Palm Sunday, April 13, 2014, Year A

Matthew 26:14-27:66

Preached by Rev. Dr. Jason Haddox

 What is happening?

From “Hosanna to the Son of David!  Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” to “Let him be crucified”…today is a day of almost unbearable extremes, straining in contrast with one another.  If you’re not feeling a bit of mental whiplash, you’re not paying attention.

Many things can be true at once.  And especially today…as we begin the most extraordinary and significant week of the Christian Year, as we “…enter with joy upon the contemplation of those mighty acts, whereby [God has] given us life and immortality; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

 Many things can be true at once.  And the story we have before us is so multi-layered, that no sermon can begin to say even a percentage of all that is before us.  So I’m not going to try to do more than call your attention to two things throughout:  The expectations of those who are part of the story, and Jesus’ constant refusal to be constrained by those expectations.

When we began, with shouts of Hosanna and waving palms in a parade into the city, we have to remember that there’s another parade going on across town.  As Jesus is entering Jerusalem on a donkey through the east gate, Pilate is riding a white horse from the west, backed by the armies of the Roman Empire.  Many of those who follow Jesus are expecting great things from him.  Perhaps a confrontation with the religious and political power structure of the day, perhaps a challenge to the empire and its domination over their lives.  And the funny thing is, apparently the religious and political leaders, those invested in the empire and its domination, seemed to expect some such thing as well.  For they too were mindful of this “prophet Jesus from Galilee in Nazareth.”

But what they expected is not what they got.  Jesus the prophet from Galilee came not as a politician, not as a military leader, not as one crying for violence and revenge against those who perpetrated vengeance and violence—none of those categories would work.  And this frustrated the people no end: both the people who were in favor of Jesus (as far as they understood him) and the people who were opposed to him, and fearful of him. 

Neither group could quite figure him out. 

When they come to arrest him, with clubs and swords, he tells those who would die to defend him in the same manner: Put your swords away. 

When he stands before the governor, on trial for his life, and is asked over and over to explain himself, he does not answer.

When he is cursed and humiliated, he will not curse them back.

Over and over in Matthew’s gospel, we hear echoes of the words of the prophet Hosea: “I desire mercy and steadfast love, not sacrifice; the knowledge of God above all things, says God.” (Hos 6:6)  Jesus has preached it, practiced it, shared it, and having lived in that way all along, he lives in that way until the end. 

Confronted with violence, Jesus rejects violence as a tool, even for self-protection. 

Confronted with words of fear, anger, and hatred, Jesus enters into silence—a silence more profound than any words that could be thrown at him.

And in that silence, even the stones under his feet cry out.

When you come forward for communion in a few minutes, I invite you to put your hand in the baptismal font.  During our Lenten journey it has been filled—not with water, but with sand.  Dry, dusty, gritty, the stuff of the desert.  Today it is filled with stones.  Hard, jagged, rough, the stuff of the road down to Jerusalem, and the road up to Mount Calvary.  The stuff of the tomb, sealed tight, hard and dead and buried.

I invite you, as you come forward to receive the bread and the wine, Christ’s body and blood, to take a stone from the font with you.  Keep it in your pocket this week, as together we walk the road as Jesus’ followers.  Let it remind you of the stony and rough places in your life, the violent and bloody places, the places where the stones have been piled up and sealed against death itself, from which, even now, God is bringing forth new life.

Fifth Sunday in Lent, April 6, 2014, Year A

Ezekiel 37:1-14; Psalm 130; Romans 8:6-11; John 11:1-45

Preached by The Rev. Dr. Jason Haddox

Today is the fifth reflection on Forgiveness in our Lenten series.  It’s an easy word to say, and an important thing to do—for others, and for ourselves.  Forgiveness allows the world, and all of us who live in it, to be set free.  Forgiveness allows us to learn from past misdeeds and mistakes, it frees us from bondage to those mistakes and misdeeds, making it possible to move forward into new and transformed lives. 

All the scriptures this day are addressing that gift of freedom—The freedom and the power that comes from God, given freely to all, in the midst of disaster and destruction and death, to bring forth new and transformed life.   In the first reading, Ezekiel addresses the people of Israel in exile, far from home and the life they had known, their hope lost, their spirits destroyed. “We are cut off”, they say.  “Our bones are dried up, our hope is lost.”   He tells them of the vision he has had—the vision of God’s spirit blowing over those dry, dead, dusty bones in the graveyard, filling them with new life, making them a new creation. 

 And if we listen carefully, we hear the echoes of another story, like the sound a familiar tune humming quietly behind Ezekiel’s vision.  Accompanying that vision is the story that starts off “In the beginning…” In the beginning, when the Holy Spirit hovered over the face of the waters, and breathed into the dust of the ground, to create life at the beginning of all things.  Out of dryness and dust, God makes new.  Out of death and destruction, God brings life. 

The Psalm, the Epistle, and the Gospel all proclaim this truth today:  The spirit of God, moving through dryness and dust, moving in the death and destruction that seem overwhelming, brings forth new life, transformed life.  Jesus addresses Sister Martha this day with the words we know well:  “I am the resurrection and the life.”  She’s already acknowledged that resurrection happens—someday, somewhere, out there in the future.  But that won’t do, it is not enough.

Jesus calls her to attention.  “Martha—you don’t have to wait that long.  It’s right here, right now.”

And so he goes, and stretches out his hands, and speaks the words, “Unbind him, and let him go!” and life is transformed. 

Lazarus’s life, Martha and Mary’s life, the life of every person there that day—Jesus himself included.

They couldn’t just go back to normal, of course.  What had happened was too much, too earth-shattering, far too destructive of all that had come before.  Lazarus was dead, he was buried, and now?  It was all just too, too much.  Afterward there were days, perhaps, that they all wished Jesus hadn’t done what he did.  He oughtn't to have done it.  He’d thrown everything off balance.[1]

In throwing everything—even life and death itself—out of balance as they all had known it, God-in-Christ opens the door for transformation.  Not simply “back to business as usual”, for that cannot be.  But transformation into a new way, a new life altogether.

That new way, that new truth, that new life that Jesus offers Lazarus and Mary and Martha is for us too.  Each and all of us are invited to live in that transformed, spirit-breathed, resurrected reality that Jesus calls “the kingdom of God.”  To enter that way, that truth, that life, we have to be freed from the things that tie us up, the things that keep us bound, the things that hold us back from moving forward into that new creation. 

Four weeks ago at the beginning of Lent we talked about experiencing unconditional love and acceptance. 

So I invite you to take a moment, and remember yourself surrounded by and held in unconditional love.  Remember that there is nothing you can do, or ever have done, nor is there anything that anyone else has done or will ever do to you, that can separate you from that unconditional love.  Rest for a moment in that love, knowing that it is always there, always holding you, always available to you. 

In that love, take a moment—in the privacy of your own mind, think of something you have done that causes you to feel guilt.  Don’t minimize, rationalize, or deny any of it, simply be in the moment, admit what you did and then…

Remember that there is nothing you can do, or have ever done, that can separate you from the unconditional love of God.  To suppose that there is some such thing is either extremely arrogant on your part, or you are addressing a false god that is very puny.  So take a moment and be aware of the true God’s love for you, in spite of what you have done. 

In the light of that love, examine the thing you did.

Be aware of the demand that you are placing on yourself as you recall that past event, such as “I demand that I would have/would not have done…”

Convert that demand to a preference, such as “I would prefer that I had not done/would have done…”

Decide what personal value of yours was violated in that action, and if you wish to keep that value in the future.

If you do wish to keep that value in the future, then take a moment and decide what you will do differently if you encounter a similar situation in the future, and you want to honor that value.

 And now surrender yourself into the infinite goodness of God.  Let yourself be held by that love, in the deep and abiding peace.  Be at peace with yourself, and with God.

---

[1] Thanks to Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard To Find” for the phrase and concept of this earth-shattering truth.

Epiphany 7, 23 February 2014, Year A

1 Corinthians 3:10-11, 16-23; Matthew 5:38-48

Preached by Rev. John Warner 

Imperfection Striving for Perfection 

           May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be always acceptable in thy sight oh my Lord and my Redeemer.

          During my tenure as the director of the local community mental health center, I established annual goals for each of my managers, which would be used as the foundation for each one’s performance appraisal. Each were to write similar goals for their respective managers and employees they supervised. Within the area of customer service, I required that each would have NO substantiated customer complaint. This goal was followed by much grumbling. “You expect me to be perfect. That’s impossible!” one after another would state. My responses to such statements would be to ask, “Would you feel comfortable going under a cardiac surgeon’s knife who bragged of only losing 20% of his patients on the operating table or to fly on a transcontinental flight with a pilot who proudly exclaimed only two crashes last year?” Although I didn’t expect perfection, I did set an achievable bar even if the employee had to stretch a bit.

          I believe that Jesus wants us also to stretch a bit. Okay, a lot! Today’s reading from Matthew continues Jesus’s inauguration of the Kingdom of God, not the kingdom of God future but the kingdom of God present as displayed within the Sermon on the Mount. The Sermon on the Mount addressed to the disciples is an expectation of greater righteousness.   Radical words, many which I confess I find difficult to understand much less follow. Take, for example, the words spoken today. First, I am not to seek “an eye for an eye.” Does this mean that if someone I love is murdered that I should not seek justice for his or her death?” Second, if I am sued for $100,000, I should give the person who has taken me to court, a double amount or even greater amount. Finally, if I’m forced to perform some act of submission, I’m also to roll over and become a door mat.  Jesus summarizes the lesson by directing us to love both our friends and enemies.  Granted, I haven’t had many enemies in my life, but I have had a few who have persecuted me; who made it their mission in life to destroy mine. Love them! Are you kidding?

          To understand the relevance of this portion of the Sermon of the Mount in preparation for my sermon, I had to dig a bit deeper in these verses. If a Jews in ancient Israel was struck on the right cheek, it was generally done with the back of the hand—violence, for sure, but also an insult. Generally, there was also a power differential between the assailant and victim. One would have been inferior in social status to the other.  Jesus is saying that you can hit me again but you are going to do so with both of us being equals. All are equal in God’s kingdom.

          If an enemy takes you to court to sue you, probably for a large debt, you are not going to win. Therefore, you can at least show him what he is doing. In a world where most would own only a coat and cloak, you can at least shame the individual by your impoverished state. Could this be a metaphor that the rich and powerful may be reducing the poor to a state of shame?

          The third situation reflects the Roman occupation of Israel. As conquerors, a Roman soldier had every right to force a Jew to carry their equipment for one mile but no more. Jesus is telling his disciples to be as generous as God. Don’t complain and plot revenge, but go that extra mile. Show the soldier a different humanity, one that does not involve revenge and injustice.

          Although I understand the “good news” better, it doesn’t make following his teachings any easier. Jesus sets a high bar! But what would you expect for those who have Jesus Christ as their foundation? If, as Paul tells the church in Corinth, we are God’s temple sanctified by the Holy Spirit, what other rule of life should we aspire to?

          As much as I try, I haven’t fully moved into the kingdom of God. When I’m in my clericals, I have to keep reminding myself (or Marsha reminds me) that I am a wearing a collar and to watch my behavior. The collar tells me, “Don’t yell at that elderly man who just pulled out in front of you and is now driving like a tortoise down the road” or “Don’t ignore that woman who needs help.” I dream for the day when I don’t have to remember that I’m wearing a collar to remind me to be an example of God’s charity to others. I dream for the day when I internalize the collar within my heart. I hope eventually to be a light of Christ in the world. But for right now, I’m only on a journey of becoming.

           The Sermon of the Mount wasn’t just for us; it was also for Jesus. It was the blueprint for his life. He asked nothing of others that he wouldn’t do himself. Matthew’s portrayal of Jesus shows us what God is really like. The Sermon on the Mount isn’t just about how to behave. It’s about discovering God in the living, loving, and dying Jesus, and, with his help, in us reflecting that love into the world.

           Amen.

(Some of the information used in this sermon is a paraphrase of commentary found in the book Matthew for Everyone – Part One by Tom Wright.)

         

The Epiphany of Our Lord Jesus Christ, 5 January 2014, Year A

Isaiah 60:1-6; Matthew 2:1-12

Preached by Rev. Deacon John Warner 

Does the Magic Continue?

           May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be always acceptable in thy sight oh my Lord and my Redeemer. 

 

            As many of you know, I love to read. I read a little of everything.  In fact, if I find myself alone in a restaurant without a book, I’m likely to be seen reading the labels on condiments. Did you know that green Tabasco sauce contains distilled vinegar, jalapeño pepper, water, salt, cornstarch, xanthan gum and ascorbic acid “to preserve freshness?” 

 

            One of my favorite literary genres is “magical realism.” Magical realism is not fantasy; nor is it science fiction. It exists when the mundane is invaded by something fantastical, something difficult to believe. For example, in the Spanish writer Gabriel García Márquez’s novel,  One Hundred Years of Solitude , a trail of blood from one man, after leaving a house, turns right and left until it finally covers the town. Or, in Sarah Addison Allen’s The Girl Who Chased the Moon, there is a bedroom with wallpaper which changes patterns depending upon the emotions of its occupant. 

            When the mundane is invaded by something hard to believe. This definition certainly fits the magic of the Christmas story. Of course, I am not referring to the magic of how a jolly old elf, although lively and quick, along with twelve tiny reindeer can deliver all those presents to the children in the entire world during one night. What I’m talking about is the Incarnation --when God became flesh, to live like one of us, among us, by being conceived in the womb of a young humble peasant from Nazareth. 

            Now Christmas is gone. The trees have been thrown out, Christmas decorations taken down and stored again for next year, and Christmas presents received have been separated into three piles, to keep, give away or to regift next Christmas.  

            But, is Christmas gone? The Christmas 25^th  holiday is gone, but we shouldn’t confuse the secular holiday with the Christmas within our Christian liturgical year.  As Father Jason said in last Sunday’s sermon, the twelve days of Christmas doesn’t end with Christmas. It begins on Christmas Eve and ends with the Feast of the Epiphany, which is tomorrow.  

            Does the magic of Christmas continue into Epiphany? Are there events that produce awe and wonderment? Are there episodes where the mundane is invaded by events difficult to believe? I believe the answer is yes based upon today’s reading from Matthew. The three wise men, the spiritual elite of the Gentile world, use the arcane knowledge of astrology to identify the birth of the king of the Jews. Appearing in King Herod’s court, the magi request his assistance in locating the baby so they can pay homage, but their inquiry only alarms Herod and the Jewish spiritual leaders. Herod dismisses the magi to find the baby but to return with the baby’s location so he can worship … the future king of the Jews! The star that announced the birth of Christ now moves ahead of the wise men until it stops over where the baby lies. The star’s movement is plausible within the ancient world’s model of the universe because stars were believed to be alive, especially, the Jews, who believed stars to be angels. They enter to worship the baby bringing gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Departing, they return to their own country by a different route, having been warned in a dream to avoid Herod. 

            Why these three gifts, gold, frankincense, and myrrh?  Although we don’t know why the wise men chose these three, tradition may yield some clues. Gold is probably the most obvious. Throughout the Bible, gold is symbolic for divinity; therefore, what better gift for Christ or God made flesh than gold.  Frankincense is essentially hardened tree sap, which when burned gives off a fragrant offering to God, representing holiness and righteousness.  Therefore, frankincense is symbolic for Jesus’ willingness to become a perfect sacrifice, a perfect offering for our sins.  Finally, myrrh, is a spice used for embalming.  Myrrh symbolized bitterness, suffering, and affliction; therefore this gift was a foreshadowing that the baby Jesus would grow to suffer greatly as a man giving his life on the cross for all who believed in him. 

            The wise men gave gifts worthy of a king; however, these gifts pale in comparison to the gift the Incarnation offers us. According to Isaiah in today’s reading, he brought light to illumine the darkness; he offers hope to those in despair and reconciliation, drawing the whole world to him.  

            Does the magic of Christmas and Epiphany continue? In 2002, I was ordained a deacon in the Diocese of Georgia. However, I had a diaconal ministry before that. It began with my baptism. Yours did, too. We all share a diaconal ministry, a ministry of service, which began when we were baptized, when we were grafted into the Christian family.  It does, if we live out our baptismal covenant and become instruments of Christian service in this world. It does when we give of our time and talent. It is when we are serving the needs of this world that the mundane, the ordinary, is invaded by the fantastical, something hard to believe – a world transformed by our Christian service.

              Amen.

Christmas Eve, December 24, 2013

Preached by Rev. Dr. Jason Haddox

 The great German/Latin Christmas carol In Dulci Jubilo (known in English translation as Good Christian Friends, rejoice) ends with a prayer:  “O that we were there!”

The desire expressed is that we, the worshippers, might have been present at the cradle, at the inn in Bethlehem, at Jesus’ birth. 

 What would we have seen?

 An overcrowded town, stretched to capacity and beyond with visitors from far and wide.  Some of them would have come in great style, with plenty of money to spend on the best accommodations, the choicest food and drink.  Many would be staying with relatives or friends, who were in turn obligated to show the best hospitality possible, even to their own detriment.  And then there were those who were there only by extraordinary stress and cost to themselves, but they had to be there nonetheless.  From far and near they came, and filled every available place and space that was to be had.

To me it sounds like Augusta, Georgia, during Masters’ Week. 

Overfilled, overwrought, stressed out, full up, no room for anything, or anyone, else.

Least of all for a young, poor, unmarried couple with a baby about to be born.

And yet someone—some innkeeper or stable hand, some homeowner who had a few critters under a shed in the back yard—saw more than “yet another stranger in trouble.” Someone looked a little bit closer, and saw something unusual, something just a little bit odd, and made room.  Found room, after all.   

And so the birth we remember tonight took place in a barn.  With barn critters in attendance, animals that moo-ed and baa-ed and snorted, that chewed their feed out of the feeding trough (which we call the manger) and stamped their hooves (or paws, or whatever) and made the barn smell—like a barn.  The smell that night was not that of pine boughs and incense, nor of cinnamon and peppermint and gingerbread.   

Those who saw and heard and smelled all that was there were not the well-to-do citizens or visitors to the town.  All of them were safely tucked away at the Bethlehem Hyatt.  Only those who passed by and perhaps heard the sound of a baby’s first shouts might have known that something was up.  It was, I suspect, anything but a “Silent Night.”   

The shepherds were not expecting an invitation into town that night.  They were hardly prepared for a social gathering.  They had been living outdoors, camping in the fields for weeks or months at a time.  They likely smelled very much like the sheep themselves.

 

No matter, said the angel, never mind about that.  This news of great joy, for all people, is shown to you first of all. 

Go, and see!

This child, whose life will turn the world upside down, has arrived in the world. 

Go, and see! 

You’ll recognize the family when you find a baby wrapped tightly, asleep (if Mary and Joseph are very lucky) laying in the animal’s feeding trough of the barn. 

Go, and see for yourselves!

 So they go, looking for something, someone—they hardly know what or why—and find him.  Find them, gathered there, exhausted from the journey and the birth process.  The barn wasn’t crowded enough already, we’ve got to bring in a flock of sheep besides?   Was there really room for them too?

 All during the season of Advent we’ve been thinking about “making room”.  In our lives—as busy and overscheduled and stressed as we may be; in our hearts—as distracted and pulled apart as they may be; in the midst of the overcrowded, untidy, malodorous barns of our daily lives.  And prepared or unprepared, ready or not, here we are.  And here he is.

 There were plenty of people in Bethlehem that night, who might have heard or seen something. 

Perhaps they were busy.  Distracted by other, more urgent, matters.

Only shepherds, half-awake in the night, were quiet enough for the angels to get their attention. 

If the story of Jesus’ birth means anything at all, thousands of years later and a world away, it is this:  God’s love comes into the midst of the mess.  Our mess.  All of it.  God’s love for the world reveals itself in the midst of the mess.  Our mess.  All of it.

In a completely inappropriate location,

accompanied by smells and sounds and sights that,

just perhaps,

we’d rather not smell or hear or see.

 As a tiny, helpless being, who is vulnerable and easily overlooked

Surrounded by people who are not themselves fully aware of what’s happening. 

Not right at the moment anyway.

 

And so, in this Christmas season, lest we miss the message ourselves:

with the innkeeper, the stable hand,

we look carefully at the ones right in front of us;

With Mary,

we hear and heed the angel’s message even where we are sure it can’t possibly be on the play list; with the shepherds, we come seeking the Christ, God’s beloved and chosen one,

in the face of every person we meet.

Because, in a way, as the carol prays, we are there.  Tonight and always.

And better still, He is here.  Emmanu-el.  God with us.  Tonight, and tomorrow, and always.