling tightly to their Stuff.

Jesus tells the parable of The Rich Man and Lazarus. The rich man lived in luxury. Not just “well off”, this guy is LOADED. Purple cloth and linen signify the highest ranks of a hierarchical society; “feasted sumptuously every day” is the language of a celebration or a banquet—not just on Thanksgiving or a birthday or special occasion, but every day.

Lazarus was there at his gate, every day. In the Mediterranean world, to this day, houses are built with walls facing the street, enclosing the courtyard and then the living quarters beyond. The only way in, and the only way out, is through the gated doorway leading to and from the street. Lazarus was there, every day, as the rich man came in and out, going about his business.

Jesus’ hearers would have accepted as common sense the idea that material wealth and physical health were signs of God’s blessing and favor upon those who deserved it; likewise that poverty, disaster and disease were indicators of God’s disfavor or condemnation. Someone—either Lazarus himself or his parents—probably committed some grievous sin that brought down God’s punishment, in the form of this sickness, these sores and oozing wounds. We’re not so far from Lazarus and the rich man sometimes, in thinking such thoughts ourselves.

Both the rich man and Lazarus die and are buried, and here the story takes a turn. Instead of being rewarded with continued blessing and approval, the rich man finds himself in Sheol. (This is not “Hell” by the way, most of our ideas of which come not from Scripture at all, but from a remarkable work of medieval science-fiction by the poet Dante Alegheri, the Divine Comedy.) Nevertheless, the rich man expected to be received into the place of refreshment and welcome (and why not—he always had been treated so before?) and is surprised to discover Lazarus in that place instead, and himself somewhere else entirely.

He calls across to Father Abraham. “Send Lazarus over here to bring me a drink of water.” Not even Please, mind you. “Come heah, boy…” It’s very Thurston Howell the Third of him, you know? This is the first time he’s actually noticed Lazarus, after stepping over him in the threshold for years. He was never mean to Lazarus; he never threatened to call the authorities or tried to run him off…he just ignored him. He ignored the fact that there was a human being in need at his own front door.

“Child,” says Father Abraham, “Remember that in your lifetime you received all the good things.” If we are listening carefully, we hear in that response an echo from Jesus’ teaching at the beginning of Luke’s gospel, in the Sermon on the Plain.

“Woe to you who are rich now, for you have received your consolation.” (Luke 6:24)
You’ve got the Stuff—that may be all you’re going to get. Now or later.

But then Jesus continues, later in the same passage:
“Love your enemies, do good and lend, expecting nothing in return. Your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High, for he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked. Be merciful, as your Father is merciful.” (Luke 6:35-36) Another translation has it as “Be Generous, as your Father is generous.”

“Father Abraham!” the rich man cries. And he has the right to call, he too is of the lineage of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, a descendant of the family of Israel. But that’s not enough, Jesus says to his hearers. Family heritage is all very well, but what are you doing with that heritage? How are you living up to those ideals? You call yourself a child of Abraham, one of the chosen people of God—are you doing what God’s children do?

We call ourselves Christians, followers of Jesus Christ. Are we doing what Jesus’ followers do?

Yes, at least sometimes we do. Sometimes we manage (even perhaps in spite of ourselves) to see what is right under our noses, at our own front doors.

This past week, “Joe” called the church office from Doctor’s Hospital. He was asking for a visit, and the prayers and anointing for healing. He is not a member of our congregation; he was on his way home to New York, after having gone to Florida for cancer treatment, when he took sick and had to go to the emergency room. Joe was one of the first responders on 9-11 in lower Manhattan, and his lungs are now full of asbestos.

Before I could go over to Doctor’s Hospital and visit him, Joe was released. He walked all the way to St. Augustine’s, with surgical stitches in his stomach, and was waiting in the office when I got out of a meeting. We went into my office and talked; we went into church and prayed; I gave him communion and the anointing he had asked for.

He had arranged transportation to New York the next day, but had no place to spend the night. So we made arrangements for a hotel room, and I took him to Target for a few necessaries—clean underwear and toothpaste.

I don’t know if everything he told me was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And guess what? It doesn’t matter anyway. “Be generous, as God himself is generous…” And your generosity, as the people of St. Augustine’s, made it possible for us to help this man.

I saw the church in action that day. Feeding the hungry and clothing the naked and sheltering the homeless, visiting the sick and helping the dying to die with dignity. The corporal acts of mercy in our stained glass windows came down and took on flesh and bone and blood that day. We saw a need, we used our Stuff to help meet that need.

I tell you, my friends: It is as much wickedness to ignore or neglect someone—especially someone that vulnerable—as to slap them in the face or beat them with a stick.

But this parable of Lazarus and the rich man is a great story, because there is more to it than just “Take care of people,” important as that is. The last line gives us the clue: “…neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.” As Christians we can’t hear those words and not have our ears perk up. Who is this Jesus is talking about? Yes, well…

Around the year 1515, an artist known to us as Matthias Grunewald created a series of paintings for a hospital chapel in modern-day France. The monks of this monastery hospital were famous for treating skin diseases, and when Grunewald painted the scene of Jesus on the cross, he inflicted the symptoms of those diseases onto Jesus. The muscles are knotted in spasm, the skin is blotched and broken and sticky with dried blood and oozing wounds—it is NOT a pretty picture. But it is a picture of reality, in that place. The patients of the hospital, looking at that painting in their chapel, saw Jesus looking like themselves. They saw themselves looking like him.

Jesus comes to us as Lazarus himself—in the little ones, in the lost ones, in the sick and the dying and the dead ones. For only in this can resurrection come; only in this can one discover “The Lord is risen indeed” and enter that repentance, that change of mind and heart, that even the Rich Man in his foolishness and vanity, asks for this morning.

May it be so with us; may it be so among us.

17 Pentecost, Year C, September 19, 2010

2010-09-29T14:47:00.000-04:00

Jeremiah 8:18 – 9:1; Psalm 79:1-9 1 Timothy 2:1-7; Luke 16: 1-13
About the Stuff, preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

One hundred and fifty.

That’s how many boxes of books were carried into my house by the moving company eighteen days ago. That’s just books, mind you. One hundred and fifty banker’s boxes worth.

Is that nuts or what? I mean, really…

Too much stuff!

There are a half dozen reality television shows on the air right now—some in the home improvement genre, others more in the style of a documentary, all dealing with the same subject: People whose “stuff” has gotten out of control, and is compromising their quality of life or even putting them in physical danger. Too much stuff—no place to put it, no way to keep it organized, it’s taking over!

Jesus is talking to his followers this morning about “stuff.” And how it can be used, or abused, or even deadly.

He’s telling them a remarkable story, sometimes called “The Unfaithful Steward.” The rich landowner discovers that his property manager has been up to no good, or at least he suspects as much. He doesn’t fire him on the spot—but he asks him to produce the accounts for a review, prior to his dismissal.

This manager sees what’s about to happen, and starts making his own arrangements. He calls in everyone on his master’s accounts receivable list, and invites them to rewrite their respective bills. The idea is that, when he is dismissed from his master’s service, all these people to whom he has given a bargain rate, will in turn help him out as occasion may arise.

Here’s the twist: Jesus tells his hearers that “the master commended the dishonest manager—because he had acted shrewdly.” Not for his ethics, but for his street smarts.

Oceans of ink have been spilled over this story, with commentators through the centuries tying themselves into knots trying to square the circle. The problem seems to be that God (signified by the master in the story) is giving the wink to some decidedly shady business practices.

But I think we’ve got to read this parable as more than a fable or a morality tale. Actually, we have to read ALL Jesus’ parables that way, but often we don’t because they’ve become such commonplaces, all the shock value has worn off. Not with this one!

Jesus has just finished telling the crowds three parables about Lost and Found, and the One who seeks and finds. The lost sheep, the lost coin, and the lost child (a.k.a. the Prodigal Son.) These parables are actually more about God’s activity, in seeking the lost ones, than anything else. And now Jesus turns to his close friends, his inner circle, and tells this parable of the Steward, who is in trouble specifically for “squandering his master’s property.” (16:1) The Steward has been doing exactly the same thing that the Prodigal Son was doing, just a few verses earlier, when he takes his portion of the father’s estate “…to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living.” (15:13)

When the steward is caught in this squandering behavior, what does he do? Does he stop doing it, try to collect the debts and balance the books? He does not.

He keeps on squandering—even more than before. He “gives away the farm” or at least a considerable percentage of it, to those who will benefit directly from his actions.

I think Jesus may be telling this story at least in part for the shock value of it. He’s already told the religious leaders in earshot to get over themselves about feeling wronged because “them people” are being welcomed into God’s household; I wonder if he’s not compounding the effect by this story. “You think that last story was extravagant? Just listen to this!”

The writer of the Gospel of Luke (and the Book of Acts, which is Volume 2 of the story) is concerned with a few major themes, two of which are significant in this passage.

Theme 1) The surprising visitation of the Lord, which comes unexpectedly and turns everything upside down.
Theme 2) The use of possessions, wealth. “Stuff.”

When the Steward realizes that his Lord and master is about to visit a financial audit on him and turn HIS life upside down, he uses the possessions available to him (not really his own, however) to do something immediately beneficial to others, and only indirectly beneficial to himself. He’s not squirreling the money away in an offshore bank account—he’s handing out debt relief to those who need it!

Jesus tells this crazy story and then goes on to say a few words about “if one is faithful in small things, then so also they will be faithful in large things.” The last part of this morning’s lesson, verses 10-13, is a bit convoluted, but it moves the reader from the story Jesus has just told into the question of stewardship in general, and wealth in particular.

This phrase “dishonest wealth” in vs. 9 and again in vs. 13 at the end of this morning’s portion of the Gospel is the word Mammon. That word Mammon was understood to be a kind of personal name, the personification of money or possessions—of “the Stuff”. It stands for anything—money, possessions, personal relationships—that gets in the way of our relationship with God. So Jesus sets “the two masters”, God and Mammon, in opposition to one another. It is either this one or that one; compromise is not an option.

Jesus seems to be challenging those of us for whom “the stuff” has become our first priority to think again. To change our minds, change the direction in which we’re going. To repent, in other words. To commit an act of metanoia—you remember that word from last week. Turn around, you just missed your exit, go back and try again, please.

The Stuff is not God. Posessions, money, status, relationships with other people—as good and useful and important as all these things are—none of them will bring us the God-filled life that Jesus speaks of, when he talks about the Kingdom of God. But they are useful when we do the work of God with them. When we use what is available to us—as did the Shrewd Steward in the parable—in the service of the Kingdom of God.

We have a list of a few ways we can do that, right in front of us as we walk out of church every Sunday. It’s in the window in the vestibule, just outside those doors. The traditional corporal acts of mercy are on display, reminding us of our vocation as followers of Christ. Have you seen them there?

There are seven of them:
To feed the hungry;
To give drink to the thirsty;
To clothe the naked;
To shelter the homeless;
To visit the sick
To ransom the captives; and
To bury the dead.

Doing such things, and others like them, for the sake of people who are not part of our church family—who may be total strangers—is part of God’s invitation to us this morning. Such deeds remind us that our Stuff—however much of it we may have, a little or a lot—is God’s gift in the first place. The stuff is not ours anyway. It never was.

16 Pentecost, Year C, Sept. 12, 2010

2010-09-15T09:36:00.000-04:00

Jeremiah 4:11-12, 22-28; Psalm 14; 1 Timothy 1:12-17; Luke 15:1-10
“Them People”, preached by Rev. Jason Haddox

Jesus is in trouble. Again. For hanging out with the wrong people, and particularly for not having the good sense to know that he certainly shouldn’t have them over for dinner. Any good respectable rabbi ought to know better than to associate with “them people.”

You know “them people?” We’ve all got some. Either they’re the wrong economic status, or the wrong level of education, or the wrong ethnic ancestry, or the wrong gender, or the wrong something. The ones that we’re pretty sure are beyond God’s reach…and certainly they’re beyond our wanting to deal with them.

Jesus is getting some serious flak from the Pharisees and the scribes. And remember, the Pharisees and the scribes are NOT evil people—they’re actually trying (for the most part) to engage the people of Israel as fully as possible with the religious observance of Israel. They’re trying to get as many people as possible involved in “doing it the right way.” But part of doing it the right way—observing the behaviors of faith—meant keeping away from “them people.” The disreputable ones; the ones who were clearly beyond God’s reach.

Jesus isn’t buying it—not then, not ever. He’s just gotten through telling his hearers “Don’t be grabbing the chairs at the head table when you get invited to the country club for Sunday lunch” and “Don’t think that having a bunch of stuff is going to give you the life you’re looking for.” Status and possessions will not get you into the kingdom of Heaven…not in this life or any other. Then, or now.

And after all this he says: “Let whoever has ears to hear, listen!”

“Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him.” Them people! The very ones who, according to the social code of the time, were clearly out of the question, out of the loop, out of range for God to do anything with them at all. Unacceptable.

The fact that this accusation against Jesus (“This fellow receives sinners and eats with them”) appears in the scriptural account at all testifies to the truth of the statement. Because if I sit down to write the biography of someone I admire, I’m going to make that person look good. I might actually omit some things that would reflect badly on him or her, if I thought they weren’t very important. Jesus’ critics have a point—table fellowship with the unworthy and the outsiders is a violation of the purity codes of Judaism. These critics are not only attacking Jesus, but his followers as well. Remember that the Gospels are written several decades after the events they describe—it’s not only Jesus who’s hanging out with “them people” now, it’s those who follow him who are doing the same thing.

Jesus answers by telling three stories: The lost sheep, the lost coin, and the lost child. We hear only two of them this morning, but you’ve got to remember the third one, which is waiting just outside the picture frame.

All of these are set up as stories of repentance—“there is more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents/there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” Repent and repentance are interesting words, which Jesus uses quite a lot. As does his cousin John the Baptist; as do the prophets of Israel from of old. The Greek word is metanoia—say that with me: Metanoia. It means something like “turn around, change the direction you’re going, change the way you think about this situation.”

An act of metanoia would be required if, for instance, I took the eastbound exit off 520 when I wanted to go to Atlanta. How fast would I realize “Oh shinola, that’s not what I wanted to do!” And I very well might pop myself on the head for being a nitwit, or not paying attention. I might need to pull over and check the map, or even (heaven forbid for the male of the species) ask directions! But what I would not do—I hope—would be to sit there on the side of the road and moan and groan and carry on and feel miserable for being so dumb. I would take the next exit, turn around, and get back on the road toward my intended destination.

Metanoia—repentance—is not about feeling guilty or ashamed. It is about turning around, back toward God and God’s kingdom. Which is what Jesus is constantly pointing his hearers toward, in preaching and healing and feeding and dying and rising from the dead—it’s always, always, always about discovering and going into the kingdom of God.

But here’s the thing about these stories of metanoia, of repentance, in Luke 15.

A sheep is too dumb to repent, to turn around. I’ve never worked with sheep myself, other than in the form of lamb chops from the cold case at Kroger, but I’ve been told that they are the dumbest animals around. Any shepherd would be a fool to leave ninety-nine of them alone, wandering and unprotected to go after a single one—but this shepherd does just that. The sheep is too stupid to do anything to help itself, the shepherd does it all.

A coin cannot repent, cannot pop up and turn around and roll back out from under the bed or the chair or wherever it’s rolled off to. The woman who tears the house apart looking for this coin is doing all the work of seeking and finding and gathering the neighbors for a party—Rejoice with me, I have found… Yes, she does the finding.

The third story which we did not read, is the story of the lost child—or as we know it, The Prodigal Son. The younger of the two brothers takes his share of the family fortune, wastes it, and ends up feeding the pigs of a farmer in a distant land. Finally, at last, he sees what a mess he’s made of it all (He ‘comes to himself’ as the NRSV says) and decides to go home and ask for a job as one of his father’s day laborers. He even practices the little speech he will give when he arrives, so that he’ll know what to say.

Meanwhile the father, who has been standing out in the road, waiting for him every day since he left, sees him coming and runs to meet him. The son tries to say his little speech of humiliation and beg for mercy—and the father will not even let him finish, he’s covering his face with kisses and tears of joy. The Prodigal Father then orders a party, with feasting and dancing, which thoroughly cheeses off the elder brother who is completely put out with this attitude of welcome and acceptance. It’s not fair that someone who’s been so bad should be treated so well!

No, by the standards of the world as we normally know it, it’s not. By God’s standards—of mercy, love and grace, however…that’s another matter altogether.

These stories Jesus tells: the lost sheep, the lost coin, and the lost child, form a three-panel image called a triptych. Do you know that word, triptych? It’s like our three lancet windows at the back of the church—a large center image with two other images, one on each side, and all three of the images comment on and interact with one another. These three stories have to be held together to make sense of one another, and to begin to understand what Jesus is trying to get across to his hearers.

These stories of metanoia—repentance, turning around and returning to the Shepherd, the Coin-Hunter, the Prodigal Father—are actually less about the one who returns (the sheep, the coin, the child) and much more about the one doing the seeking and hunting and waiting. The Shepherd, the Coin-Hunter, and the Prodigal Father are all images of God, arrayed together so that “those who have ears to hear” cannot help but see and perceive and understand—and perhaps, themselves, be converted. Turned in their thinking, turned in their actions toward one another, and in particular toward “them people.”

It is not only Jesus who’s being criticized this morning for hanging out with “them people.” His followers are criticized for doing the same thing.

What would happen if St. Augustine’s Church began to get a reputation around Augusta for being the church that received sinners and ate with them? What kind of trouble would we get into? What vision of the Kingdom of God might we discover in that event?

I wonder…

15 Pentecost, Year C, September 5, 2010

2010-09-10T09:32:00.001-04:00

Jeremiah 18:1-11; Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17; Philemon 1-21; Luke 14:25-33
In Which We Say Goodbye, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

CHRISTOPHER ROBIN was going away. Nobody knew why he was going; nobody knew where he was going; indeed, nobody even knew why he knew that Christopher Robin was going away. But somehow or other everybody in the Forest felt that it was happening at last. One day when he felt that he couldn't wait any longer, Rabbit brained out a Notice, and this is what it said:

"Notice a meeting of everybody will meet at the House at Pooh Corner to pass a Rissolution By Order Keep to the Left Signed Rabbit."

He had to write this out two or three times before he could get the rissolution to look like what he thought it was going to when he began to spell it; but, when at last it was finished, he took it round to everybody and read it out to them. And they all said they would come. . . .

"The rissolution," said Rabbit, "is that we all sign it, and take it to Christopher Robin." So it was signed PooH, WOL, PIGLET, EOR, RABBIT, KANGA, BLOT, SMUDGE, and they all went off to Christopher Robin's house with it.
"Hallo, everybody," said Christopher Robin.
"What is it, Eeyore?" asked Christopher Robin.

Eeyore swished his tail from side to side, so as to encourage himself, and began. "Christopher Robin," he said, "we've come to say-to give you-it's called-written by-but we've all--because we've heard, I mean we all know--well, you see, it's--we--you--well, that, to put it as shortly as possible, is what it is."

Not quite knowing why, the others began edging away. Christopher Robin said, "Come on, Pooh," and he walked off quickly.

"Where are we going?" said Pooh, hurrying after him, and wondering whether it was to be an Explore or a What-shall-I-do-about-you-know-what.
"Nowhere," said Christopher Robin.

So they began going there, and after they had walked a little way Christopher Robin said:
"What do you like doing best in the world, Pooh?"

"What I like best in the whole world is Me and Piglet going to see You, and You saying 'What about a little something?' and Me saying,' Well, I shouldn't mind a little something, should you, Piglet,' and it being a hummy sort of day outside, and birds singing."

"I like that too," said Christopher Robin, "but what I like doing best is Nothing."

Then, suddenly again, Christopher Robin, who was Still looking at the world with his chin in his hands, called out "Pooh!" "Yes?" said Pooh.
I'm not going to do Nothing any more."
"Never again?"
"Well, not so much. They don't let you." Pooh waited for him to go on, but he was silent again.
“Yes, Christopher Robin?" said Pooh helpfully.
“Pooh, when I'm--you know--when I'm not doing Nothing, will you come up here sometimes?"
“Just Me?"
“Yes, Pooh."
"Will you be here too?"
"Yes, Pooh, I will be really. I promise I will be, Pooh."
"That's good," said Pooh.
So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.”

In this edited version of the last Chapter of House at Pooh Corner we get a powerful glimpse of the cost of growing up. Growing up means all the things Christopher Robin says it means: Things will be different; They Won’t let you; doing Nothing is no longer an option; and so on.

The real message in the midst of all this tenderness is the tough reality that everything is going to be different. Yes it is. It always is.

Things do not change; people do. The 100 Acre Wood will endure for close to forever, but the people who come out from the 100 Acre Wood will change because everything is going to be different.

We have spent almost 8 months together dedicated to the Gospel notion that everything will be different. What is nice about an interim is that we get the luxury of deluding ourselves that these changes, these differences, are temporary. They may be temporary, but only because some other change, some other difference, is going to replace them. The Gospel puts it simply: “The First shall be Last and the Last shall be first.”

Everything will be different. Everything. The Gospel is that in the midst of everything being different our relationships sustain us: the relationships with one another and our relationship with God even though these too change over time.

Now St. Augustine’s is part of our treasure chest of relationships that will sustain us into the next chapter. Should it happen that we come back in some future time, everything will be different.

So, be well good friends. God will continue to spend herself for you that your future with your new priest will flourish, change, morph and bear fruit in ways you have no idea about today.

14 Pentecost, Year C, August 29, 2010

2010-08-30T09:06:00.000-04:00

Jeremiah 2:4-13; Psalm 81:1, 10-16; Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16; Luke 14:1, 7-14
Sitting in the right place, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

It sure looks like the question of the day is “who should sit next to whom?” Mary Killen gives the following advice in April 2001 article in The Atlantic

“In sophisticated circles there is no question of seating a married couple next to each other. There is an old upper-class joke: ‘I had to marry her. It was the only way I could avoid having to sit next to her at dinner.’

Well bred women are trained to chat first with the gentleman on her left and then, during the next course, to the gentleman on her right. "If you run out of things to say, ask them if they have a dog," mother advises. "Whether the answer is yes or no, that's always good for at least five minutes' conversation." I have a friend who told me recently that a good one is “tell me about the house you grew up in.” Even the most backward conversationalist can manage that and even if they are boring, you don’t have to do the heavy lifting.

Another fixed rule is: "Always put husbands and wives out of each other's earshot; otherwise they keep correcting each other's stories. When they're too near each other, it also stops flirting, which is very important for the chemistry of a dinner party."

It is, of course, stuffy and pompous to want equal numbers of males and females. But, as I never tire of saying, even where it is highly unlikely that any romantic liaisons might spring up at your party, it is more fun if they are theoretically possible between those seated next to each other.

Seating has gotten harder these days. Guests say: "Please don't introduce us to new people—we haven't got time to process the friends we already have. If we are to meet new people, please may we sit next to someone who might be a likely marriage partner, someone famous, someone who will supply us with good anecdotal material that we can later recycle in our own conversational repertoires, or someone who will be of use to us in our careers?"

We move from upper class mores in 21st century England to first century Palestine. Jesus goes to the home of a leader of the Pharisees on the Sabbath. Everyone is watching him closely, eager as always to find fault when he makes a mistake. Jesus ventures into Martha Stewart land and dares to give lessons in etiquette right at the dinner table! Already in the first third of the first century of the Common Era guests are jostling for the prestige places at the table.

Then as now, places of honor were doled out with meticulous planning for the right effect. Then as now when someone moved a place card so they can sit with the right people significant dishonor can result. The gospel writer accuses the Pharisees, the keepers of religious propriety, with this kind of blatant social climbing.

Jesus response to this behavior is not just an etiquette lesson. Nor is he offering a Machiavellian plot on how to vault over the lower echelons of society with one hand tied behind one’s back. No, this is gospel business.

Jesus is describing how God would have it be. He wants us to know how it will be when God’s will is finally fully in place. Jesus is offering a glimpse of the great reversal of accepted values which the kingdom will bring. God is the one who invites us to the table; God is the one who assigns seating; God is the one who measures who is who and what is what. Most important, God uses standards which are different from those we would use left to our own devices.

Having dispensed with social climbing on the part of guests, Jesus starts in on what Kingdom hosting is like. As always hosting is a time for friendliness, kindness, hospitality and concern for others. A self-serving host expects some type of "return" for being nice. There are lots of strings hanging off this gift. If someone can’t be used for payback - cross ‘em off the list.

Jesus offers kingdom behavior instead. Jesus does not suggest merely providing charity for the poor, which was recognized as an honorable thing to do. Jesus pushes the acceptable norm even further: What would it be like simply to be generous for generosity’s sake? What would it be like simply to offer a gift with no expectation of any return?

A couple of years ago I met a law student from Korea. He is here in this country all by himself. He speaks quite adequate English although he struggles with our local idioms.
My heart goes out to him. I can see that this is an alien and lonely experience for him. I am not much help since I talk so fast. He tells me he only gets about one half of what I say. I have been trying to slow down for his benefit. I am aware that when I slow down I can begin to sound patronizing. All this is hard work. And yet I want to know him better. I want his experience in Athens to be more accommodating and less lonely. I am trying to figure out how to offer him hospitality in our home. Truth be told, I see a lot of myself in him.

Meeting this person feels like a gospel encounter, a gospel moment, to me. There is no social cachet involved. Oh, sure, if I manage to be genuinely hospitable I will feel good about my own generosity, but no one else will care. Jesus is offering me a friend. That is worth caring about.

13 Pentecost, Year C, August 22, 2010

2010-08-23T13:27:00.001-04:00

Jeremiah 1:4-10; Psalm 71:1-6; Hebrews 12:18-29; Luke 13:10-17
Hypocrisy: prejudice with a halo. —Ambrose Bierce, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

The senior warden and the head of the Sunday School wanted to speak with me. They had the intense looks of people on a mission. Since they were both women they didn’t have skinny black ties on, but they were on the war path.
“You know that Ron is teaching Sunday School this year.”
“Yes, I do.”
“He is teaching directly from the bible.”
“I believe he is.”
“His bible has a zipper on it.”
“I’m pretty sure I noticed that.”
“The words attributed to Jesus are written in red.”
“Somehow that does not surprise me.”
Pause.
“Well, we can’t have that.”
“Why not?”
“He is teaching a literal interpretation of the bible that hardly any of us believe in.”
“I’m pretty sure that is right. Why can’t we have it?”
“We just don’t believe in that stuff.”
“I know we don’t. How many people are in his class?
“Six.”
“How many members does this congregation have?”
“Around 800.”
“That sounds right. And what is one of the fundamental, if you will excuse the expression, fundamental values of our common life around here?”
“We really value the inclusion of a variety of people . . . .”
Their voices trailed off as they indicted themselves on their own deeply felt core values. They were wonderful people who had been willing to struggle with inclusion issues. The problem arose when inclusion needed to extend to the right, not just to the left. They also had a conversion experience. They came to believe that core values matter. They came to understand that when we make up values they will take us places we may not one to go. I also believe they found out that the unwelcome destination was of God. Ron continued to offer his class to a handful of people who were glad to have him do what he did. It was one of the proudest moments I have had in 42 years of ordained ministry.
The Pharisees had a rule, a rule based on the 4th commandment: Observe the Sabbath Day and keep it holy. Since this was Judaism and a religion, the job of the head people was to parse words like: “keep holy” and “Sabbath day.” After a while, “keep holy” meant not doing much of anything except what the rabbis considered holy. Reading Torah, praying, lots of food were good. Bad was long drives in the country, bowling, jokes, and any kind of activity that could be construed as work. Sabbath day was easier. It was the 24 hours beginning Friday afternoon until sunset on Saturday. Not a minute later or earlier.
I love my GPS. When the sun goes down it changes from daytime to nighttime mode. Now I know exactly when the sun goes down—officially. Don’t need a rabbi for that anymore.
Jesus tells a story about this good Jewish lady who had the arthritis real bad. She’d had it for 18 years and was so stooped she looked like an angle bracket with legs. Jesus heals her on the spot. She doesn’t ask for his help. He sees her condition and heals her. Apparently his GPS was broken since he didn’t know it was the Sabbath! Horrors! He did doctor work on the Sabbath!
The Pharisees quote the rules about the Sabbath. They had Jesus cold on every count. His bad. Not only was Jesus doctoring without a permit or license, he was also adept at practicing religious law without being admitted to the bar.
Jesus comes right back at them: “Who are you people to talk. Even you, you righteous prudes, even you would bring water to your cow on the Sabbath to keep it from suffering or worse, dying. When your money is at risk, so much for Sabbath rules. Further, this woman is a child of Abraham, a card-carrying Jewess who has been suffering for 18 years. And God healed her, not me. So who are you to say that healing is bad on the Sabbath when God goes ahead and does it.”
Of course Jesus is teaching that compassion is at the root of all religious observance, including the Sabbath. I love the cartoon I saw the other day: A Fire station in convent has a sign on it: “In case of fire, break vow of silence.”
I don’t know about you, but if this stuff is good enough for Jesus, it is good enough for me. I think it would be a good time for all of us so-called Christians to look at our core values about religious freedom. I get pretty nervous when modern Pharisees decide for all of us where hallowed ground is and is not.

11 Pentecost, Year C, August 8, 2010

2010-08-09T11:01:00.000-04:00

Isaiah 1:1, 10-20; Psalm 50:1-8; Hebrews 11:-13, 8-16; Luke 12:32-40
Moral Decisions, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

Jesus also said to the crowds, "When you see a cloud rising in the west, you immediately say, `It is going to rain'; and so it happens. And when you see the south wind blowing, you say, `There will be scorching heat'; and it happens. You hypocrites! You know how to interpret the appearance of earth and sky, but why do you not know how to interpret the present time?"

How is it hypocritical to predict the weather based on local versions of the farmer’s almanac? Perhaps in the first century when there were no alternatives to folk wisdom about weather, people who could predict it accurately would be held in high esteem. I lived in the desert for a year. Trust me, weather forecasting isn’t very hard. “It will be hot/very hot/dangerously hot today.” Likewise in Hawaii: “trade winds 5-20 mph, temperatures in the 80’s with chance of late afternoon showers.” These days predicting the weather in Augusta is pretty easy too. “any chance of rain less than 80% means “No rain”.”

Predictions, like those Jesus mentions, are not all that hard to make. Try these:
“There will be at least one or more major oil spill every decade followed by intense hand wringing and blaming of a) government regulators, b) mine owners/managers c) God.”
“The drop-out rate will continue at 50%, SAT scores will barely maintain previous levels” followed by intense handwringing, finger-pointing and blaming of school superintendants whose tenures continue to shorten.
“The Athletic Director/Coach of fill-in-the-name-of-a major-college-program arrested for fill in the other blankfollowed by intense handwringing, finger-pointing and blaming the a) college president, b) NCAA regulators c) the crazed fan base for whom winning is everything d) God.

Jesus’ dire predictions of what was going to happen and what he was sent to do are his wake up call. Jesus says “Enough of this late-inning hand wringing. Enough of prognostication about simple things like weather predictions. Pay attention to what is actually going on now. Don’t forget to look in the mirror during the hand-wringing and blaming portion of the process.”

What distracts us from our own lack of responsibility for at least some of these enduring social problems is that we have had some success in dealing with some others. The sea-change with regard to tobacco use in America is nothing short of a miracle. I have lived in two tobacco states. Both of them were among the first and largest to adopt smoke-free policies for virtually everyone. Even in Nevada which is so libertarian it has laws against passing laws, even there smoking is now hard to do indoors. This leaves smokers out in the broiling heat. We have all seen smokers huddled next to office buildings trying to avoid pouring rain as they fill up on fumes all because most of us don’t want them on us.

Jesus’ violent wake up call is a religious one. Religious wake-up calls used to be a dime a dozen. They came so often and with such splenetic frenzy that people learned to ignore them. We still do.

The truth of the human condition is that if it doesn’t seem to affect us, we don’t care too much. We liked cheap Chinese imports until they started poisoning our pets and our children. We liked cheap interstate highways until the bridges began to fall. It is exactly this kind of self-satisfied attitude that Jesus finds to offensive in religion.

The problem with threatening people is that it is almost impossible to make a moral decision under duress. If some one says they will hurt you if you don’t do what they want and you do it to assuage the threat, you have not made a moral decision.

We make moral decisions when we consciously decide to change our behavior because it benefits the larger community. Recycling trash comes to mind. I believe in it. I think it helps everyone especially in the long run. And I don’t always do it with the fervor my spouse thinks appropriate. Jesus is warning me that I can predict the weather, but I am no good at predicting my own behavior. This week I am working on making moral decisions since Debby is away and I am doing all the trash.

10 Pentecost, Year C, August 1, 2010

2010-08-09T11:00:00.000-04:00

Hosea 11:1-11; Psalm 107:1-9, 43; Colossians 3:1-11, Luke 12:13-21
Rich Toward God, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

A young man asked a rich old man how he made his money.The old guy fingered his Armani vest and said, “Well, son, it was 1932 in the depth of the Great Depression. I was down to my last nickel.“I invested that nickel in an apple. I spent the entire day polishing the apple and, at the end of the day, I sold the apple for 10 cents.“The next morning, I invested those 10 cents in two apples. I spent the entire day polishing them and sold them at 5:00 p.m. for 20 cents. I continued this system for a month, by the end of which I’d accumulated a fortune of $1.37.”“And that’s how you built an empire?” the boy asked.“Heavens, no!” the man replied. “Then my wife’s father died and left us two million dollars.”

Ah, the great preacher, Quoheleth speaketh to us today: All is vanity. Everything is a waste. Life is hard and then we die.

At one level it is true, isn’t it? We really can’t take it with us! We leave it to ungrateful heirs who should have gone to school and gotten a job or the government gets it or ex-spouses. Later on the only people who care about what we got are those who got it from us.

Still, we all know that nice stuff is, well, nice.

Several years ago a parish church building I worked in got hit by a major lightning bolt. I guess it was major. When 50,000 volts hits your building it knocks a huge chunk of granite off the tower and fried everything it within reach. I don’t know if God is in charge of lightning bolts, but I’m sure no one else is. All our cool electronics was pretty useless in the face of the power of well, an act of God.

Ecclesiastes and the Gospel of Luke refer to vanity this week. This is not the Snow White kind of vanity where the queen has a special mirror which lies to her about who is the most beautiful in the kingdom. I got caught looking in a mirror once by my prep school trained college roommate. He was expert at deflation. He simply said to me: “I caught you looking in the mirror. Did you get any better looking?”
No, biblical vanity is supposing that God thinks our stuff, our looks, our possessions are as important as we think they are.

Our spiritual task is to erect a greed guard. Our vanity is usually greed. There are lots of different ways to be greedy, even including being covetous of someone else’s relationship with God.

Jesus said, “One’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions” (12:15). Here, Jesus invites us, not to avoid a life of success, but to choose a life of significance — a life which is balanced and meaningful. There are three questions which can help us balance ourselves.1. How do you spend your time?2. How do you spend your money?3. How do you make your decisions?Tolstoy’s short story, “How Much Land Does a Man Need?” seems close to the mark. A Russian peasant was told that he could have all the land he could walk around in the time between sunup and sundown. At sunup the peasant began walking as fast as he could. By mid-morning he was disappointed at his progress so he increased his pace and didn’t even stop for lunch. Even in the afternoon heat he hurried yet more as the promise of great landowning stretched out before his fevered vision. Late in the afternoon he was soaked with sweat from head to toe. He was exhausted. He had walked around a huge section, but still he yearned for more. So, he began to run. Breathlessly he pushed himself beyond what he though anyone could endure. His heart pounded, his eyes blurred--sundown was only a few minutes and his goal still wafted in the distance. Faster and faster he raced. Just as he returned to the first corner stake he fell to the ground dead. Vanity, all is vanity.Jesus’ comment to the rich man, to the peasant, was “So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God” (12:21).We can be rich toward God, but never on the cheap.

The ultimate vanity story is one about the settlement of price-fixing charges against cosmetics manufacturers and retailers. The lawyers got $24 million, and each customer got a free cosmetic. (San Francisco Chronicle, July 19, 2003) Now that is vanity! Who is looking good now?

And then there was William Hogarth who was hired to do a painting that would be called “The Destruction of Pharaoh’s Host in the Red Sea.” The guy who hired him to do the painting was a notorious cheapskate.
Hogarth went to work, and painted the entire canvas with red paint, stepped back and declared it was done.When the buyer came to claim his painting, he was astonished. “Where are the Israelites?”“They’ve all crossed over,” Hogarth replied.“Well, where are the Egyptians?”“They’ve all drowned,” came the response.

Vanity, all is vanity, quoth the preacher.

9 Pentecost, Year C, July 25, 2010

2010-07-26T14:34:00.000-04:00

Genesis 18:20-32; Psalm 85;; Colossians 2:6-15, [16-19]; Luke 11:1-13
Bargains Galore! Preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

The LORD said to Abraham, "How great is the outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah and how very grave their sin! I must go down and see whether they have done altogether according to the outcry that has come to me; and if not, I will know."
So the men turned from there, and went toward Sodom, while Abraham remained standing before the LORD. Then Abraham came near and said, "Will you indeed sweep away the righteous with the wicked? Suppose there are fifty righteous within the city; will you then sweep away the place and not forgive it for the fifty righteous who are in it? Far be it from you to do such a thing, to slay the righteous with the wicked, so that the righteous fare as the wicked! Far be that from you! Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?" And the LORD said, "If I find at Sodom fifty righteous in the city, I will forgive the whole place for their sake." Abraham answered, "Let me take it upon myself to speak to the Lord, I who am but dust and ashes. Suppose five of the fifty righteous are lacking? Will you destroy the whole city for lack of five?" And he said, "I will not destroy it if I find forty-five there." Again he spoke to him, "Suppose forty are found there." He answered, "For the sake of forty I will not do it." Then he said, "Oh do not let the Lord be angry if I speak. Suppose thirty are found there." He answered, "I will not do it, if I find thirty there." He said, "Let me take it upon myself to speak to the Lord. Suppose twenty are found there." He answered, "For the sake of twenty I will not destroy it." Then he said, "Oh do not let the Lord be angry if I speak just once more. Suppose ten are found there." He answered, "For the sake of ten I will not destroy it."

I bought my first Ford Thunderbird on 8/8/88. As usual it was on impulse. It is in the nature of impulses that they act too soon. A month later the 89’s came out in a design that lasted until just a few years ago. I knew instantly that my impulse was wrong.

I managed to keep out of Ford dealerships for 12 straight months. When the sales person called the other Ford dealership nearby for the payoff figure so I could buy my 1990 T Bird with turbocharged V –6 he got the guy who sold me the 1988.
“Are you working with that Episcopal Priest from Virginia Beach?” he asked.
“Oh, yes!”
“He is a hard man!”

Our biblical ancestors were hard men too. Last week we remembered Abraham. He is the guy who lied about his wife to the neighbors and called her his sister. About how he and Sarah scoffed at God when God spoke of the miracle of birth for them. You have got to be hard to scoff at God when he sends a whole committee to deliver a message.

Today God has her hands full of hard people again. Not all of them are the bad guys either.

God hears a lot of whining about the people of Sodom and Gomorrah. He has a stack of faxes and emails on his desk outlining the bad stuff going on in those cities. He says to himself: “I better check these rumors out to see if it is true!”

God disguised herself as two tourists. This has been a popular disguise ever since for police undercover work. The first person the tourists come across is our friend Abe. He just stands there, looking kind of goofy.

God says: “Things are a mess down here, hunh?”

Abraham didn’t want to rat out his neighbors because they might key his truck or something worse. Abe was continually afraid of his neighbors. Still the situation was pretty self-evident..

God gets the message by reading between the lines and says: “I’ll fix this!” Just before God goes thermonuclear, Abe clears his throat.

“Uh, Lord?”

Pausing in mid stroke, and slightly annoyed to have his aim jiggered, God says “What is it?”

Abraham says: “This doesn’t seem right. I mean there are lots of bad guys in these towns, but what if there are four or five dozen pretty decent folks there. It doesn’t seem fair to nuke them too. After all, you are the king of the Universe, you ought to be able to run this railroad better than that.”

God took her thumb off the red button, squinted her eyes a bit, sighed and allowed, “ok if there were 50 decent types, I will spare the city.”

Abraham had been to the Ford dealership too. He replied: “What about 45.”

“OK, 45.”

“40?”
“OK.”

“30?”
“All right already!.”

“20?”
“Oy vey, ok?”

“10?”
“All right already. 10. And that’s it.”

God stomped off and caused a few tidal waves on some uninhabited islands just to let of steam.

Abraham thought he had gotten a pretty good deal.

As you know, Mr. and Mrs. Lot and their two daughters plus their fiancés, a total of 6 people were the only decent folks in the whole two cities. Even the future sons-in-law maintained the Sarah tradition and jeered and laughed at the idea that God might wipe them all out. So when Mr. and Mrs. Lot left town with their daughters, the fiancés got toasted along with everyone else.

What are we to make of this? Does bargaining work with God? If it does, what kind of God?
Is this a kind of prayer?

Our Hebrew ancestors expected a lot of God. They expected God to be consistent with God’s revealed will in the tradition. They expected that God wouldn’t do anything to them if they kept covenant with God.

God never has.

But God is not subject to hard men like me or Abraham. The story simply reveals that God does what is consistent with who God is. Abraham, to his great credit, is consistent with who he is, a persistent, faithful, take no prisoners stand up guy.

Scripture does not record Abraham’s response to the destruction of the two cities. It does tell of his willingness to sell his daughters to marauders to keep his home safe for his guests, but not a word about what happens after the Lot family leave town. He knew that even though he got God down to the 10 mark, he was counting on a j40% discount from this number since there were only 6, not even 10. God went the extra mile to save them even though they were under the limit.

Wow, more Gospel, God going past his own limits to reach out to us.

8 Pentecost, Year C, July 18, 2010

2010-07-19T09:40:00.000-04:00

Amos 8:1-12; Psalm 52; Colossians 1:15-28; Luke 10:38-42
Old Enough to Choose, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

Sixty-seven years ago today my parents had their first child. They named him Peter, no middle name. None of their children got middle names because my father hated his first name. They chose generic Anglo Saxon names for their three children and hoped that we could live with those names since there was no other choice. We have all lived happily enough with our parents’ choices.

On my 43rd birthday in 1986 Debby gave me a birthday breakfast at a nice restaurant in Virginia Beach. I hugged my colleague and friend Father Mike Vermillion goodbye. I never saw him again as he was killed on the way to the church conference.

I am a lot older today and a bit wiser. Father Mike never got to be old. I suspect he wouldn’t have missed some of the stuff that has happened in the meantime.

Still, I am getting to get older and he isn’t. For quite a few years now people I admire and who offer me friendship are older than I am. It has occurred to me that I am beginning to run out of people older than myself.

It happened to Abraham and Sarah. They were really old. They were older than almost anyone they knew. They had no children so there were no close relatives with grandbabies to admire. Tradition holds that God had a special plan for them.

God communicated this plan directly to them. He didn’t send a letter or an email; God sent a committee of three. Usually committees of three bear bad news. This one didn’t, it carried ridiculous news. Old Sarah was going to have a baby.

The committee politely asked Abraham where she was. It was polite for after all they had received generous hospitality from Abraham prepared by unseen minions now out of sight.

“Where is Sarah, your wife?”

They knew perfectly well where she was. Out of sight; out of mind.

“She is in the kitchen,” Abraham declared. Right! Cook. Scullery maid. Housewife. Typical woman. Knew her place. In the tent.

Tents, even in the desert are not soundproof so Sarah overheard this conversation. And she giggled. She chortled. She hiccoughed a few times too. Old Sarah. So old she knew almost no one older. She was going to have a child. Then she thought of the geezer Abraham. I suspect that is when the real hysterical laughter started.

All we know is that nine months later Isaac was born. No laughing matter this.

Things hadn’t changed 1,000 years later. Women were still in the kitchen providing hospitality while the men smoke and drank coffee. Martha, like her ancient ancestor Sarah was making nice. Well at least on the outside she was making nice. On the inside she was feeding a huge resentment. Her no-good, shiftless, lazy, show-off, know-it-all, high-brow, look-down-your-nose, sorry excuse of a sister was sitting with Jesus. This pitiful mess swanned it up while she Martha, hard-working, knew-her-own-place, self-less, generous, brought-up-right, Martha did all the work.

Martha tried what usually worked for her, some triangling and manipulation. Martha attempts to triangle Jesus into shaming Mary into doing the dishes.

Jesus, of course, does not bite. He knows the rules, the rules which applied to Sarah in the tent, still apply to all women. He ignores them. He doesn’t ridicule the rules. He just changes them.

We can be sure that this story about Jesus and Mary and Martha came out of the life of the church where some uppity women were doing bible study instead of the dishes. So the church remembered a story that showed that doing dishes was a good thing and so was bible study. Anybody, any man, any woman could do either or both as the Spirit gave utterance as St. Paul says in I Corinthians. Anybody could do either. Whichever choice anyone made was OK. There would always be someone who wanted to wash and others who wanted to study. What Jesus and St. Paul were at pains to demonstrate is that both were good.

No one had the right to enforce some hierarchy of goodness about the choices. Yes, we all know some people who would benefit from more bible study and less cooking and vice versa. We know that, but people make their choices. If they can stand them, so can we.

What the Gospel proclaims is that we make the choices, not someone else. The choices are ours. Things we have no choice over such as age, religion, gender, social class, regional geography do not make the choices in the Kingdom of God. Please join me in working for that kingdom all God’s children have more choices that most people did in Sarah’s or Martha’s time.

7 Pentecost, Year C, July 11, 2010

2010-07-12T09:21:00.001-04:00

Amos 7:7-17; Psalm 82; Colossians 1:1-14; Luke 10:25-37
Inheritance, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

One would think that he would have left well enough alone. Isn’t that often the case? If he had just been willing to take the stock answer and not gone any further he would have save a lot of wear and tear.

We are examining the lawyer in the parable of the Good Samaritan in our mind’s eye. He is an earnest Sunday school kid with perfect attendance. His blue blazer has pin holes from top to bottom of the left lapel left by the awards for perfect attendance proclaim his fidelity. He is the teacher’s pet the first to raise his hand, usually with the right answer. He always knows Torah and is used to being right. Being right has worked well for him. It has earned him respect, even admiration. Some people may have noticed that he is kind of short of friends, hardly has any at all, but never mind, he is a good boy. Good? It depends on how one defines “good”.

He does what any good lawyer would do. He asks a question to which he already knows the answer. “What do I do to inherit eternal life?”

At one level it is a silly question. He didn’t ask how to earn eternal life. He asked how to inherit it. He knew as we do that one inherits by being related to the testator, the one who is going to leave it to you when they die. He assumed he was so tight with God that when God died, the lawyer’s inheritance would be there at the reading of the will. All he had to do was outlive God. Oops. There is the rub.

He had actually asked how he could outlive God.

The answers he learned in Sunday school talk about loving God and loving one’s neighbor. They say nothing about inheritance.

The stock answer “Love God, love your neighbor” is both too hard and too easy to be satisfying. It is too hard since loving God is tough to measure and loving most of our neighbors is impossible.

He had been to Sunday school forever. He knew the answer to his question. He knew the answer was unrelated to the question. So he asks a question which assumes that the answer will say he is OK, knowing in advance the answer is hollow.

No wonder he sought to justify himself. He wanted an answer that would define the universe in a way that was comfortable. Ahh, comfortable. As a Torah Lawyer he was an expert in Torah exclusions. If he was going to be stuck with this cosmic, one-size fits all definition of how to inherit, how would he be any different or special from anyone else. Justification is about being special and different.

Why create a system which makes us special and different if we have to obey the rules which apply to everyone else. Special and different means we are not just anybody else! If the rules of loving God and loving neighbor were rigorously applied, our inheritance might turn out to be zip, nada, zilch. Our religious casuist sought a rule which guarantees the inheritance based on things he had nothing to do with like who his parents are. It is just hard to believe that God would be that generous.

Ahh, that is the Gospel. We are all frauds. None of us is justified by our inheritance or even our perfect attendance.

Jesus tells the story of two people, a priest and a Levite. These people are clearly justified, but when push comes to shove don’t measure up to even the slimmest standard of common decency or mercy!. They are inheritors in the system they maintain, and they are frauds.

The third person Jesus chooses is someone clearly defined by the system as outside of inheritance. Samaritans are half-breeds; a misbegotten anomaly in creation who everyone knows cannot inherit. Samaritans are related to the wrong people, the wrong God, why they are just trash.

Except. Ah here is the exception. Except the lawyer volunteers concludes that this illicit offspring of a Samaritan is going to inherit the promises of God because he is merciful. The Samaritan does not know the answers, went to the wrong Sunday school class, has the wrong parents, and because of Gospel receives mercy as he shows mercy.

It isn’t that the priest and Levite are not going to inherit, but that the kind of hair-splitting and logic chopping which defines others out of the inheritance simply won’t work in the face of God’s implacable mercy.

The lawyer knew this going in. He knew that unless and until the Gospel of God’s grace applies to everyone, it can’t apply to him. Jesus said: “Go and do likewise.” Likewise means cultivating the attitude of acceptance and inclusion that made what the Samaritan did even possible.

It isn’t about flipping quarters to drunks on the street. It is knowing that inheritance is not how God works. God works on mercy. I don’t know about you, but I find that extraordinarily good news.

6 Pentecost, Year C, July 4, 2010

2010-07-06T09:27:00.001-04:00

2 Kings5:1-14; Psalm 30; Galatians6:[1-6], 7-16; Luke 10:1-11, 16-20
Jump in the creek, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

I want to introduce you to Naaman. Naaman is the real deal; he is a really big deal. He works for the Aramaeans as a general. He is the General Petraeus of his time. While Naaman makes good money and commands a lot of soldiers, he has a significant flaw. He has leprosy. The bible calls it leprosy, but it is probably not what we can Hansen’s disease which if left untreated means your body parts rot off. More likely it is some kind of heartbreak of psoriasis which is unsightly and inconvenient but not life threatening.

One of the perks of being a general is you get first pick on captives who become personal slaves. After raiding a Hebrew settlement one day, he picks up a nice girl to give to his wife. One day his wife’s girl passes along that she has heard of a prophet who could heal leprosy.

Even though Naaman was pretty desperate about his skin condition, he scoffs at the possibility that some foreign prophet could heal him. He didn’t tell anyone, but when he was young someone had kicked sand in his face at the beach and he had sent away for a Charles Atlas Course which turned out to be bogus. But Naaman hates being a leper. It is socially inconvenient and embarrassing. Leprosy is bad; it convicts the sufferer of being less than, a social pariah, one who must have done something bad to deserve this disease.
So Naaman decides to check out this prophet Elisha.

Elisha is not a proper Babylonian prophet; he is a foreigner and he doesn’t make house calls. Naaman figures all he has to do is turn up, the prophet will wave his hand over the diseased skin, say a magic spell and all will be well. Or at least it will be well after he pays the fee which he has already arranged. Healing works better with insurance.

So Naaman arrives at Elisha’s corner of the world and Elisha says “Go jump in the lake.” Actually he said “Go bathe in the Jordan river.” He might as well have said, “Soak your head in the sewer!” as far as Naaman is concerned. He took one look at the pathetic trickle of the Jordan Creek and exploded. “If I wanted to jump in a creek I could have done that in Babylon where we have proper running water, not like this sorry excuse for a river you have here!” What is cool is that after this explosion of snobbery and pride Naaman still had leprosy. So eventually and very reluctantly he sticks a toe in the Jordan. Poof! He is healed and made clean.

We are all familiar with the lepers whom Jesus heals. The leper who comes to Jesus behaves in an entirely different way than Naaman. He isn’t all eaten up with the reasons why this won’t work. He does not have a long list of excuses for being sick. He is not looking for anyone to blame. He simply says to Jesus: “Hey, look. If you want to heal me, you can!”

Jesus says “Right! I can and I will.” There is the usual fee attached. The healed man is instructed to go pay the co-insurance to the priests and get a certificate of health. Further, Jesus, not wanting a bunch of sickos chasing him around, tells the man to keep it a secret. That is what we religious folks are good at: focusing on the problem and keeping the successes a secret.

But the man whom Jesus heals does not do that. He goes leaping and yelling all over the neighborhood. “I’m clean. I’m healed. Jesus did it. Come and see.” The only bad thing that happened was Jesus had to hide out in the country for a while until the noise died down.

What we have here is the difference between focusing on the problem and focusing on the solutions.. On my way to and from Augusta I am listening to a book called Blunder by Zachary Shore. Shore examines the reasons why successful generals and political leaders with lots of smarts and resources make big mistakes. Naaman makes them all. He is afraid to lose face by going to a quack. He thinks the causes of his illness are beyond healing. He thinks that if someone comes from outside of Babylon they are ignorant hillbillies. He uses his own narrow, single dimension analysis to convince himself there is no point in trying something different.

Like so many of us, Naaman assumes that his condition is fixed and he focuses himself on the problem. If we focus on the rules we are likely to miss opportunities. I have just finished Shop Class as Soul Craft. This author points out any job that can be reduced to rules and protocols will be exported to Bangladesh. It is only when we are willing to dip our toe in the creek of new solutions that surprising things happen. Mostly the worst that can happen is we get wet! As hot as it is these days, even that might be welcome.

5 Pentecost, Year C, June 27, 2010

2010-06-28T10:04:00.000-04:00

2 Kings2:1-2,6-14,Psalm 771-2,11-20,Galatians 5:1, 13-25, Luke 9:51-62
Anointed for Duty, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

Sometimes one of the perks of a long tenure is the privilege of anointing one’s successor. God told Elijah to anoint Elisha, just as he told him to anoint various kings from time to time in the past. God appointed Elisha as the new prophet, but Elijah confirmed him by anointing him for the duty.

Elisha asked for a double portion of Elijah’s spirit. By asking for a double measure, Elisha is getting in line to be a true successor. After such a long tenure it would be easy for people to wish we had the old guy back. Elijah is not coming back, at least not in God’s time. People who get whisked off to heaven in a chariot of fire don’t come back for funerals and weddings!!

Here at St. Augustine’s we are in the final stages of ministry succession, we hope. None of our former rector’s was assumed into heaven in a Hummer chauffeured limousine, nor have any of them tried to anoint their successor. Each of us has our own view of the graces and deficits of our former prophets in this place, including the current interim. Each of us hopes that the new priest who comes to join us will be wise enough to ask for a double portion of the gifts we liked in our former clergy. This is often where the challenge for the new priest lies. The varied expectations of each congregant are based on their personal experience with former clergy; those they appreciated and those they didn’t. One of the purposes of having an interim is to “break the cycle” even if only a little. One of the gifts God has given me is the capacity to be different from any priest you have ever seen before. I have received a double portion of “different” or as one of you told me recently to my delight: “You such a huge mess!”

It is important for us all to remember that Elijah, the most revered prophet in Israel, the one for whom a seat is reserved at every Passover Seder, absolutely infuriated his largest pledgers. You remember Ahab and Jezebel the power couple whom we talked about a couple of weeks ago? Elijah spent a lot of his tenure hiding out in a cave out in the woods. We might enjoy noticing a parallel in the story of one of Georgia’s most famous Anglican clergy-people, John Wesley, who had to sneak out of Savannah at night for fear his would-be-father-in-law was going to have him arrested.

I think the best we can expect is not an Elijah, but an Elisha. He is the one who dutifully followed Elijah all over Palestine from Jericho to Bethel ending up finally in Jordan. No matter where they went there was a crowd of nay-sayers telling Elisha he was hitching his career to the wrong guy since God was going to take him away. Every time one of the gloom and doom types spoke up Elisha said “I know that, leave me alone. I know what I am doing.” What Elisha was doing was being faithful to his mission. And it wasn’t just his mission, but he was fashioning himself after his hero, Elijah, from whom he asked for and received a double portion of prophetic gift.

The good news is that the chances of us receiving a faithful priest are pretty high. Faithfulness is one of the more common gifts exercised by our clergy. The not so good news is that we often are not content with faithfulness. We want so much more. When our priest does not have this or that gift, or has it and doesn’t know how to use it in our midst, that is where the ministry of baptized is so important. Our mission is to spare ourselves and our new priest a retinue of Job’s companions like the ones Elisha had to endure; a bunch of people pointing out what wasn’t going to work. We need people who are part of the solution. Notice at the end when Elijah and Elisha get to Jordan and the mantle falls on Elisha, the prophets, all 50 of them are standing at a distance. That is what we don’t need. We need the faithful in the pews standing by the water and crossing over on dry land to help our new leader use his or her gifts. Then truly it comes to pass that we can all say together: “Truly the mantle has passed from our former leader to the new one.”

3 Pentecost, Year C, June 13, 2010

2010-06-14T10:37:00.000-04:00

1Kings 21:1-10, [11-14], 15-21a, Psalm 5:1-8, Galatians 2:15-21, Luke 7:36 – 8:3
Bully Girl, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

Mortie Freeman’s house was at the edge of the woods in the valley, a white clapboard house with a porch around the front and side. Our house was at the top of the valley and had a few cherry trees, low hedges had a stucco exterior. Mortie Freeman never came near our house, but I used to walk by his on my way out of the woods. I never went into the woods by his house because he could see me coming. You see, Mortie was a bully.

My dad grew up in Boston when signs read, “Irish need not apply.” Suffering this indignity made my dad a vigilant witness for human rights. He got out of the Irish ghetto in Boston and bought a nice house in a Jewish ghetto in Philadelphia. It was an upper middle class ghetto, but ghetto none the less. In my class of 30 children there were only three left at the Jewish holidays. As far as I know we were the only Episcopal family in the John B. Meyer elementary school. There were few enough gentiles as it was never mind Episcopalians.

Like everyone else but me, Mortie was Jewish. His mother called him Morton. Mortie Freeman was fat, mean and scared. Since no one liked him he needed a victim. He found skinny little goy Peter to pick on. That is why I had to sneak by his house and avoid having him see me coming. Usually I could whip out of the woods and up the hill before he knew it. Like my Dad I have become a champion of underdogs ever since.

King Ahab was an over-dog. He was king of Israel, the Northern Kingdom centered in Samaria. He had married a top-dog Phoenician woman whose daddy had a lot of money. She wasn’t Jewish. Her dad was big in the Ba’al movement in Phoenicia and she had inherited his enthusiasm for this mystery cult and brought it with her to Samaria when she married Ahab. She set up statues in the temple and even judged a contest between Elijah the Tishbite and the scores of Ba’alite priests. Elijah won the contest and in a moment of fierce bad manners took the losers off to a valley like Mortie Freeman’s and executed them all.

This did not earn Elijah the love from Jezebel, Ahab’s foreign wife, so Elijah had to get out of Dodge.. He put several counties between himself and Jezebel. He went into the woods and didn’t come out at all. Ahab might have been king, but Jezebel was definitely the power behind the throne and a force to be reckoned with.

The trouble with being king is that sooner or later that seductive feeling of entitlement sets in. One day Ahab saw this neat vineyard that he thought would be a great addition to his holdings. He went down to the courthouse and looked up the plat. It belonged to Naboth, a fellow from Jezreel. Naboth may have had a nice vineyard, but he was not from around there and wasn’t politically connected. Ahab figured it was a no-brainer. He would offer the guy a low, but fair price for the vineyard, close the deal and move in. Soon.

Trouble was Naboth didn’t want to sell, at any price.

Even in those days the king had to pay and the subject had to agree for the transaction to be legal. When he couldn’t get what he wanted, Ahab went home to bed, sulked and wouldn’t eat. Ahab may have been king but he had the emotional development of a 6 year old.

In Phoenicia, where Jezebel came from, the Kings didn’t need to obey rules. Kings made the rules. Kings could change the rules anytime it suited them. Jezebel mocked Ahab saying: “Hey, aren’t you the king? What is the point of being king if you can’t have any ole vineyard you want? Who does this guy think he is to question your policies? What is he, some kind of communist?”

But Jezebel wasn’t in Phoenicia any more. Predatory king bullies may work up North, but not in Israel. So Jezebel went to her stealth strategy. She went underground. She passed an early version of the Patriot Act which defined anyone who didn’t do what the king wanted as a traitor. Then she hired some thugs through a cutout and set up Naboth the Jezreelite to take a fall for being unpatriotic.

It worked like a charm. In a mob scene worthy of Senator McCarthy, Naboth was condemned as a traitor. The crowd dug a hole, buried him up to his neck and stoned him to death.

This kind of thing goes on everywhere. It starts with Mortie Freeman beating up a kid different from and littler than he is. It happens on the school bus when the girls decide that one of the little girls is unclean and they persecute her every day until her mom has to drive her to school from then on. My parents decided to move before their children were permanently damaged from discrimination and insult.

No one intervened on behalf of Naboth the Jezreelite. He died and Ahab took over his vineyard. Ahab forgot about the God of his fathers. He liked this new religion which said that the government was for the king, not the people. But God was watching. God called Elijah the Tishbite out of hiding. God told Elijah that his own personal safety was of no importance compared to the urgency of confronting the bully in Ahab. Elijah did not want to go. He would rather walk around the world before he would come out of the woods anywhere near Jezebel’s house.

But God would not let up and made him do it. Sure enough, Ahab says to him: “So you are back, you so and so, and you have found me. What’s up?”

“What is up,” said Elijah the Tishbite, “is that you have wronged Naboth the Jezreelite and your bully wife has had him killed. The dogs who licked up Naboth’s blood will lick yours.”

Elijah is a hero like my dad. He called ‘em as he saw ‘em. He was first in the great tradition of prophets who name injustice when they see it. He advanced the value of truth-telling at great personal risk and expense to himself.

Mortie Freeman was a bully because he could be. This is true of any of us. God calls each of us to monitor the bully in ourselves and to tell the truth about the bullies we encounter in the world.

2 Pentecost, Year C, June 6, 2010

2010-06-07T10:00:00.000-04:00

1 Kings 17:8-16 [17-24], Galatians 1:11-24, Luke 7:11-17
The Widow of Zarephath, preached by The Rev. Peter Courtney

I kind of knew what a MITE was when I was a little kid. I knew it was something small. I didn’t know about dust mites, or dog mites and other kinds of bugs. I did know that the Widow’s Mite was a whole lot to the widow woman even though it didn’t seem to amount to much according to the movers and shakers.

As children we received MITE boxes on the first Sunday in Lent. We little people didn’t have much to begin with. We were expected to do extra stuff around the house for a penny or two and then offer it to God in these little blue boxes with a cross on the top and pictures of multi-cultural children around the bottom. These pictures inspired us to know that all of the money went to mission work. We understood that the mites we put in our boxes were gathered as a great rolling stream and amounted to something in the end, like airplanes for the Bishop of Alaska. The image of these little offerings of little people making a difference down the line has stuck with me.

When we look at the widow of Zarephath something happens inside of us that may go unnoticed. We compare out. We look at ourselves and we do not see a widow, at least not like her.

If we are a widow we say to ourselves: “I am not reduced to gathering a few sticks to do some baking of a miserable pile of meal out of which I will make a few biscuits and then lie down and die.” That is not us. We look at ourselves and while we may feel sorry for ourselves because we are not rich and powerful like some people, we are not poor like that pathetic soul in Zaraphath.

Our comparing out is is necessary. We have to distance ourselves from the widow of Zarephath and the widow of Nain lest they make some kind of claim on us. We don’t want to be compared to someone who is willing to give all to God, because many of us are not willing to give very much, never mind all. In a word, these selfless poor people make us look, well, cheap.

Jesus does not call us to compare ourselves to one who gives all. Neither does the God who ruled Sidon where Zarephath lies. God expects us to work at becoming like these examples of selfless giving. This kind of giving expects nothing in return, not even a receipt or tax deduction or thank you letter or membership in a named giving society.

I know about this stuff in myself. I used to give money to my college until I retired. Then I stopped. This year is my 45th reunion year so I sent a check for a change. I gave enough to warrant a letter signed by the President of the College. Now let me tell you the absolute truth. I ran my finger over the signature to see if a real person had signed it instead of a machine. I know that many of these letters are signed by machines. Yes indeed, there was an indentation in the paper which a ball point pen would leave! Maybe they have a heavy handed machine designed to fool people like me.

When I read the story of the Widow of Zarephath, I could compare myself out. I could fairly say to myself: “I am a generous man, I give away a lot of money.” I would be right. I am generous. I also run my finger over signatures to see how grateful the recipients are! This means I am not as generous as I would like to think I am. I give out of my wealth. I am both richer and poorer than I think. I am richer because I am lucky and comfortable. I am poorer because I am counting the cost in a cheesy way even if I confess it to you in this lighthearted and humorous way.

God cares about generous hearts. God only wants 10% of our money. That is the easy part! The hard part is that God wants 100% of our hearts. God knows she will only get a portion.

Our letter from God has been signed with God’s own hand. If we ran our finger over God’s signature it would smear the blood of Jesus. It really would. When we do the kind of mental figuring I have described in myself we cheapen the blood of Christ. I am ashamed of myself. The Good News is that God will help me to do better than this.

Trinity Sunday, Year C, May 30, 2010

2010-05-28T08:43:00.000-04:00

Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31, Canticle 13, Romans 5:1-5, John 16:12-15
You cannot bear them now, preached by The Rev. Peter Courtney

When people come to us to explore what Christian marriage might be like, we put them through the paces. You know and I know that they are not interested in Christian marriage. They are interested in a “ceremony” which they hope will not be judged too harshly by their friends. But we do it anyway. We have an instrument designed to ferret out a lot about who these folks are and some of their secrets and besetting sins. Remember sins are not bads, sins are the part of us that falls short of the glory God intended for us.

One of the questions asks:
“What concerns you most about entering into a marriage covenant?”
The most common answer is something like: “Do I know enough about myself and my partner to keep this covenant for life?”

Do I know enough? Do I have the wisdom to know if this is what I am supposed to do? The natural follow up to this question is: “How do I get this wisdom?”

Our passage from Proverbs does not help much. It tells us that Wisdom was at God’s right hand from the very beginning, a kind of celestial engineering firm pointing out where the foundations needed to be strengthened, the roof secured, the insulation packed in. It tells us that it was the Wisdom of God which saw that creation was good, and that God could “delight in the human race.”

It is wonderful that we have a God on such good terms with wisdom. All of us want wisdom; or if we don’t really want to be wise we will settle for being right; and if we can’t be right we’ll settle for attractive; and if we can’t be attractive, there is always violence. Brutality trumps wisdom and good looks, at least in the short run.

In Romans, Paul exhorts us with this wonderful series of outcomes:
We know that suffering produces endurance,
5:4 and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.

For many of us the cost of hope, major dollops of suffering, endurance and at least a smidgen of character, seems awfully high. In effect we want hope on the cheap, without the suffering, without the endurance, without the character.

Wisdom tells us that cheap hope is not worth it.

So I tell persons about to be married, or people entering one vocation or another: you cannot know. Only God really knows. God has known from the beginning. It is for you to suffer, endure, produce character, then you will not hope in vain.

After all hope, like faith, is a gift. It cannot be earned by suffering, endurance, or character. Many of us have discovered that the gift of hope doesn’t have much weight without these costly experiences. So we marry and then we live it out.

I have often wondered about what it was the Jesus would have told us if he thought we could bear it. He says in “16:12 "I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now.” You cannot bear them now.

The Gospels are full of things that Jesus’ hearers could not bear. He had already told them these things, and many people hated him for it, and in the end assassinated him for daring to speak the truth. The people who hated him the most were the ones who had the power to deliver him up.

Sometimes we dare to ask: Why did Jesus have to die? I never know about “have to.” I do know about what happens when you get between power and money. Jesus got in there. He probably knew better but he did it anyway. It is a dangerous and expensive place to be. Much better to act seductively, promise things that don’t matter, dress up the ugly and forget about suffering, endurance and character.

In the end it does not matter what Jesus did not tell us since we have already been told and ignored it. On the other hand if you want to profit from wisdom and receive your gift of hope pressed down and overflowing, here is some homework: Ask the unaskable question.

When have I settled for less than justice?
When have I chosen to endure?
When have I compromised my character?
When did hope seem only like a cheap trick and not the fabulous gift God intended it to be?
There are many things wisdom can tell you. She has told me all kinds of things I did not want to bear and led me to places I did not want to go. There is hope for us all. Wi

Pentecost, Year C, May 23, 2010

2010-05-24T09:45:00.000-04:00

Acts 2:1-21; Psalm 104:25-35,37; Romans 8:14-17; John 14:8-17 [25-27]
Communications, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

We hear people say every day: “It is a communication problem” or “They have a communication problem.” Or “We have a communication problem.”

The ubiquity of this diagnosis has led the casual observer into the notion that everything comes down to communication. This leads to the assumption that what we have is not a communication problem, but a communication famine. The only solution to starvation is more food, more communication. When this misdiagnosis fails to solve problems then we turn up the amplifiers assuming that a communication problem is connected to someone else’s hearing loss. Then we try saying the same stuff only more slowly, sometimes with louder words and usually with a patronizing tone thrown in. This last assumes that all hope is lost and that the final solution is to punish those who don’t get it..

With the exception of patronizing, none of these solutions are bad in and of themselves. Slow, clear, simple speech which is audible is usually a good idea. The real problem is contained in Clarence Darrow’s wonderful question: “Even if you do learn to speak correct English, whom are you going to speak it to?” or George Bernard Shaw “The English have no respect for their language, and will not teach their children to speak it.”

Still the assumption is that some sort of technique or trick of the trade will solve what we perceive to be “communications problems.”

The story of the Tower of Babel is instructive here. Humankind wanted to be, well, God. With typical human ingenuity a bi-partisan committee awarded a contract to their friends and relatives to build a tower to God. The assumption was that if they could get close to God, God would rub off.

When we think about it, it was a pretty good idea. It was a good idea to everybody but God who said to Godself: “We can’t have this sort of thing, I am who I am, and they who they be and there is not going to be a merger anytime soon.” God created the biggest communication problem the world has ever known.

It continues to be a problem. It is not the biggest problem in the world. It is merely a symptom of it.

Couples who are experiencing relationship stress come to the counselor.

QUESTION “What seems to be the problem?”

ANSWER “We have a communications problem.”

After some probing the counselor discovers what everyone else already knew and was too polite to say: These people don’t like each other. They are communicating their mutual antipathy with clarity, precision, high volume and increasingly short Anglo-Saxon words including such global usages as “YOU” and “ALWAYS”. What they have discovered is that they are not the people each one thought the other was. They thought they were alike in values, appearance, social class, family structure and a host of other incidentals. Now they know that is not true. Someone is to blame.

The biblical story suggests that God is to blame because God didn’t like our plan to be God. God’s genius was that instead of simply hurling celestial fission and erasing the project, he used humankind’s strength against itself. God knew that if he knocked the tower down, people would simply vote in a SPLOST and build another one. So he took our greatest gift, the gift of communication, and stirred in a contaminate. Today we call it diversity.

We give lip service to diversity, but we secretly in our hearts wish that everyone were just like us so we could go back to a simple, edenic existence where there was neither pain nor strife; neither quarreling or divorce, but singleness of purpose and mind. In effect, everyone would be just alike with a few cosmetic variations to avoid boredom.

In our time we have convinced ourselves that the tower was unnecessary. We are god. God is the pious appendage we graft on our rhetoric to beguile the rubes who still think God matters.

Our fore parents sought God. We have God under control and no longer seek God. The only kind of God acceptable is one who looks, feels, sounds like us. We pretend we are all alike when deep down inside we know it ain’t so.

God’s gift to humankind was not only the invitation to strive forever to be with God, but to live with the consequences of that striving by being different from one another.

This is not a problem. It is a fact. We can decide it is a gift and rejoice in it. Or we can decide it is a curse on a fallen creation and subvert it by walling ourselves into various kinds of ghettos to keep the Other out. It is the emotional, spiritual, intellectual enclosures which are as damaging to our project as any shortage or failure in communication.

The gift after all is the hint that the incredible variety we experience on earth is already replicated, in God, in heaven. How do we know? We know because God changed her mind about keeping us out and sent her Spirit to communicate with us the gracious invitation and the empowering message that God is present in and through all of creation, even up to and including each one of us.

Easter 7, Year C, May 16, 2010

2010-05-14T10:02:00.000-04:00

Acts 16:16-34, Psalm 97, Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21, John 17:20-26
Jesus and Monty Python, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

The scene we are treated to on Ascension Day is straight out of Monty Python. You know the Monty Python shtick. Cartoon figures sprout what appear to be actual human heads and then body parts fly off in every direction. Since there is no blood to accompany these grisly scenes we can tell they are satirical looks at how we believe stuff.

So let’s allow Monty Python play Jesus’ ascension for us. As a group of his friends are standing around him, Jesus begins to levitate. He does this in slo-mo, because Jesus does not rise suddenly. He levitates slowly like a Houdini trick. We know it happened in slow motion because there was enough time for two court jester types (angels in the biblical story) who ran credits as Jesus was ascending to the Father.

“Why are you standing there, looking up into heaven? Don’t you know that this Jesus whom you saw levitate is going to de-levitate. You know how it is: What goes up must come down!” Then Jesus is received into the cloud.

I know it happened like this because we did it in church one year on Ascension Day. Our clown ministry suspended a large puffy cloud from the ceiling of the church. Hanging out of the cloud were two size 18 basketball shoes. We were in church for an hour and a half and I kept waiting for those shoes to complete the trick and disappear into the cloud. I wanted to see Jesus received out of our sight. We were not conjuring a Monty Python trick, we were just helping our imaginations deal with the wonder of God.

We live in a world in which Monty Python is watched by millions as if it were real life, not satire. People just take it in stride. They interpret what they see and hear and make their accommodations with it. When these same people are offered the wonderful legend of Jesus returning to his heavenly father after the resurrection from the dead, you would think someone had canceled Ground Hog day. “Preposterous” they say, how can anyone believe this religious nonsense.”

These are the same folks who actually believe the outcomes of sports events actually matter. They buy billions of dollars worth of memorabilia in hats and bats and tee shirts. They will shave their team’s name in their chest hair.

Human beings, the ones who think about it at all, generally think we are basically stuck here. We are born, we suffer, we have some fun, and then we croak and go underground. Stuck here. No heaven, no hell, just life. “Show biz” as my father used to call it. Truth be told many of us religious people believe pretty much believe the same thing.

In raising Jesus from the Dead, God establishes her credentials. “I am lord of life and death. You can do whatever you want, but I am the one who has it all. You may seem stuck; I am not. If you are interested, my will is that you get unstuck. I brought my beloved Son back to me, so that you could come to me as well; you can come to be with me. And you don’t have to wait until you are dead to do it. You are free to ascend with me now, any time you like. For I am with you always, even to the end.” In short, Jesus’ ascension into heaven holds out a larger vision than our secular cynicism, a vision that is less bounded, less stuck, airier, freer.

Jesus said “All of you are mine,” and he is right. God keeps saying to us: “You are mine. You don’t have to come to me. You are free to stay stuck.” But much like Monty Python, life in the kingdom is a bit unglued.

“So let go. Come on up” says the God who brought Jesus back to life and back to live with God forever.

Those who prefer to be stuck will do as the witnesses did in the first century. They stand around gazing up into heaven. The angels will ask them “why?”

Those who confuse Monty Python with reality will buy season tickets to some game and bet their lives on the outcomes, all the while telling religious people that they are superstitious.

Easter 6, Year C, May 9, 2010

2010-05-10T09:11:00.000-04:00

Acts 16:9-15, Psalm 67, Revelation 21:10, 22 – 22:5
Advocate, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

“But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name.”
I don’t know about any of you, but my experience with advocates is very limited. Now this may be a very good thing. Advocates are usually required by folks who are under some kind of duress; they are being accused of something; they need something that only someone else can help them procure; they are afflicted with that terrible disease of being unknown as in “you are not from around here are you.” Only a very persuasive advocate can overcome the natural resistance of distrusting the stranger.
Most of us have heard of a Devil’s Advocate. This is a person appointed by the bishop of Rome to attack the credentials of people who have been nominated for sainthood. The devil’s advocate tries to prove that the nominee is unworthy. For instance the pope appointed the well-known atheist to be the devil’s advocate in the process to canonize Mother Theresa!
When I moved to Honolulu in 1996 I found out that it was generally expected that the dean of the cathedral which was my new job would be a member of the Pacific Club. This lovely institution just two blocks from Queen Emma Square was and is the meeting place for all of the Honolulu business and social community.
I duly filled out the application form and wrote a generous check for the reduced rate initiation fee which the club reserved for members of the clergy. On the one hand I was on my own. I was expected to pay the fees although any professional use of the club’s dining room would be reimbursed. On the other hand I had to produce three advocates who would vouch for my moral and social quality. It wouldn’t do to have a member who couldn’t use a fork, or worse couldn’t pay his bar tab
The lovely man who volunteered to be my sponsor also got two more volunteers to advocate for me. None of them knew me from Adam. I got in. I used the club a lot to the delight of the board of governors who needed the money. Now that I think of it I got into the Harbor Club in Norfolk, Virginia under the same roomy umbrella.
I appreciated having an advocate. The memory of being invisibly supported by people I didn’t even know is comforting in an odd way.
I’m an American male. I like to think that people would take my sincerity and competence for granted and that an advocate would be unnecesssary. But it just doesn’t work that way. I have needed advocates more often than I would like to admit and happily they have been in good supply.
Jesus promises the church that it will receive an advocate from God. The reason the church needs an advocate is because of Jesus’ confusing statements, at one minute saying he will not leave them alone and in the next saying he must go to the father.
All of us have had those confusing statements made to us by people who say they are staying yet clearly have one foot out the door. It really seems like cold comfort for Jesus to take credit for telling the disciples in advance that he is out of there. He is still leaving and they are understandably bereft.
This is a great text for any congregation in transition to dwell on. Clergy of all sorts come and go. Some we are sorry about, others less so. But nonetheless, it is easy to feel as if the rats are leaving the ship. One of the reasons we have interim clergy is so that these lonesome times can have a measure of continuity instead of a different face at the altar and in the pulpit each week. But we interims are a lot like Jesus. We tell you the same thing he did. I will stay and I will leave. In my case I promise to be with you until the Vestry calls a new rector for you to deal with. I hope that I represent the spirit of God well in assuring you of your adequacy for the work the spirit gives you to do. When a new advocate comes I will be gone, very likely forever. For some this will be a relief, for others not so much. But it doesn’t matter in the long run. Our call is to live in the promises of God that she has sent an advocate and with that spirit we will do what needs to be done.

Easter 5, Year C, May 2, 2010

2010-05-03T10:57:00.000-04:00

Acts 11:1-18, Psalm 148, Revelation 21:1-6, John 13:31-35
Love one Another, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

In the movie “The Hitman” children are trained from early childhood to be completely obedient, self-contained and ruthlessly efficient killers. They all wear black suits and black ties, a little bit like Mormon missionaries who are indoctrinated the same way except for the killing skills. On the back of each assassin’s shaved head is a permanent bar code. These men are a lot like professional athletes. They are put into inventory and tracked. When they wear out they are terminated. They are replaceable commodities just short of robot.

These assassins move about all over the world with their bar codes showing and no one ever notices. If I had a bar code on the back of my skull, I think someone would stare at it least once. One of you would probably ask me what my sell-by date was.

There are a number of web sites which prove that all bar codes are the mark of the beast because they all have the code for number 666 in them. For folks intent on inventing conspiracies there is an intricate interpretation which might make it appear that bar codes contain the number 666, but they simply do not. If you see someone who looks like me with a bar code on the back of his head, you would be smart to run though.

There are lots of things to be afraid of these days. We went to a church once where the rector assured us that he and the other priest used sanitizer before administering communion. He went on an on about it. Suddenly something that had never occurred to me to worry about was being served up in scary relief. I didn’t see any bar codes, but I did begin to wonder.

I saw a diocesan website with a major tab on the landing page subtly entitled PANDEMIC!!! They might just as well have put 666 up in lights. What in heavens name is the gospel furthering purpose in jacking up the terror alerts?

This is all by way of agreeing that barcodes and websites and yes terror alerts are now an integral part of our daily experience. They are very useful tools. In the hands of demagogues and most governments they are an insidious way of exerting mind control. I remember a satiric film about politics in which the political advisor says to the candidate: “You just keep smiling and we’ll take care of scaring the crap out of them”

Aside from ravings of paranoiacs about bar codes, it is simply true that we are known, deeply known by the electronic surveillance and record keeping capacities of computers.

It is also true that we are known by one larger than a computer. That one is God. Here the Good News from the First Letter of John. “{10} In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins. {11} Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. {12} No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us.”

God knows more about us than our bar code could ever tell. This God chose us. The God who chose us loves us. We did not choose God, God chose us. God continues to choose us. John knew this so well that he said “God’s love is perfected in us.” He means, God’s love is being made perfect. God is not done choosing us, nor is God’s love all done in us.

God can love us because as I Corinthians would have it; now we are truly known, not through a glass darkly, and not through the partial screen of a bar code, but known only as a creator could know.

When the Gospel calls us to love one another, it does not call us to push a button and switch on nice. It calls us to a lot more than that.

Victor Frankl put it this way:
"The more weakly one stands on the ground of belief the more he clings with both hands to the dogma which separates it from other beliefs; on the other hand, the more firmly one stands on the ground of his faith, the more he has both hands free to reach out to those who cannot share that belief."

So Love has been perfected in us. Why? So that fear won’t run us, even the kind of fear that our electronically controlled universe engenders in us.

For how long is love perfected in us? What does it matter? Our struggle with fear never ends. I heard someone say recently that Jesus was not afraid. What nonsense. Of course he was afraid.. He was deleted, cancelled, removed from inventory altogether. That is something worth being afraid of.

What does perfected love look like? It looks like human beings working with their God to be fully human. To stand and say with the rogue assassin: “I am not a piece of your inventory. I am me, a child of God who has been loved so much that I can only love in return.”

Easter 4, Year C, April 25, 2010

2010-04-23T12:03:00.000-04:00

Acts 9:36-43, Psalm 23, Revelation 7:9-17, John 10:22-30

Good Shepherd, preached by Rev. Peter Courtney

He was close to invisible most of the time. Richard was supposed to teach theology; instead he hid out in his apartment and drank. He was enabled in all this by an absent administration, a faculty which was 50% alcoholic and numerous student friends, paramours and hangers on who pretended to take care of him.

He did come to teach a class from time to time. He did a Glen Beck impression by drawing circles and arrows on the blackboard over and over again. The circles on the board mirrored his lecture which went around in circles. Out of this Hieronamos Bosch morass Richard would say with all of his waning force, “Don’t become hucksters.”

We knew what he meant. Don’t sell out. Don’t allow the power of the Gospel to be watered down into convenient, cute, effete religious trinkets. Tell the truth. Don’t bring contempt on the theological enterprise. Don’t be wimps. In a word: Be good shepherds.

Jesus tells us in the scripture today from John 10 that he is a good shepherd. His hearers knew that a “good shepherd” is an oxymoron. There is no such thing. You can be “good” or a “shepherd” but not both. Shepherds were always bad; good for kicking around, abusing, mistrusting and firing.

So there is plenty of irony in this statement. Jesus chooses be somebody and do something well that no one else wants to be or do.

All shepherds are hirelings. Shepherds were people paid a pittance to take out the trash, to teach children, care for the sick, pastor congregations. There was no career path except death and no advancement opportunities. A Chief shepherd was in charge of a bunch of unemployable layabouts. Worse, the chief shepherd was caught between his useless employees and an irascible management. Most people when given a choice turned down the chief shepherd job.

Jesus knows his sheep and calls them by name. He really knows them. He knows they are lost, silly, easily distracted and valuable to the owner.

Debby and I saw the perfect shepherd in Queenstown, NZ a couple years ago. Her name was Val. She was a border collie. Her zeal for the sheep was so huge she had to be tied up or she would herd sheep 25 hours a day and literally run herself to death. “Best dog I ever saw,” said her droll owner.

Val was living out her breeding and DNA. She knew nothing else, just sheep. A couple of whistles and a wave and she ran up a 1,000 foot hill and 45 seconds later came back driving some sheep only she knew were there. It was a real tour de force. She was a shepherd; she was no hireling but a true amateur.

Most people who do ministry do it because they can’tnot do it. It is part of their DNA. Like Val they have a passion for ministry, for shepherding. They know of no other way to be and do. Their life is one of service and compassion. They are not hirelings, but good shepherds.

Good shepherds run the same risk as Val the sheepdog. They risk of burning out; they live in peril of having nothing left for self at the end of the day; they end up spent, empty and useless to themselves and others.

I am convinced this is not what Jesus wants for Val or for us. Jesus is the good shepherd. He lays down his life so that we do not have to. Jesus lays down his life so that we can pick ours up. In the power of the risen and ascended Christ we pick up our lives and walk as light in the midst of darkness. We will not find our way if we have succumbed to guilt or compulsion or even our own DNA and lay our life down.

Our God is one of life and light; not of darkness and death. Jesus who is our life, lights our way as we become Good Shepherds ourselves. If we are spending our spiritual and physical capital in a frenetic race to be good shepherds and end up effete, tired, worn out, cynical, angry, we have lost the race.

Our first task is to shepherd ourselves. This we do by defining ourselves for ourselves. If we don’t decide who we are, someone else will be happy to try. When we define ourselves others will try to change the definition. They will say we are not good shepherds; they will call us names, just as Jesus said they would. We use the power of his resurrection to be good shepherds. We maintain our identity against the principalities and powers of culture, of local coercion, of insularity, bigotry and other’s self-interest. We will be called selfish and full of ourselves. Then we will know that we are good shepherds indeed. We have found our home and have taken ourselves there. The one who brings us home, is Jesus.

Easter 3, Year C, April 18, 2010

2010-04-16T12:10:00.000-04:00

Acts 9:1-6 [7-20], Psalm 30, Revelation 5:11-14, John 21:1-19
Do you love me? Preached by Rev. Peter Courtney
Joe Garagiola tells about a time when the great Stan Musial came to the plate in a critical game. Musial was at the peak of his long and illustrious career. Opposing him was a rookie pitcher who fervently wished he was somewhere else. Garagiola was catching and called for a fastball which the pitcher shook off; Joe signaled for a curve and again the pitcher shook him off. After the pitcher shook off even his specialty pitch they had a mound conference. "I've called for every pitch in the book; what do you want to throw?"
"Nothing," was the pitcher's shaky reply. "I just want to hold on to the ball as long as I can."
Once again our hero Simon Peter is on the mound. As usual he is consistent. When in doubt, go to work. “I’m going fishing” he says. His partners decide to go with him. So far in his career as a rookie apostle Peter has been striking out pretty regularly. When given several chances to man up and say he is one of Jesus’ followers he pretends he doesn’t know who he is. He just holds onto the ball. Now he is on his own turf, his very own Galilee. He is a professional fisherman who catches nothing until Jesus tells him to fish on the other side of the boat. How patronizing and insulting! Even complete fishing rookies know this suggestion is bogus. Perhaps out of desperation Peter complies and catches enough fish to represent the mission to the whole world.
Jesus is not done with poor Peter. Jesus gives him the third degree repeatedly asking how much Peter loves him. There is plenty of irony to go around. Peter is still sticks to his story claiming he loves Jesus more than anything. We know he loves Jesus more than anything except his own skin. Jesus chooses Peter, perhaps the most gifted and most flawed of all of his disciples.
Jesus is electing Peter to a job that will cost Peter more than he knows. He uses the common household tale about what it is like to be young and independent and then old and dependent.
It turns out that feeding Jesus’ sheep and lambs will be the easiest part of Simon Peter’s new job.
Jeff Bullock tells the story of a time he was waiting for a hot dog on a New York corner. No sooner had he paid for his hot dog than a man came up and arm wrestled him for it yelling: “Feed me, feed me!” The hot dog seller offered to feed the man who cried out: “No I want him to feed me.” Jeff won his hot dog back but ended up diminished and ashamed. He had enough money on him to buy 20 hot dogs and he had refused to do so. In telling us the story Jeff is admitting he missed a ministry opportunity.
Ministry means God ties a belt around us and leads us places we do not want to go.
Garrison Keillor writes about Larry, a resident of the fictional town of Lake Wobegon. Larry was saved 12 times at the Lutheran Church a tradition not known for its evangelical enthusiasm. It never occurred to the pastor to call for penitents to come to the altar of forgiveness. He had just preached a dull sermon on stewardship. But there was Larry Sorenson crumpled up at the communion rail weeping and wailing and confessing his sins.
Keillor says: "Even we fundamentalists got tired of him. God doesn’t mean for you to feel guilty all your life. There comes a time when you should dry your tears and join the building committee and grapple with the problems of the church furnace and the church roof. But Larry just kept repenting and repenting.”
--Garrison Keillor, Leaving Home
(New York: Viking Press, 1987), 182.
It’s true isn’t it? Religious feelings of repentance and amendment of life are so, well, religious. But then game of life begins and we are on the mound clutching our ball hoping against hope that we will be magically delivered from ever having to make the pitch.
God can and does call the competent and willing. Unfortunately for all the rest of us God calls us too. Just be aware that what you catch may be very surprising.
Even more surprising are the choices God makes. He chooses impetuous, reckless, feckless Peter. God chooses Paul of Tarsus a religious bigot and fanatic. When the inning is over, with any luck we will have made our pitch because God we answered God’s call to get in the game.