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
Friday, April 22, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
First Sunday in Lent, Year A, March 13, 2011
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.
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
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.
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.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Eighth Sunday of Epiphany, Year A, 27 February 2011
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.
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.
Friday, February 18, 2011
6 Epiphany, Year A, 13 February 2011
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.
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.
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