2 Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33; Psalm 130; Ephesians 4:25-5:2;
John 6:35, 41-51
Preached by Rev. Lou Scales
This particular time of the year makes predictable the images that will fill television, video screens, smart phones, notebooks, laptops, desktop computer screens and radio newscasts. The political primaries and runoffs are, for the most part, finished. As we prepare for the elections coming in November, we will spend much time and energy looking after what this or that candidate says (as compared to what he or she said about similar or different issues 3 or 5 or 10 or 25 years ago.)
As an example of what this has looked like in the past, eight years ago, in the hot summer of the national conventions when, like now, presidential nominations were at stake, one PBS news broadcast reported that there were approximately 5,005 Republican Convention Delegates, approximately 5,005 Republican Convention Alternate Delegates, and approximately 15,000 members of the media covering the words and actions of those delegates and alternate delegates, all present in Philadelphia that year. I don’t know, but I suspect the numbers will be similar in both Tampa and Charlotte this year. I’ll leave you to do the arithmetic and analysis about the extent and depth of coverage. Do I dare speculate that they were (and will be) listening to each other, or were they (and will they be) only talking to each other?
In either case, make no mistake, the words were and are important. What we say, and what we understand are critical to the ways we live and move and have our being. They are the ways we transmit ideas, and feelings and thoughts. They are the ways we provide guidance, orders, admonitions, warnings, praise, condemnation, despair and hope. It is with words that we encourage those who are downtrodden. It is with words we attempt to convey our efforts to solve the mysteries of disease and poverty, of peace and economic prosperity. It is with words that we search desperately for the viable alternatives to hostility and prejudice, hatred and war.
In Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, he speaks of falsehood, anger, thievery, evil talk, bitterness, wrath, wrangling, slander, malice, and grieving the Holy Spirit in general. And he was speaking to the Ephesians. Seems as though at times, Paul could just as easily been speaking to the Washingtonians, the Atlantans, the New Yorkers, …do I dare say the Augustans and even those in Columbia County? Paul points accurately to the ways we abuse our communication, sully our civil discourse, and make our basic conversations weapons of bloodless cruelty. Paul’s practical advice to the Ephesians, and to us, is, “This is no way to run a community, a village, a city, a state, a nation.” As you have probably noticed, there is seldom a week that passes without the media informing us of a politician, a city, county, state or federal official, who has come under fire for his or her use of words. Bottom line in some circles – What you say can get you fired.
In today’s Gospel, Jesus is discussing the kingdom in terms of his relationship with God, and how what God has provided to Jesus will be made known to those who come to him and follow him. John’s gospel has regaled us with the stories of what Jesus did at the sending out of the disciples, the feeding of the five thousand, his early morning stroll on the Sea of Galilee. Up to this point, the crowd is with him, soaking up the spectacular demonstrations as veritable signs from God that something really big is happening. Jesus, WE might say, is on a roll. Seeing is believing, and even the storm-tossed disciples in the boat could not for long speak of ghosts once Jesus stepped out of the water, into the boat, and told the sea to be quiet.
After being fed miraculously and well with only 5 loaves and two fish, the crowd that followed Jesus catches up with him again, but doesn’t seem to know what it wants from him. Jesus then explains to them his relationship with God, and why Jesus has come into the world. Philip Apol suggests that this is where, in John’s account, Jesus really gets himself into trouble. It’s almost as though, in John’s Gospel, it is what Jesus says, more than what he does, that finally brings him to grief. If only Jesus had allowed the miracles to speak for themselves, he might have avoided significant unpleasantness. His works were getting rave reviews; it was his words that got him crucified.
Words do matter. They matter in the context of interpreting the miracles so that they point to the kingdom of God, not just to themselves as mere grandstand parlor tricks. Jesus was so sure of this that he bet his life the words were necessary.
Words do matter. They matter in the context of how we live together as people of faith in the community of faith. Paul was just as sure that words spoken in love and compassion, words spoken in mercy and hope, words spoken that bring God’s grace to life before our eyes—these are words that bring the Kingdom of God into our midst.
In the sacrament of Holy Baptism, we welcome into the household of faith, really, really young people, young adults, and sometimes, those who have the wisdom of age and experience. This celebration of the Sacrament of Holy Baptism, as you well know, involves water, oil for anointing, and words. Words we ask the parents and godparents and other sponsors to say on behalf of our baptismal candidates; words we ask them to say concerning their commitment to these children and adults, and their growth in faith; words we, as a parish, as a church, affirm and support as we pledge to uphold them in their new lives in the Christian faith. Some of the things we will say are as old as the church itself. All of the things we say must be as new and renewing as God’s mercy every day.
Once the Sacrament of Baptism is completed, then the real work begins. Those children of God that we baptize in Christ’s name will continue that marvelous journey of growing and learning. And we will be here, showing them and telling them and teaching them. And, trust me, they will learn – for better and for worse.
We will teach them how valuable they are by the ways we regard and respect one another when they are around. They will see us in action; they will hear us in conversation. From us, these brand new Christians will learn compassion and caring, sarcasm and selfishness. They will be able to discern when we say words of grace and reconciliation, or when we say words of judgment and arrogance. We will teach them with our actions, and we will teach them with our words. In all these instances, let us ensure we teach all of them faithfully and well.
Our words and our actions matter in this business of faith, and in this business of living together as God’s people. I believe this, and I today I say it to you in the name of the Father, the Son and The Holy Spirit. AMEN.
Monday, August 13, 2012
9 Pentecost, Year B, 29 July 2012
2 Samuel 11:1-15; Psalm 14; Ephesians 3:14-21; Saint John 6:1-21
Preached by Rev. Lou Scales
You and I use the term “gifted” in much the same way Webster’s intended, that is, as an adjective, generally describing a person as having a natural ability or aptitude, or more notably describing someone with superior intelligence. With that kind of description, you and I generally think of the child prodigy whose talent and capabilities make them candidates for graduation from high school by the time they are 12 years old, and possessing masters’ degrees by the tender age of 15.
More cynically, we may even think of them compassionately with such observations as, “Oh, the poor dear will not have a normal childhood, no good friends, and will grow up without the normal childhood most of us come to label as good and desirable.” In fact, the most prevalent stereotype that comes to my mind is the somewhat condescending way we discuss “gifted” people as having enormous skills in difficult intellectual areas, but having very little of what we might call “common sense”. While they may be good at rocket science, they don’t possess the common sense, as it were, to “get in out of the rain”. In so many cases, people identified as “gifted” become targets of either our envy or our pity.
If this is, indeed, the case, I wonder what you might be thinking right now of Paul’s words to the Christians in Ephesus in general, and how we think about Paul’s observations and guidance today in particular.
I don’t know, but I suspect if someone asked you if you are a gifted person, you would probably mumble some kind of modest denial, and quickly try to shift the focus of the conversation. And you probably would do this for the very reasons we just mentioned. It would be considered rude and self-promoting to go around describing ourselves as gifted, because in routine conversation, we use the word “gifted” in much the same way we use the word “talented”. Since we generally understand “talented” to mean being better at something than most other people, it is generally prudent to be cautious about identifying ourselves in such a way.
Fr. Frank Wade reminds us that “being gifted in the Biblical sense, is not the same thing as being talented. Not all of us are talented, but by God’s design, all of us are gifted. As you heard earlier, at the reading of the Second Lesson, Paul tells us, “..each of us was given grace according to the measure of Christ’s gift. The gifts he gave were that some would be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers…” Obviously, these examples do not exhaust God’s gift list. There are many, many ways to be gifted by God.
One way to understand these gifts is to see them as the raw material and the tools God gives us for a certain purpose. And that purpose, about which Paul is very clear, is for building the Body of Christ. You see, this is not about how we use our gifts for our own benefit. It’s about how we use our gifts to benefit this community of faith.
Our gifts may well be the obvious ones that come to mind immediately ~ like abilities, aptitudes, interests and enthusiasms. Some are less obvious, like the insights we have gained in growing up where we did, when we did. These are the wonderful insights that may well have been born of hard times. They are the insights we have from enjoying affluence, or enduring poverty; of working for education, or overcoming addiction; of stepping up to take responsibility, or surviving abuse. The GIFTS of our race, culture, economics, religion ~ the gifts of our heritage are all part of what we have to work with in life. And they are gifts.
You may have the gift of being high-strung or laid back; happy, serious, depressed, concerned, anxious, eager, funny, emotional, supportive or confrontive. Some of these gifts are not necessarily ones we would choose, but we have them ~ they are what has been given to us to be about the business of life in this world as God’s people. Who you are, in fact, is God’s gift to you.
Along with those gifts that make up who you are as a unique and wonderfully made Child of God, are the gifts all of us possess in some measure. These are the gifts of time, place and opportunity. It is up to us to use our gifts when we have the opportunity, where we have the chance. I guarantee you, there are many, many priests and pastors who could do a better job this morning bringing this sermon to you.
Only trouble is, they are not here ~ I am. The gift of being in this place, at this time, has been given to me, and not to someone far better qualified. It is, and is, for me, a profound gift of opportunity.
There may well be those who can sing God’s praise in a much richer way than you think you can. But if you are the one with the gifts of time, place and opportunity, it is up to you to use them for the glory of God, and the building of the Body of Christ.
We might think our gifts are meager, and not worth much. We might even wish we had other gifts, or had gifts that were like others we admire. But, my friends, we are who we are, and we have the gifts we have. No amount of wishing for different sets of gifts will change them. There’s a wonderful story from the Talmud about a man named Simon. Simon wanted always to be more like Moses ~ that was his constant worry. He kept going back to the Rabbi and saying, “Rabbi I must lead my life so that I live more like Moses did.” Finally, after many discussions on this, the Rabbi told Simon, “ Simon, God will not ask you why you were not more like Moses. God will ask you why you were not more like Simon.”
We have our own lives to live, and I do not know why you have the gifts you have, and I have the ones I have. I only know we have them for the same reason ~ to build the Body of Christ, which we call the church, to live in service for others, to uphold one another in our journeys of faith. That is the measure of God’s grace we have all been given.
When the disciples set out on the Sea of Galilee toward Capernaum, they did so after having their gifts tested to the maximum extent possible. In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus had earlier sent them out, two by two, to cast out unclean spirits, anoint the sick and heal them. Upon their return, they had to bury John the Baptist, beheaded as a gift to Herod’s stepdaughter. Then, on their way to a retreat, a crowd of people seeking to hear this Jesus overtook them. One thing led to another, and they managed to take what meager food they had, offer it to God for blessing, and feed five thousand people. Now they were headed for Capernaum, into a headwind against which they could barely make progress, no matter how hard they rowed. Modern day writers would call it sheer irony that the boat ride into the headwinds became the metaphor for the journeys they had just made. They used their gifts of Jesus’ power and their personalities to cast out demons, to heal the sick. But the more they did, the more people kept coming. In today’s language and action, the Apostles did all the things a committed church could and should do – they cast out the demons, they fed the hungry, they cared for those to whom they were sent, they prepared meals for the elderly, and they just couldn’t make any progress on their own, NOT UNTIL JESUS GOT IN THE BOAT WITH THEM.
Does it occur to you that we in the parish do all manner of good things in our communities, but sometimes overlook the basic and fundamental reason for us to do those things? And that reason is the call and the grace of the Risen Lord. The One who so marvelously gives us our gifts must be in our midst as we use those gifts to build the community of faith, to reach out to those who so desperately need to be touched by the grace of God, and the love of Christ.
We must continue giving our selves and our gifts of time and place and opportunity for the service of those around us, and in that process, we must never forget WHOSE we are, and WHO is present with us in all that we do. When we set out to row this ship we call the church out into the headwinds of this chaotic world and all the pain and frustration that is around us, we need to make sure Jesus is in the boat, calming the seas and blessing our gifts to serve the multitudes of people who so desperately need a Savior.
Preached by Rev. Lou Scales
You and I use the term “gifted” in much the same way Webster’s intended, that is, as an adjective, generally describing a person as having a natural ability or aptitude, or more notably describing someone with superior intelligence. With that kind of description, you and I generally think of the child prodigy whose talent and capabilities make them candidates for graduation from high school by the time they are 12 years old, and possessing masters’ degrees by the tender age of 15.
More cynically, we may even think of them compassionately with such observations as, “Oh, the poor dear will not have a normal childhood, no good friends, and will grow up without the normal childhood most of us come to label as good and desirable.” In fact, the most prevalent stereotype that comes to my mind is the somewhat condescending way we discuss “gifted” people as having enormous skills in difficult intellectual areas, but having very little of what we might call “common sense”. While they may be good at rocket science, they don’t possess the common sense, as it were, to “get in out of the rain”. In so many cases, people identified as “gifted” become targets of either our envy or our pity.
If this is, indeed, the case, I wonder what you might be thinking right now of Paul’s words to the Christians in Ephesus in general, and how we think about Paul’s observations and guidance today in particular.
I don’t know, but I suspect if someone asked you if you are a gifted person, you would probably mumble some kind of modest denial, and quickly try to shift the focus of the conversation. And you probably would do this for the very reasons we just mentioned. It would be considered rude and self-promoting to go around describing ourselves as gifted, because in routine conversation, we use the word “gifted” in much the same way we use the word “talented”. Since we generally understand “talented” to mean being better at something than most other people, it is generally prudent to be cautious about identifying ourselves in such a way.
Fr. Frank Wade reminds us that “being gifted in the Biblical sense, is not the same thing as being talented. Not all of us are talented, but by God’s design, all of us are gifted. As you heard earlier, at the reading of the Second Lesson, Paul tells us, “..each of us was given grace according to the measure of Christ’s gift. The gifts he gave were that some would be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers…” Obviously, these examples do not exhaust God’s gift list. There are many, many ways to be gifted by God.
One way to understand these gifts is to see them as the raw material and the tools God gives us for a certain purpose. And that purpose, about which Paul is very clear, is for building the Body of Christ. You see, this is not about how we use our gifts for our own benefit. It’s about how we use our gifts to benefit this community of faith.
Our gifts may well be the obvious ones that come to mind immediately ~ like abilities, aptitudes, interests and enthusiasms. Some are less obvious, like the insights we have gained in growing up where we did, when we did. These are the wonderful insights that may well have been born of hard times. They are the insights we have from enjoying affluence, or enduring poverty; of working for education, or overcoming addiction; of stepping up to take responsibility, or surviving abuse. The GIFTS of our race, culture, economics, religion ~ the gifts of our heritage are all part of what we have to work with in life. And they are gifts.
You may have the gift of being high-strung or laid back; happy, serious, depressed, concerned, anxious, eager, funny, emotional, supportive or confrontive. Some of these gifts are not necessarily ones we would choose, but we have them ~ they are what has been given to us to be about the business of life in this world as God’s people. Who you are, in fact, is God’s gift to you.
Along with those gifts that make up who you are as a unique and wonderfully made Child of God, are the gifts all of us possess in some measure. These are the gifts of time, place and opportunity. It is up to us to use our gifts when we have the opportunity, where we have the chance. I guarantee you, there are many, many priests and pastors who could do a better job this morning bringing this sermon to you.
Only trouble is, they are not here ~ I am. The gift of being in this place, at this time, has been given to me, and not to someone far better qualified. It is, and is, for me, a profound gift of opportunity.
There may well be those who can sing God’s praise in a much richer way than you think you can. But if you are the one with the gifts of time, place and opportunity, it is up to you to use them for the glory of God, and the building of the Body of Christ.
We might think our gifts are meager, and not worth much. We might even wish we had other gifts, or had gifts that were like others we admire. But, my friends, we are who we are, and we have the gifts we have. No amount of wishing for different sets of gifts will change them. There’s a wonderful story from the Talmud about a man named Simon. Simon wanted always to be more like Moses ~ that was his constant worry. He kept going back to the Rabbi and saying, “Rabbi I must lead my life so that I live more like Moses did.” Finally, after many discussions on this, the Rabbi told Simon, “ Simon, God will not ask you why you were not more like Moses. God will ask you why you were not more like Simon.”
We have our own lives to live, and I do not know why you have the gifts you have, and I have the ones I have. I only know we have them for the same reason ~ to build the Body of Christ, which we call the church, to live in service for others, to uphold one another in our journeys of faith. That is the measure of God’s grace we have all been given.
When the disciples set out on the Sea of Galilee toward Capernaum, they did so after having their gifts tested to the maximum extent possible. In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus had earlier sent them out, two by two, to cast out unclean spirits, anoint the sick and heal them. Upon their return, they had to bury John the Baptist, beheaded as a gift to Herod’s stepdaughter. Then, on their way to a retreat, a crowd of people seeking to hear this Jesus overtook them. One thing led to another, and they managed to take what meager food they had, offer it to God for blessing, and feed five thousand people. Now they were headed for Capernaum, into a headwind against which they could barely make progress, no matter how hard they rowed. Modern day writers would call it sheer irony that the boat ride into the headwinds became the metaphor for the journeys they had just made. They used their gifts of Jesus’ power and their personalities to cast out demons, to heal the sick. But the more they did, the more people kept coming. In today’s language and action, the Apostles did all the things a committed church could and should do – they cast out the demons, they fed the hungry, they cared for those to whom they were sent, they prepared meals for the elderly, and they just couldn’t make any progress on their own, NOT UNTIL JESUS GOT IN THE BOAT WITH THEM.
Does it occur to you that we in the parish do all manner of good things in our communities, but sometimes overlook the basic and fundamental reason for us to do those things? And that reason is the call and the grace of the Risen Lord. The One who so marvelously gives us our gifts must be in our midst as we use those gifts to build the community of faith, to reach out to those who so desperately need to be touched by the grace of God, and the love of Christ.
We must continue giving our selves and our gifts of time and place and opportunity for the service of those around us, and in that process, we must never forget WHOSE we are, and WHO is present with us in all that we do. When we set out to row this ship we call the church out into the headwinds of this chaotic world and all the pain and frustration that is around us, we need to make sure Jesus is in the boat, calming the seas and blessing our gifts to serve the multitudes of people who so desperately need a Savior.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
6 Pentecost, Year B, July 8, 2012
2 Samuel 5: 1-5, 9-10; Psalm 48; 2 Corinthians 12: 2-10; St. Mark 6:1-13
Preached by Rev. Lou Scales
During the broadcast of the final round of the FedEx/St. Jude Golf Classic from Memphis on the 25th of June 2000, an interesting bit of conversation took place among the commentators during particular shots of one Loren Roberts (who, by the way, finished 8th and in the money that year). During Loren Roberts’s setup of a difficult birdie putt, the conversation turned to the observation that Roberts’ hometown is Memphis, and he wanted to do well before the hometown crowd. After all, doing well is what Loren Roberts’ fellow townspeople would expect.
In dealing with Mark’s Gospel for today from a slightly different and more extreme context, John Claypool relates the following story, credited to the works of Soren Kierkegaard. Kierkegaard tells of a traveling circus that moved from town to town in his native Denmark. One afternoon they had set up on the outskirts of a village. About 45 minutes before the performance was to begin, the circus tent caught fire. It so happened that the clown was the only one in the entire circus troop who was fully dressed, and so he was dispatched into the village to get help.
He did his job extraordinarily well. He apprized everyone he encountered of the emergency, and implored their assistance. However, the problem was that this one was dressed as a clown, and across the years people had developed certain expectations of this sort of person. Therefore, they heard him in light of how they saw him. They concluded that all these wild antics and talk of fire were simply a new way of drumming up a crowd. It was not until they looked on the horizon and saw the ominous red glow that they realized that at this moment, this one was not doing a clown act at all, but was a human being, bearing an extremely urgent message.
One has to wonder if the upstanding citizens of Nazareth had, over the years, seen much too much carpenter behavior out of Jesus. After all, he and his father Joseph had probably built cradles for their children, tables for taking their meals, perhaps even remodeled some of their houses as their family constellations, and therefore, their accommodation needs had changed over the years. This was Jesus, son of Joseph and Mary, the son of a carpenter; one who had grown up here, learned his father’s trade, and was a familiar part of the landscape of Nazareth.
Therefore, when they heard the words of a teacher, or a prophet, talking about things carpenters in those days didn’t discuss with much facility – it isn’t too surprising that they either sold him way short, ignored him completely, or worse, took exceeding offense that he should pretend to speak as someone other than a carpenter. Jesus was a familiar face, from a familiar family, and was expected to do and say familiar things. The past intruded upon the present in such a way that the words of the hometown hero fell on not only deaf, but probably hostile ears.
You and I have the capability to see what is before us in terms we understand from our history. And that capability is stronger and more certain than the possibility of hearing a new and relevant message from one of our own who may just be bringing the Saving Word.
But, for better or worse, that is who we are. That is how we learn. We learn from our experience. We learn from what we see, what we hear, what we observe. Then we translate those learnings into the rules by which we learn other things. But the danger in learning from experience is that it may keep us from the newest revelation from God, if that revelation is delivered by someone or something that is familiar to us. At its best, this is called familiarity – at its worst, it is called stereotyping or prejudice. I would suggest to you that ONE operational definition of prejudice and stereotyping is the inability to hear or experience something new and revealing from an all too familiar source. It is not only possible, but likely, that we resist insight if it comes from people we know, or people we have already written off.
A six year old lad came home with a note from his teacher in which it was suggested that he be taken out of school. He was, in the words of his teacher’s note, “Too stupid to learn. That boy was Thomas Alva Edison.
Benjamin Franklin’s mother-in-law to be, hesitated at letting her daughter marry a printer. There were already two printing presses in the United States, and she feared the country might not be able to support a third.
When Jesus came to Nazareth, talking differently, and about different things, he was rejected. What Jesus said, and how he said it, did not fit with what the people of Nazareth expected to hear from a carpenter, and a carpenter’s son (especially not the son of Mary and Joseph!) All Jesus was able to do then was set up a health clinic. In the words of Mark’s Gospel, “And he could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them.”
In some sense, no one wants to be the bearer of unwelcome news. Particularly if that news challenges the very fiber of the being, the very existence of that community, and the closely held cultural assumptions upon which communities build heritage, honor, and the deeply held belief that they are doing God’s will and following God’s commandments just as faithfully as their forebears did. If you happen to be the person bearing that news, you know full well the danger you encounter. Lots of folk, sometimes you and me included, upon hearing news we don’t want to hear, do the only reasonable and rational thing available to us – we shoot the messenger - right? After all, by shooting the messenger, the unwelcome and uncomfortable revelation will be made to go away, right?
Like you and me, if the Nazarenes could discredit the messenger, then that invalidates the message. And once the message is invalidated, we can ignore it, RIGHT? It is, then, as though we never heard it.
I want to give you two scenarios, diametrically opposed, that illustrate how we see the reality of God’s activity in human history as it sometimes crashes in upon us.
One is the report of the priest who gave Martin Luther his catechetical instruction. It seems that as he entered the room of his catechecism class, he always took off his hat and bowed to these children of coal miners. When asked why he did this, the priest replied, “Who knows who might be sitting in that group. One of these lads might well change the world”.
The other is an episode that took place out from Hodgensville, Kentucky in February of 1809. A rural mail carrier was making his rounds and encountered a backwoodsman who eagerly asked him about what was happening in the larger world. The mail carrier told him about brewing hostility between the United States and Great Britain, about the possibility of a National Bank, and then he turned the question around, and said, “Tell me, what of significance is happening in these parts?” The backwoodsman replied, “Aw, shucks, mister, nothing happens in these parts. Last night Nancy Hanks and Tom Lincoln had a baby, but, shucks, mister, nothin’ ever happens back here.”
Jesus experienced the complete rejection of the people of Nazareth – those people who knew him best. Now if that could happen to Jesus, the Son of God, then what about those of us who listen to God’s call, and in our faithful response to that call make the effort to change our lives and our behavior so that our lives become living witnesses to the Gospel? What about those who hear the message of the goodness of faith and want desperately to share it? If Jesus couldn’t get to first base in his own hometown, then I don’t have a chance!
The Apostle Paul’s letter to the church in Corinth talks about his own doubts and fears for his weakness, and his earthly shackles that could keep him from proclaiming the gospel that had changed his life forever. Paul tells the Corinthians, very honestly, about weakness, about uncertainty, about fear of rejection and ridicule.
God’s answer to Paul is God’s response to us. “My Grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.”
In the midst of our weakness, in the midst of the familiarity that leaves us questioning God’s power in our lives, the grace of our God is enough. In our weakness, our God gives us strength.
Richard Fairchild reminds us of the power of God to transform our lives and our world with the words from a poem by a Confederate soldier near the end of the Civil War:
I asked for health that I might do greater things,
I was given infirmity that I do better things.
I asked for riches that I might be happy,
I was given poverty that I might be wise.
I asked for power that I might have the praise of men,
I was given weakness that I might feel the need of God…
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life,
I was given life that I might enjoy all things…
I got nothing that I asked for, but everything that I hoped for.
Almost despite myself my unspoken prayers were answered.
I am, among all men, most richly blessed.”
God’s grace was enough to see Our Lord through the withering experience of trying to teach and save the people of Nazareth. God’s grace was enough to both challenge and comfort Saint Paul in his weakness. God’s grace was enough to make Saint Paul understand that the Gospel gives us strength that our own weakness will never overcome. That being the case, I would submit to you that the Great God Almighty, the One who created the whole universe, the One who lives among us now, the One who raised Our Lord from the dead so we might know life eternal, That same Great God Almighty has enough grace to bless our lives, our calling to ministry, our struggles and our joys today, and all our tomorrows.
You and I may, and probably will, know frustration, failure and disappointment. So did our Lord Christ, especially among his own people. You and I will know weakness that will try to convince us it is fruitless to go on. So did Saint Paul. But the message comes to us again and again – God’s grace is enough to overcome all our doubts, our fears, our failures, our weakness. And God’s grace, dear friends, is enough to see us through.
Preached by Rev. Lou Scales
During the broadcast of the final round of the FedEx/St. Jude Golf Classic from Memphis on the 25th of June 2000, an interesting bit of conversation took place among the commentators during particular shots of one Loren Roberts (who, by the way, finished 8th and in the money that year). During Loren Roberts’s setup of a difficult birdie putt, the conversation turned to the observation that Roberts’ hometown is Memphis, and he wanted to do well before the hometown crowd. After all, doing well is what Loren Roberts’ fellow townspeople would expect.
In dealing with Mark’s Gospel for today from a slightly different and more extreme context, John Claypool relates the following story, credited to the works of Soren Kierkegaard. Kierkegaard tells of a traveling circus that moved from town to town in his native Denmark. One afternoon they had set up on the outskirts of a village. About 45 minutes before the performance was to begin, the circus tent caught fire. It so happened that the clown was the only one in the entire circus troop who was fully dressed, and so he was dispatched into the village to get help.
He did his job extraordinarily well. He apprized everyone he encountered of the emergency, and implored their assistance. However, the problem was that this one was dressed as a clown, and across the years people had developed certain expectations of this sort of person. Therefore, they heard him in light of how they saw him. They concluded that all these wild antics and talk of fire were simply a new way of drumming up a crowd. It was not until they looked on the horizon and saw the ominous red glow that they realized that at this moment, this one was not doing a clown act at all, but was a human being, bearing an extremely urgent message.
One has to wonder if the upstanding citizens of Nazareth had, over the years, seen much too much carpenter behavior out of Jesus. After all, he and his father Joseph had probably built cradles for their children, tables for taking their meals, perhaps even remodeled some of their houses as their family constellations, and therefore, their accommodation needs had changed over the years. This was Jesus, son of Joseph and Mary, the son of a carpenter; one who had grown up here, learned his father’s trade, and was a familiar part of the landscape of Nazareth.
Therefore, when they heard the words of a teacher, or a prophet, talking about things carpenters in those days didn’t discuss with much facility – it isn’t too surprising that they either sold him way short, ignored him completely, or worse, took exceeding offense that he should pretend to speak as someone other than a carpenter. Jesus was a familiar face, from a familiar family, and was expected to do and say familiar things. The past intruded upon the present in such a way that the words of the hometown hero fell on not only deaf, but probably hostile ears.
You and I have the capability to see what is before us in terms we understand from our history. And that capability is stronger and more certain than the possibility of hearing a new and relevant message from one of our own who may just be bringing the Saving Word.
But, for better or worse, that is who we are. That is how we learn. We learn from our experience. We learn from what we see, what we hear, what we observe. Then we translate those learnings into the rules by which we learn other things. But the danger in learning from experience is that it may keep us from the newest revelation from God, if that revelation is delivered by someone or something that is familiar to us. At its best, this is called familiarity – at its worst, it is called stereotyping or prejudice. I would suggest to you that ONE operational definition of prejudice and stereotyping is the inability to hear or experience something new and revealing from an all too familiar source. It is not only possible, but likely, that we resist insight if it comes from people we know, or people we have already written off.
A six year old lad came home with a note from his teacher in which it was suggested that he be taken out of school. He was, in the words of his teacher’s note, “Too stupid to learn. That boy was Thomas Alva Edison.
Benjamin Franklin’s mother-in-law to be, hesitated at letting her daughter marry a printer. There were already two printing presses in the United States, and she feared the country might not be able to support a third.
When Jesus came to Nazareth, talking differently, and about different things, he was rejected. What Jesus said, and how he said it, did not fit with what the people of Nazareth expected to hear from a carpenter, and a carpenter’s son (especially not the son of Mary and Joseph!) All Jesus was able to do then was set up a health clinic. In the words of Mark’s Gospel, “And he could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them.”
In some sense, no one wants to be the bearer of unwelcome news. Particularly if that news challenges the very fiber of the being, the very existence of that community, and the closely held cultural assumptions upon which communities build heritage, honor, and the deeply held belief that they are doing God’s will and following God’s commandments just as faithfully as their forebears did. If you happen to be the person bearing that news, you know full well the danger you encounter. Lots of folk, sometimes you and me included, upon hearing news we don’t want to hear, do the only reasonable and rational thing available to us – we shoot the messenger - right? After all, by shooting the messenger, the unwelcome and uncomfortable revelation will be made to go away, right?
Like you and me, if the Nazarenes could discredit the messenger, then that invalidates the message. And once the message is invalidated, we can ignore it, RIGHT? It is, then, as though we never heard it.
I want to give you two scenarios, diametrically opposed, that illustrate how we see the reality of God’s activity in human history as it sometimes crashes in upon us.
One is the report of the priest who gave Martin Luther his catechetical instruction. It seems that as he entered the room of his catechecism class, he always took off his hat and bowed to these children of coal miners. When asked why he did this, the priest replied, “Who knows who might be sitting in that group. One of these lads might well change the world”.
The other is an episode that took place out from Hodgensville, Kentucky in February of 1809. A rural mail carrier was making his rounds and encountered a backwoodsman who eagerly asked him about what was happening in the larger world. The mail carrier told him about brewing hostility between the United States and Great Britain, about the possibility of a National Bank, and then he turned the question around, and said, “Tell me, what of significance is happening in these parts?” The backwoodsman replied, “Aw, shucks, mister, nothing happens in these parts. Last night Nancy Hanks and Tom Lincoln had a baby, but, shucks, mister, nothin’ ever happens back here.”
Jesus experienced the complete rejection of the people of Nazareth – those people who knew him best. Now if that could happen to Jesus, the Son of God, then what about those of us who listen to God’s call, and in our faithful response to that call make the effort to change our lives and our behavior so that our lives become living witnesses to the Gospel? What about those who hear the message of the goodness of faith and want desperately to share it? If Jesus couldn’t get to first base in his own hometown, then I don’t have a chance!
The Apostle Paul’s letter to the church in Corinth talks about his own doubts and fears for his weakness, and his earthly shackles that could keep him from proclaiming the gospel that had changed his life forever. Paul tells the Corinthians, very honestly, about weakness, about uncertainty, about fear of rejection and ridicule.
God’s answer to Paul is God’s response to us. “My Grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.”
In the midst of our weakness, in the midst of the familiarity that leaves us questioning God’s power in our lives, the grace of our God is enough. In our weakness, our God gives us strength.
Richard Fairchild reminds us of the power of God to transform our lives and our world with the words from a poem by a Confederate soldier near the end of the Civil War:
I asked for health that I might do greater things,
I was given infirmity that I do better things.
I asked for riches that I might be happy,
I was given poverty that I might be wise.
I asked for power that I might have the praise of men,
I was given weakness that I might feel the need of God…
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life,
I was given life that I might enjoy all things…
I got nothing that I asked for, but everything that I hoped for.
Almost despite myself my unspoken prayers were answered.
I am, among all men, most richly blessed.”
God’s grace was enough to see Our Lord through the withering experience of trying to teach and save the people of Nazareth. God’s grace was enough to both challenge and comfort Saint Paul in his weakness. God’s grace was enough to make Saint Paul understand that the Gospel gives us strength that our own weakness will never overcome. That being the case, I would submit to you that the Great God Almighty, the One who created the whole universe, the One who lives among us now, the One who raised Our Lord from the dead so we might know life eternal, That same Great God Almighty has enough grace to bless our lives, our calling to ministry, our struggles and our joys today, and all our tomorrows.
You and I may, and probably will, know frustration, failure and disappointment. So did our Lord Christ, especially among his own people. You and I will know weakness that will try to convince us it is fruitless to go on. So did Saint Paul. But the message comes to us again and again – God’s grace is enough to overcome all our doubts, our fears, our failures, our weakness. And God’s grace, dear friends, is enough to see us through.
Monday, June 18, 2012
3 Pentecost, Year B, June 17, 2012
Mark 4: 26-34; Preached by Rev. Dr. Jason M. Haddox
“He did not speak to them except in parables.”
The crowds have come to Jesus, seeking out this wonder-worker, this healer, this teacher from Galilee. Word has gotten around, and they are actively pursuing him. And his chosen teaching tool is not a three-point lecture, nor a Power Point presentation on an overhead screen. He tells them stories. Stories about the Kingdom (or, “kin-dom”) of God. Parables.
Over and over he begins: “The kingdom of God, the kingdom of heaven is like…a farmer sowing seeds in a field. It’s like a tiny plant that grows up big. It’s like a man who had two sons…”
We have to be careful with these stories. Because sometimes we get parables mixed up with proverbs. A parable is not a proverb, or a morality tale. Jesus’ parables are not a religious version of Aesop’s Fables, where there is a single definitive point, intended to help the hearers live better and wiser lives.
A parable is something else altogether.
A parable is a gift. It is simply given—you don’t buy it or take it away from someone else—it is given to you. You may not even want it, just at that moment.
A parable comes in a certain sort of package or box—perhaps very beautifully wrapped. But perhaps it looks really old, and it’s a little banged up at the corners too. Parables are often very old, and they get passed around a lot, and sometimes the edges get knocked off in passing.
A parable has to be unwrapped. It is not obvious right away what might be inside the box. We have to look at it, and take the lid off, and see what is there inside. And even when we think we’ve figured it out, there may be more inside a parable than we can see, just then. We can come back and look at it again later and see something totally different.
Jesus tells two parables this morning, both of them about the kin-dom of God.
First, it’s like someone who goes out and plants seeds in a field. That’s all. The seeds begin to take root and grow—because that’s what seeds do. The farmer watches the seeds grow, but he has no idea why or how this happens, only that it does happen. He watches, and waits, and then when the time is right and the grain is ready to harvest, he steps forward to take part in the work at hand.
This kin-dom Jesus talks about has something to do with watching, and waiting. It has to do with being attentive to subtle changes, and knowing when to stand back and get out of the way, and when to step in and start gathering what is now ready to be gathered. It has to do with not trying to control or rush the process, but being alert to what is going on, ever so quietly, right under the farmer’s own nose.
The parable of the mustard seed is perhaps one of the best known of Jesus’ parables. A tiny seed, planted in the earth, takes root and grows to become “the greatest of all shrubs” and shelters the birds of the air in its branches.
Here’s the problem. A mustard plant is a scraggly, pernicious weed. It will take over your front yard, your back yard, your fields. Jesus is comparing the kingdom of God to the first-century Palestinian equivalent of kudzu.
It’s not a pretty thing.
Somehow, the Kingdom is like a weed that gets out of control if you turn your back on it. And takes over every square inch available. And gives shade and shelter to all sorts of birds and critters and creepy-crawlies. If you leave it alone, it will become as tall as a tree. When it is in flower, it is beautiful with yellow-gold blossoms. But mostly it just looks lanky and leggy and drab.
Jesus knew about lanky and leggy and drab. He himself was a living parable of the Kin-dom, in whom there was (and is) always more to see and discover; who cannot be reduced to a single sound-byte bottom line definition or meaning. And who, at the last, when he hung on the cross, showed in his life and death and resurrection just what this Kin-dom of God was all about.
This dominion of God to which Jesus points, over and over again, is not what his hearers expected—at the time, or twenty centuries later. Neither a political reform of the existing order, nor a total revolution and overthrow of the powers and social structures from top to bottom, the Kin-dom of God is something else altogether.
It works by its own mysterious potency and power, in its own time. We don’t get to control or manage it—only to let it be what it is, and prepare our own hearts (that is, our whole selves) to see it appear.
When we see it—in whatever place, or person, or situation, or manner—we are invited into the mystery. We are invited to rise up and help harvest the ripe grain; we are invited to climb into the branches of the tree where birds and beasts and all sorts of God’s critters are to be found. And they, and the tree of life itself, probably won’t look quite the way we think they should.
So take “should” out of your vocabulary, at least for now. Because we don’t get to control, or manage, or decide what God’s kin-dom will look like.
It’s not up to us. It’s bigger, and deeper, and wider than we can even imagine. And higher, and broader, and grander. But it’s also smaller, and quieter, and lower. So we have to keep our eyes open for it. We have the chance to look for it, and discover it, always and everywhere. For it is all around us, for us to see as Christ sees. For us to be the Body of Christ, in our own place and time.
May it be so for us; may it be so among us. Today, and tomorrow, and all the days to come.
Mark 4: 26-34; Preached by Rev. Dr. Jason M. Haddox
“He did not speak to them except in parables.”
The crowds have come to Jesus, seeking out this wonder-worker, this healer, this teacher from Galilee. Word has gotten around, and they are actively pursuing him. And his chosen teaching tool is not a three-point lecture, nor a Power Point presentation on an overhead screen. He tells them stories. Stories about the Kingdom (or, “kin-dom”) of God. Parables.
Over and over he begins: “The kingdom of God, the kingdom of heaven is like…a farmer sowing seeds in a field. It’s like a tiny plant that grows up big. It’s like a man who had two sons…”
We have to be careful with these stories. Because sometimes we get parables mixed up with proverbs. A parable is not a proverb, or a morality tale. Jesus’ parables are not a religious version of Aesop’s Fables, where there is a single definitive point, intended to help the hearers live better and wiser lives.
A parable is something else altogether.
A parable is a gift. It is simply given—you don’t buy it or take it away from someone else—it is given to you. You may not even want it, just at that moment.
A parable comes in a certain sort of package or box—perhaps very beautifully wrapped. But perhaps it looks really old, and it’s a little banged up at the corners too. Parables are often very old, and they get passed around a lot, and sometimes the edges get knocked off in passing.
A parable has to be unwrapped. It is not obvious right away what might be inside the box. We have to look at it, and take the lid off, and see what is there inside. And even when we think we’ve figured it out, there may be more inside a parable than we can see, just then. We can come back and look at it again later and see something totally different.
Jesus tells two parables this morning, both of them about the kin-dom of God.
First, it’s like someone who goes out and plants seeds in a field. That’s all. The seeds begin to take root and grow—because that’s what seeds do. The farmer watches the seeds grow, but he has no idea why or how this happens, only that it does happen. He watches, and waits, and then when the time is right and the grain is ready to harvest, he steps forward to take part in the work at hand.
This kin-dom Jesus talks about has something to do with watching, and waiting. It has to do with being attentive to subtle changes, and knowing when to stand back and get out of the way, and when to step in and start gathering what is now ready to be gathered. It has to do with not trying to control or rush the process, but being alert to what is going on, ever so quietly, right under the farmer’s own nose.
The parable of the mustard seed is perhaps one of the best known of Jesus’ parables. A tiny seed, planted in the earth, takes root and grows to become “the greatest of all shrubs” and shelters the birds of the air in its branches.
Here’s the problem. A mustard plant is a scraggly, pernicious weed. It will take over your front yard, your back yard, your fields. Jesus is comparing the kingdom of God to the first-century Palestinian equivalent of kudzu.
It’s not a pretty thing.
Somehow, the Kingdom is like a weed that gets out of control if you turn your back on it. And takes over every square inch available. And gives shade and shelter to all sorts of birds and critters and creepy-crawlies. If you leave it alone, it will become as tall as a tree. When it is in flower, it is beautiful with yellow-gold blossoms. But mostly it just looks lanky and leggy and drab.
Jesus knew about lanky and leggy and drab. He himself was a living parable of the Kin-dom, in whom there was (and is) always more to see and discover; who cannot be reduced to a single sound-byte bottom line definition or meaning. And who, at the last, when he hung on the cross, showed in his life and death and resurrection just what this Kin-dom of God was all about.
This dominion of God to which Jesus points, over and over again, is not what his hearers expected—at the time, or twenty centuries later. Neither a political reform of the existing order, nor a total revolution and overthrow of the powers and social structures from top to bottom, the Kin-dom of God is something else altogether.
It works by its own mysterious potency and power, in its own time. We don’t get to control or manage it—only to let it be what it is, and prepare our own hearts (that is, our whole selves) to see it appear.
When we see it—in whatever place, or person, or situation, or manner—we are invited into the mystery. We are invited to rise up and help harvest the ripe grain; we are invited to climb into the branches of the tree where birds and beasts and all sorts of God’s critters are to be found. And they, and the tree of life itself, probably won’t look quite the way we think they should.
So take “should” out of your vocabulary, at least for now. Because we don’t get to control, or manage, or decide what God’s kin-dom will look like.
It’s not up to us. It’s bigger, and deeper, and wider than we can even imagine. And higher, and broader, and grander. But it’s also smaller, and quieter, and lower. So we have to keep our eyes open for it. We have the chance to look for it, and discover it, always and everywhere. For it is all around us, for us to see as Christ sees. For us to be the Body of Christ, in our own place and time.
May it be so for us; may it be so among us. Today, and tomorrow, and all the days to come.
Friday, May 4, 2012
The Fourth Sunday of Easter (Good Shepherd Sunday); April 29, 2012
Psalm 23; 1 John 3:16-24; John 10:11-18
Preached by Rev. Jsaon M. Haddox
Happy Good Shepherd Sunday to you all! The fourth Sunday in Easter season is always dedicated to the theme of The Good Shepherd, and so we wish a blessed festival to our neighbors up Walton Way, and all the other churches that keep this day as their feast of title.
For many of us, Psalm 23 is one of the first portions of scripture we ever learned. How many representations in painting and sculpture and other art forms have we seen, of the Good Shepherd? There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of songs paraphrasing or referencing the 23rd Psalm. At one time I could count on congregations (even non-liturgical ones) at funerals being able to say it from memory.
My first thought upon reading the lessons for today: Is it even possible to preach a new word on this psalm? I began to reread it…
The image of the shepherd in ancient Israel was an ambiguous one. The shepherds of Israel were seen as scruffy, scrappy, marginal folk. They were not particularly well-regarded by the better classes of society; the position of shepherd was not especially prestigious. On the other hand, little David, the greatest king Israel ever had, had been hustled in from tending the sheep to be anointed as God’s chosen. And it is to David that we attribute many of the Psalms. If Psalm 23 isn’t the psalm of a shepherd king, I can’t think what would be. From God’s providence in the wilderness, to protection in the darkness and danger, to a celebration with anointing and feasting in the house of the Lord…it’s all there!
When Jesus says of himself this morning, “I am the good shepherd…” he is using and embellishing that well-known image from the Psalm.
This statement of Jesus, and where it occurs in the story, is not nearly as benign as it sounds at first hearing. The 10th chapter of John bridges two critical stories: first, the story of the man born blind whose sight Jesus restored, and secondly the raising of Lazarus from the dead. The stakes are as high as they can be; Jesus and his followers are on one side of the line in the sand and “the Jews” are on the other. We hear pointed criticism about the hired hand who does not own the sheep (the Greek reads something more like “…whose own the sheep are not,” suggesting not merely the ownership of the sheep as objects, but that there is an intimacy between the shepherd and the sheep.)
In contrast to the hired hand is the image of the shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand leaves everyone and everything else, hightailing it for the nearest tree, and we hear again: “I am the shepherd, the good one…I know my own, and they know me. I lay down my life for them. There are others who do not belong to this fold, I must bring them also and they too will listen to me. So there will be one flock, one shepherd. There are others, Jesus says, who are not right here in front of you at the moment but who are also mine as well. They matter just as much as you do. He tells his hearers—then and now—that the circle of God’s love is much larger than anything we can see or even imagine.
I lay down my life, Jesus says, and I take it up again. No one takes it from me; I lay it down of my own accord, and I take it up again. We cannot hear this language from Jesus of “laying down his life” and “taking it up again” without our ears perking up. Oh there he goes again—talking about the resurrection!
“I have received this command (Greek: entolen, instruction, order, decree) from my Father.”
The Father language immediately gets him in trouble again, here and a few verses later. “You are blaspheming…you are making yourself God.” (10:33) At that moment Jesus addresses his critics to say “Do you not believe me? Then believe the works that I do…I do these things because the Father is in me and I am in the Father.”
A few chapters later, he tells the disciples the same thing, in the Upper Room. Remember that in John’s gospel, the Last Supper is not an ordinary meal with the eating of bread and the drinking of wine. Instead Jesus models for the disciples the work of washing feet, and serving and caring for one another in some remarkably intimate, vulnerable ways. After which, Jesus repeats himself to the disciples: “Even after I’ve been with you all this time, if you still don’t believe me, believe the works themselves…those who believe in me will do all this and more!” (14:12) And they do.
Jesus is the shepherd, the good one…who is in intimate relationship with those he has called to himself; who does cause them to graze in green pastures and drink from clear still waters; but who also sets a table of delicious food and drink for them. (Sheep do not eat from tables. They would be more likely to eat the tablecloth itself.) He pours oil on their heads to anoint them as his own; and prepares them to do the works he has done, not to be sheep, but to be good shepherds as well.
We live in a time when the words and outward trappings of faith are often—not always, but often—used to divide, and belittle, and condemn. The gospel of Christ has sometimes—not always, but sometimes—been taken hostage by those who would use it to protect their own agendas and feather their own nests, who seem to have no knowledge or desire of knowledge of what that Gospel might actually mean.
The first letter of John seems to speak to a similar time and situation. False teachers were claiming that perhaps Jesus didn’t really become human, but just appeared that way (the word for that particular heresy is Docetism, from the Greek word dokeo, meaning “to seem or appear”)—and the letter is written to insist on the essential reality of the Incarnation. That YES, Jesus was God and human, both at once; and YES he died and was raised from the dead; and YES that means that what happens here in our lives is of extraordinary importance to God. It will not do to wait around for the life of the world to come; the life of God’s abiding presence and transformation begins now. Has already begun, in fact.
The image of Christ laying down his life “for us” and the consequent call to lay down our lives for one another echoes the gospel. It is a call to social action—“How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and refuses to help a brother or sister in need?” Ask that question of the authorities and powers in Washington or Atlanta or downtown Augusta; ask that question of ourselves, who do have more than enough to eat, and so many clothes and shoes in our closets that they are overflowing…
And yet it is more than that—Let us love in truth and action, as well as in word and speech. We are called to act in deeds of love and mercy, yes; we are also called to speak, to tell of the love of God we ourselves have seen and known. As Episcopalians we are terrified of this—WHY? I know we don’t want to be rude or pushy or preachy, but really…if someone asked you “Why are you a Christian?” what would you say?
The famous preacher and bishop Philips Brooks was asked that very question. He thought for a moment and said “I think am a Christian because of my aunt, who lives in Teaneck, New Jersey.” She had convinced him, by word and example, that being a Christian was something worthy and good. For the most part, Christian faith is caught, not taught. It is infectious, spread by personal contact through lives filled with the light of Christ, doing the deeds of Christ, speaking the good news of Christ. All of the above. As the old hymn lyric has it: “Let those refuse to sing who never knew our God/but children of the heavenly King may speak their joys abroad.”
All of these are ways in which we show who we are, and whose we are already--“God abides in us, right now, right here, through the Holy Spirit.” We live into this reality as we trust in Jesus to be who he says he is for us, and as we live and speak and act in love toward each other. We are called, today and every day, to do the deeds of the Good Shepherd. We are called, for the sake of those around us, to let go of those things we think we MUST have in order to manage or control our lives—knowing that in Christ’s resurrection, all our own losses and deaths and burials are also transformed and raised to new life in Christ Jesus, our good shepherd.
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
Amen.
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