Proper 8 B 2018

Mark 5: 21-43

Believe                     

                             I have a friend who is a priest and who has a beautiful glass paperweight in his office at the top of his bookcase with a single word on it: “believe”. I think of him when I hear the intertwined stories of Jairus and his daughter, and the woman with a hemorrhage because they are so personal, and it is a challenge to sort out what belief actually means in them. This priest I know has spent a long time in parish ministry and is an amazingly faithful person, but it is hard to tell whether he is trying to convince himself of something or whether there is something he knows in the bump and jostle of our lives that can make belief a scarce commodity, like spending time in a pediatric cancer ward. Do not fear, only believe.

                           The stories have the kind of detail that is rare in Mark. We never find out in Matthew's version of these stories what the name of the girl's father is, but Mark leaves it here like a fingerprint-- Jairus, a wealthy synagogue official who is so desperate that he is willing to reach outside all bounds of respectability and throw himself at the feet of the local healer, who has already crossed the religious establishment more than once. It is, after all, his “little daughter”, at the point of death, on whose behalf he is abasing himself. He is enduring this shame the same way that any parent who is crazy with fear and grief would, convincing himself that anything would be worth the life of his “little” one, whether she is two or twelve or twenty-four. It is his last opportunity and he knows it, on his knees in the mud by the Galilean sea.

                           Jesus follows the man, but we barely have time to think about what all this means in terms of belief when they are interrupted by a woman with a hemorrhage that had continued for twelve years; she is in pain, ritually unclean and equally out of options, unless it is in this miracle worker toward whom she is clawing her way through the crowd. If I can only touch the hem of his cloak, she says, I can stop this thing that is eating at me, inside and out. When she has reached him, she feels at once a change within her and the “fear and trembling'' that we recognize in Jairus, the knowledge of the presence of the divine in what appears impossible to redeem.

                          Before he has finished speaking, word arrives that the daughter of Jairus has died; it is now that Jesus tells him not to fear, only believe. Anyone who has a child or has spent five minutes with one can scarcely guess at what those words must have sounded like, especially to someone whose world has gone dark in front of him. Believe in what, and why?

                            When he reaches the child, he addresses her intimately, in the only words of his native Aramaic in the entire gospel, “Talitha cum”. Little girl, get up. And she does. And there is more amazement, not only by Peter James and John, who had been with him, but the crowd who laughed when he declared that she was only sleeping.

                              They laugh, I think, because the line between grief and laughter is such a thin one, that real belief is such a rare commodity that it is easier to opt for cynicism and derision, which you can find anywhere. Derision is easier because we put what we call belief in a glass case and hoard it, as if it were the item we need to change our lives, to make the shootings stop, to get grandmother out of the hospital. We treat belief as if it were something we can control, something we can manipulate to make our surroundings, our community, our lives, more like what we think they should be. And that is where our idolatry starts.

                                Belief is such a slippery idea for us because we think that it has to exist prior to God’s redeeming work in our lives. We think that if only our belief were stronger, we would not have to confront the things that tear our lives apart,  the children who die, the parents whose health are failing. Our belief at any given moment, however, is a small matter next to the depth of God’s belief in us. It is a thread that runs through all the scriptures, that, as the Book of Wisdom says, “God created us for incorruption, and made us in the image of his own eternity…”, the same God who does not delight in the death of the living. It is why the creed that we will repeat in a few moments is a collective one, in which we affirm together the triune nature of God in trying to understand the work of the divine in the world. A retired bishop of Atlanta I knew once was asked if he believed everything in that creed. He answered, “Most of the time”, and said he relied on those standing around him when he had his own doubts. The call is to believe is to know in the deepest part of ourselves that God believes in us, regardless of where we are on our journeys.

                                Do not fear, only believe. These are indeed miracle stories in the gospel we have just heard, but the miracle is not just in the bleeding that is stopped, in the little girl that stands up and begins walking around to the astonishment of everyone. The miracle is in the way belief is transformed, not the idea that if only we had more belief that things would  be different, but the confidence that God believes in us. That is the only belief that matters. It is the belief that God loves us too deeply to ever let go of us, no matter what the outcome. That is the belief that changes things.

                                    The richness of these stories comes, in part, from the way they mirror the paths in our own lives. The easy variety of belief is abundant enough, when things are going smoothly, when their very evenness confirms for us how faithful we are. But there are plenty of times when we have spent all we have, our patience, our time, our love; there are times when we too are on our knees in the mud. It is then that God whispers at us most intimately,  whispers in God's own language, get up. Get up not because you have the finest resources or the greatest prayer life imaginable but because God believes in you, has believed in you since you were a thought in the mind of the divine. It is then that our own belief becomes more like prayer, one of gratitude as creatures of God and not toward a world to be manipulated.

                                     We feel this love of God in the cascade of events that form these stories. Jairus is hardly able to make his petition before the attention of Jesus is drawn away by the woman and her need, and given again to Jairus only after he is told that the child is dead. This kind of  bump and jostle is inescapable in our own lives. We almost become numb to it after a while, the violence, the sickness of people we know and love. But God's belief in us penetrates it all, in the grief and in the laughter that overwhelms us, and in that love we find the people we were meant to be.

                                      So he says to all of us, get up. We who are alive to the world around us and we who have forgotten what it is to be alive. We who think we believe most of the time, or some of the time, or those who have long since forgotten what it is to believe. The God who believes in us, who whispers in our ear and gives us life, is calling us out of our sleep, out of our fear, and into a love for which we cannot help but be overcome by amazement.

 

 

Proper 7 B 2018

Mark 4: 35-41

God in the Boat

                                        As some of you know, my extended family has been in a time of transition, readying my mother for a move to NJ to live with my sister and we have been overwhelmed by offers of help, for which I am exceedingly grateful. This transition has been a time for learning, as transitions often are. Somewhere between filling the third dumpster outside her house and packing the twentieth box of things for her new apartment, all the while trying to reassure her about the wisdom of this move, I was reminded of what a creature of habit I am, how often I crave what I believe is certain, as does my mother. Those closest to me can tell you that I have a particular way of doing things that I rely on to give my life stability, and I can see the worry etched in my mother’s face about what an immense change this will be for her. That is why I feel immense sympathy for the disciples in this morning's gospel. These otherwise ordinary people have given up all they know, all they have been, in order to follow this strange figure from Nazareth, one who seems to be able to do anything but compel belief. They have laid down their nets, left their collection booths, exchanged their identities for something they cannot fully understand. Their own certainty has been reduced to the water that is swamping their boat, to the chaos they feel is about to overwhelm them, and to the knowledge of their own communion; they are, after all, in this together.

                                         We are in the same boat as the disciples, so to speak. Whether we have asked for it or not, we are inundated by change, change in our parish, change in a world where professional and personal insecurity are the watchwords of our times, a world stretched to breaking by strife and violence, and it is easy to feel disoriented, even fearful in the midst of these changes.  Much of the time, we don't have to look farther than ourselves to feel these uncertainties and the anxiety they breed.

                                        In the time I was a hospital chaplain, I spent several months getting to know a man on the floor I served. He had come to the emergency room with abdominal cramps and had been admitted with a diagnosis of inoperable cancer. In our conversations and our prayers, he would mention what the change of his absence would mean, for his family, for the people who loved him and relied on him. Amid these changes, our cry becomes one with the disciples, “Lord, do you not care that we are perishing”? It's something we feel all too deeply these days, when the fellow down the hall at work finds out  that he won't need to return next Monday, when a sea of college graduates are turned loose on a world of radically reduced expectations, when we feel caught in the middle, doing the work of four people and trying to maintain some semblance of family life;” Lord, do you not care...”

                                            The response of Jesus is a revealing one. He does not say, “Why all the questions”, or “why do you doubt”, but “where is your faith”? Faith for us is not what is left over when all our doubts are removed, when all our disagreements are resolved. It is what we carry with us in our uncertainties, for ourselves, for the church, for the community we belong to. When he was asked what holds us together amid all our differences, Desmond Tutu said, “We talk.” We talk of our hopes, our concerns, our beliefs, even our fears, knowing that the truth, and the presence of the risen Christ, is somewhere in the middle. In this is a holy tension, the tension between knowing that Christ is in our boat and being able to live with our questions, even our doubts. By acknowledging this tension, we risk our certainties, but we become more faithful people.

                                          I remember the tension of those doubts very early in my life. Each summer, my parents took us to Cape Cod;  they rented a cottage near the shoreline at Chatham, which is now a huge resort but at the time was a small gathering of weather-beaten houses on the inland part of the Cape. The waves were small, and I imagine it was relatively easy to keep track of small kids, with their kites and their buckets full of  shells. Once in a while, though, we could convince our parents to take us to the other side of the Cape, where the winds were higher and the surf much stronger; they would not let us in the water, but I remember feeling the power of the waves, especially during the storms and how threatening they were to a six or seven-year-old, like pure chaos, something that could only be controlled by God. It was this mystery that has stayed with me all these years, and it has formed the way my siblings and I have looked at our lives, that there are things in our lives where, as we have heard in Job, “Thus far you shall come and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stopped”. It was there, I believe, that whatever I thought of as my faith could bear the weight of my doubts, the awe at the magnificence of God’s creation of which I and everyone I knew were irreplaceable parts.

                                      Lord, do you not care that we are perishing? It is especially important these days that we learn to live in the tension between our uncertainties and the presence of the living God, especially following the appalling violence in Parkland, those suffering and displaced in Guatemala, for the families of those killed and for the questions they ask of us all. The danger is that, over time, they will become another statistic in the litany of violence and tragedy we have experienced in recent months; the alternative is to understand that the gospel we preach is embedded in a world of uncertainty but also in the company of a God who is with us in our own darkest moments. Even in the horror of acts we cannot begin to understand, it is imperative that we bear that faith along with the grief, because the wounds of those families are our own and we are all diminished unless we recognize that we have all been in their boat.

                                      Years ago, I saw a mosaic in St. Mark's basilica in Venice that was a depiction of today's gospel story. It was made in the twelfth century, in a time of political and social upheaval in that part of the world and it is fascinating to me because the figure of Jesus appears in it twice, both in the prow and at the stern of the boat. But what is most interesting is the reaction of the disciples. A few anxious ones are looking toward the figure in the rear, serene and asleep on the cushions. A few others are gazing at the figure in the front, one with a placid expression and upraised hands, who is calming the storm outside and transforming their world.

                                            My favorite, though, are the disciples in the middle. They stare back at me out of the picture, a little wide-eyed, but with something like wonder on their faces. They appear to realize, and they remind me, that the presence of Jesus, even in what seems most unsure, is the only thing they need, but they have to work out what that means for themselves. They are having their faith redefined, not as a fixed set of beliefs but as something that allows us to see transformation, to see change not as a threat but as an opportunity to be at the center of something wondrous.

                                         It isn't an accident that the church is often depicted as a boat, which this unknown artist might have intended. We are in the midst of constant change, in our workplaces, our schools, even in our church. As in any time of change, even among all the wonderful things we will see, there will be questions. But that is as it should be, for those of us who are trying to live as faithful people in this new thing that God is doing among us. As one who is winessing a fair amount of change lately, I invite you to join me in embracing this holy tension. In it we find the faith to live as people at the center of the storm, in a world that is both uncertain and full of wonder. There are few guarantees, except that God is in the boat with us, calming not only the wind and waves but our hearts, and transforming our lives in the process.

 

Proper 6 B 2018

Mark 4: 26-34

 

                                     As much time as I have spent with plants, helping my mother in the gardens as a boy and watching the gardeners’ efforts germinate in the back of St. Paul’s, I have always been more comfortable with the idea of gardening than the actual work. Partly it is because I am a world-class procrastinator, which is another way of talking about laziness, but I think that part of it is the challenge of seeing hope where all there really is to look at is dirt, dirt with a few small hard things that we throw on it, along with some fertilizer and water, and maybe a prayer or two; then we wait. But really what we have are these small things that look like rocks and a lot of ground to scatter them; to someone who would like to have something to show for his hour-or-two outside, like a mown lawn or a litter-free parking lot, investing so much of myself with these little hard things hardly seems worth the time.

                                But the parables we have just heard tell us how deeply bound our waiting and our hope are. The sower scatters his seed and then waits; one day, the earth shows forth what has been taking life inside it, and the process is a mystery to both the sower and to us. A mustard seed, so small that it can be as easily lost as planted, produces in time a shrub that gives shade to all who want it. It is hope we are seeing blossoming before us, but all of it happens according to God's timetable, not ours.

                               Waiting is woven into our DNA. The long days of Lent and Advent teach us to wait, they show us how much waiting is a part of who we are. But the parables we have just heard make it clear that it is not the things we see, but the things we hope for that are most important, the living things that germinate in us and the work we do that make us who we are. It happens slowly, sometimes painfully slowly, over the days and nights that we sleep and rise that one day we wake up changed, and we truly do not know how. We scatter our seeds, even the smallest ones possible, a kind word to a stranger, a meal set in front of someone as starved for companionship as for food. We haltingly draw those around us into relationship, we try to overcome the barriers of enmity and mistrust, and when the stalk peeks above the ground, we cannot help but be astonished. It defies what we think we know about the world, a world where practically everything can be quantified, and gives us a glimpse of how deeply intertwined the eternal is with the here-and-now. We become people of the kingdom, gardeners who work the soil of the world around us, and this work changes us, helps us to glimpse life where before we could  see dirt and the small, pinched things we scatter onto it, enough life to provide shade for all around us.

                                   Part of our impatience , at least those of us like me who expect results more or less instantaneously, is that we expect the world to adhere to our timetable. I remember, as a seminarian, being assigned to a chapel in an inner-city parish. There were lots of things to do there,  but the very wise priest had the interns go to the grocery around the corner every week to buy some small item, a couple of cans of soup for the kids, cookies and snacks for the kids, from a place with thick black bars on the windows and Plexiglas in front of the register. The items were small but the opportunity enormous, especially when the owner's expression softened on seeing us toward the end of the year. It was a chance to learn about how to nurture relationships when the dirt seemed thin indeed, even when it takes months to see anything break the topsoil.

                                   It is this hope rooted in the unexpected that God plants in us. Ezekiel speaks about the cedars of Lebanon, trees so large that they provide shade for all kinds of birds, trees that make our mustard seeds look laughable by comparison. But in the work of the kingdom, it is the smallest of seeds that provide the same shade, the work God does with us in the most limited circumstances. It is not in the foundation gift but in the smallest of offerings that the kingdom flourishes, the branches of its tree large enough to provide shade for all. It is because the soil on which we are planting is ourselves and our own souls; with the promise of the gift emerging in front of us and the patience to see it through, the harvest can be limitless.

 

                                   The gift in this work is in allowing us to confront our own expectations. I would wager that most of us, given the chance, would love to cultivate the cedars of Lebanon rather than what we know will come of our mustard seed. But part of the work of the kingdom is acknowledging that the expectations of the world have nothing to do with the growth that God is nurturing in us in God's time and in ways we can hardly predict, much less quantify. There is the desert plant that Annie Dillard describes, which “looks like a dried chunk of loose wood. It has neither roots nor stems; it's like an old gray knothole. But it is alive. Each year, before the rainy season comes, it sends out a few roots and shoots. If the rain arrives, it grows flowers and fruits; these soon wither away, and it reverts to a state as quiet as driftwood.”

                               Mark’s gospel almost explodes off the page at us, with John the Baptizer’s proclamation that the world has been made ready for the fulfillment of the kingdom of God in the person of Jesus, so these parables can seem odd in describing the sleeping farmer, the patience it will take for the harvest to arrive, especially in as small a package as a mustard seed. But in the weeks since Presiding Bishop Michael Curry has reached rock star status, not only in the church but in popular culture, he has led several events in Washington as a kind reclamation work, not unlike the lots we had to reclaim before beginning our garden behind St. Paul’s. It is a movement centered not in political orientation but, as Christians, seeing Jesus at the center of all we do and all we are. It is the beginning of planting the idea that, in potential, we are bigger than the things that divide us, that all can find shade under the shade of the tree of the kingdom.

                                Dillard calls this “flying in the teeth of it all”. But that is what hope is, after all. It is in locating the gifts we have, and finding them enough to cultivate the kingdom, a kingdom not about the greatness of the world but of the fertility God has given us. The question is not whether it is worth the time or effort, because God has already decided that we are worth the effort. All we have to do is scatter our own seed and watch the grain ripen around us.                          

                             

 

Proper 5 B 2018

Mark 3: 20-35

 

                      Who are my mother and brothers? Two years ago, as my father was going through his final illness, my siblings and I went through a crash course in what it means to be family amid apparent chaos, to offer ourselves as best we can to each other when infirmity, the demands of careers and children all seemed to conspire to draw us in different directions. This learning has intensified for us as we have been drawn toward the needs of our aging mother and her impending move to my sister’s house in NJ. We do it out of love, we say: taking very independently-minded people to hospitals, rehabilitation centers and doctor’s appointments, but we do it also out of memory, memory of the kind of family my parents tried to nourish through many moves around the country, three brothers and sisters with very different interests and goals for our lives. Yet our parents tried to say yes to each of us, not just what we did but who we were, and that sense of family is what I have carried with me, especially as we have grown older.

                           It is something like what we try to be, right here and right now, mothers and brothers and sisters. We recognize how different we are and yet we understand that we are family, attempting to discern and do the will of God, helping to grow the kingdom as best we can. That is why, when Jesus answers the words of the crowd, that his mother and brothers and sisters are here, it can perplex us. We all want to be insiders, to be part of the elite, but that is exactly what Jesus rejects in the presence of the scribes who know all the rules, who have put their own stamp on what it means to be holy. Just after he has appointed the twelve disciples, he has given them, and anyone else who will listen, new rules about what it means to be family, to be holy, in the midst of a world which will call them crazy or possessed. And that is what we try to do, to be family, to try to do the will of God in a time and place that says we cannot make a difference; we try to become who we were meant to be when we are told that we don't have the right credentials and, in spite of the resistance, we do everything in our power to bear witness to the changing of the world.

                                 Who are my brothers and sisters? Several years ago, at the end of a week spent in Central America building houses at an Episcopal Relief and Development site, several of us who had been working there shared lunch together and then had a Eucharist, local workers and foreigners together at long tables. We had spent many hours working with shovels under an impossibly hot sun, digging ditches for houses and a church, making concrete blocks and handing each other dozens of water bottles. As we got up to leave, our guests thanked us for our time together, which we returned in our halting Spanish. Then they asked us for our boots. We looked down at them, torn and smeared with sweat and concrete, and I'm sure more than one of us wondered why they would want to keep them. But I believe that those boots, ruined as they were, were sacramental for both of us, a reminder of the bonds we shared in spite of the few words we had in common, a family grown out of our commitment to our shared dignity and the work of the kingdom.

                                  It is out of the depths of ourselves that we make this recognition of how intimately bound we are, how dependent we are on each other in a community founded in love. Often, we are compelled by the frenetic nature of our lives to seek quick solutions to situations that require calm deliberation and patience. We have to cultivate the ability to wait upon God, to see the slow resistance to change, to begin to dissolve before we can view each other differently. This willingness to wait has been growing in my own family and it has given us a chance to see each other differently, not only in the roles we assume but in the mutual interdependence that has slowly become a part of all our lives.

                                All this talk about seeing our mothers and sisters and brothers differently gives some light to the restraint that the family of Jesus tries to put on him, after the crowds have decided that “he is out of his mind.” Desmond Tutu, who has been called Beelzebub and worse during his own lifetime, says that in Africa when you ask someone, “How are you?”, the reply you get is in the plural even when you are speaking to one person. A man would say, “we are well”, or “we are not well”. He himself may be well, but his grandmother is not well and so he is not well either. Our humanity... is caught-up with one another's”. It is, as Paul says, looking not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen, as what can be seen is temporary but what cannot be seen is eternal.  When Jesus looks around him and sees his mother and sisters and brothers, he is asking us to stretch our imaginations too. When we exchange the peace with one another, work in a community feeding program that happens at St. Paul’s each week/ St. John’s or even showing kindness to the strangers we encounter all the time, we are doing so for our brothers and sisters, because there is no “I” in in the kingdom of God.

                                  Nothing can be more radical than to see how we are bound this way. We live in a world that tells us that we can go it alone, responsible to no one but ourselves, but if we are looking with our hearts, we can see the people who have come before us worshiping with us in this very room, people half a globe away, who are yearning for the will of God exactly as we are. If you ask me, the sin against the Holy Spirit, is the subtle and malign way we look at ourselves and say yes to the self-made people we want to be, instead of the deeply interwoven people that we all are in the mind of God. To begin to do the will of God is to know that we are tied together deeply in ways that we can only partly understand and in ways only God can know.

                                   So when we ask who are my mother and my brothers, we are asking something much bigger than we can answer on our own. It means saying yes to those with whom we disagree, the person we would rather avoid, the aunt or sister whose phone calls we would rather not return. It means looking for the kingdom of God in the places we do not want to go. I still remember a woman who tried to exchange the peace with someone with whom she was in conflict and was told, “I'm just not feeling very peaceful today,” and her remark to me was that it was not her peace to share: it was God's. We find our mothers and brothers and sisters, in Tutu's terms, when we recognize that we “are diminished when others are humiliated, diminished when others are oppressed, diminished when others are treated as if they were less than who they were”. The alternative is to say yes, yes to a world in which we are all searching for the will of God, because it is there that we will begin to understand what family really is.

 

Proper 4 B 2018

Mark 2:23- 3:6

 

             If you are like me, when we think of sabbath, many of us think of the Blue Laws, with which many of us have had some experience in this commonwealth or in another state. Now, of course, we can do almost whatever we like on a Sunday, and their value is mostly nostalgic. I know this from my father; having grown up in upstate NY, he used to smile wistfully at his memory of having one day when he and his brothers would not have to go to the market, who used to find creative ways to entertain themselves after church without the movies, such as disengaging one of the brakes on the family Model T and spinning it across the lake in wintertime at his parents’ farm, or disassembling a cart and putting it back together on top of the barn. But whether we see them as having a purpose beyond state restriction of commerce, these laws were a reminder that rest, state sanctioned or not, had a purpose of its own, as break from a daily obsession with the things we own or would like to. These are issues that have historically provoked a larger discussion about the meaning of Sabbath and whether they infringe on what we think of as our own liberty, the freedom to do what we choose when we like.

              But before we get into discussions about forced rest and freedom of action, it is a related but different premise that Jesus is challenging this morning. The conflict is not about whether a Sabbath is a good thing or not but whether we have distorted its meaning. He is asking us if are using it to create a God in our own image, whether we are constructing limits around what we believe God is or will be, and it is this issue that forces the conflict with the authorities. Having healed a paralytic and called the first of his disciples, Jesus is walking through a field with his disciples, plucking heads of grain on the sabbath, something forbidden in that time and place. The scribes see it as a deliberate provocation and it is, but not for its own sake. At stake is whether our God can be contained in our categories, domesticated through our own time-honored rituals. Jesus is explicit about the terms of the debate: “The sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the sabbath.” He is confronting the religious establishment on its own turf, questioning whether we see law and tradition limiting the scope of God’s work. If we are listening, his rebuke asks a question of us too. We instinctively resist a God who wants to transform our collective landscape, especially one who identifies himself with David and the reference to the Messiah that it implies. These are not boys having fun at the expense of the authorities but a would-be Messiah attacking the very ground of that authority. As the psalmist says, the Pharisees are intent on honoring the sabbath and keeping it holy, but it is on their terms. At the beginning of Pentecost, we have to recognize the act of overturning expectations as holy work, asking us all what is holy in our lives that we would prefer to remain limited and finite.

              The stakes become even higher when Jesus confronts the man with the withered hand in the synagogue and it is the only time in the gospels when Jesus shows actual anger at the response of the religious establishment. It’s not hard to feel the tension in the room, especially when Jesus looks at the Pharisees gathered there and asks, “Is it lawful to do good on the sabbath, to save life or to kill?”. The silence of the authorities becomes our own; we too are being asked if there is an appropriate time to offer healing, whether we need to make the suffering of others conform to our own timetable, no matter how sacred it may seem to us. The depth of the need is clear: this isn’t just a man but a human being in front of him, with all his woundedness and in the balance is how we think of our own humanity, especially weighed against the custom of authority. Risking change is not easy, in our families or even in our churches, but the kind of answer that Jesus demands means risking who we see ourselves to be. After all, boys playing a prank with a car can expect consequences, but Jesus is posing an existential threat to everything the Pharisees stand for, even in the face of providing relief for the most vulnerable, and the cost for him is much higher.

Today, that vulnerability is center-stage. The son-of-man is indeed lord of the sabbath (and we are used to thinking of him as “Lord”), but the words identify him literally as a human being. Even amid the miracles at the beginning of Mark’s gospel, cleansing lepers, casting out unclean spirits and healing paralytics, he is, in a deep sense, at one with whom he heals. This “son-of-humanity” or “the human one” is the link between his pronouncement to his claim as being the son of David and his identification with the man with the withered hand.  We can also see where this conflict is heading, with the Pharisees and Herodians already beginning their plot to destroy him. If he cannot be contained, as they have tried to contain the holiest of days, then he cannot be allowed to continue among them.

That threat is not confined to the Pharisees. Jesus is looking as much at us as the religious establishment. How is it that Jesus threatens the order we want to maintain for ourselves, the schedules that are so murderously complicated that often we cannot even think about our own sabbath, much less keep it holy? How does Jesus threaten our tenuous sense of order in our overscheduled lives? How is Jesus trying to redefine our relationships to God and to each other? This is not only holy but dangerous ground we are on, challenging all that is decent and in good order in our lives.

Several times a week, I have the privilege of going to Chester Eastside which, on Monday and Wednesday mornings, is one of the most blessedly chaotic places I have had the privilege of being. The staff and volunteers do what they can to establish order and eventually all are fed, but what guides that order is the Holy Spirit more than any human agency, as far as I can see. It is a place I go when I feel I need to be threatened, or at least freed, from my image of a God that I can confine in any way. Because what I can contain eventually becomes an idol, a God-in-the-box that I can examine at my convenience. But the lord of the sabbath is lord of my life, including the sabbath I try to keep holy and, if you are like me, we need a God who threatens us and all we hold sacred, if we are to believe our own selves as the limited but sacred creatures we were created to be.

 

Pentecost 2018 B

Acts 2:1-21

 

                   No matter what our political orientation, there is something in us that loves the idea of a conspiracy, a gathering of folks whose motives we may hold in question but who hold a common vision of what they are seeing in the world and are determined to respond to it. If we subtract the negative connotations, it is what we have this morning, because the real meaning of the word is to breathe together, to gather in the same place and feel the breath of God among us, to feel its movement among us. Even if we don’t understand it, it is impossible to ignore, and whether it happens between two of us or in a gathering of a hundred or more, it is a reminder of two things. It is a reminder of the inscrutable presence of God; in contrast to the conspiracies we feel we know, when it appears as the spirit of God, there is little we can do except recognize it as something we cannot control, only feel its presence, how it changes us and everything around us. And for those of us who pray for the church and the work of the spirit in our lives, we pray that we may bear the spirit of God into the world just as those completely unremarkable people took it from Jerusalem and spread it throughout the world, even now as we spread it around these walls and all the places and lives we touch.

                           But that cannot have been the thoughts of these men on that morning, just after Jesus had ascended into heaven, promising the guidance of the Holy Spirit but not suggesting what they might be looking for, after they had found Matthias to complete their number following the death of Judas. That is what they wanted, after all, completeness, especially in the face of so much they could not explain, where the death and resurrection of a beloved teacher had changed everything for them. They were seeking something stable to hang onto, something that felt like normalcy, a community of twelve that had been the focus of their lives long enough for them to know that they could not go back to the way things had been. And if we are honest, it is not so different for us, the way we crave normalcy when everything else around us feels so uncertain, when all feels at the whim of numbers and people and circumstances that we cannot understand, much less trust or predict, school shootings, political scandals and all.

                          Predictability is not what they have this morning. What they have are divided tongues of fire resting on each of them and the sound of a violent wind; it isn't an accident if we are reminded of the wind moving through the chaos, over the waters at the beginning of creation. It is because every movement of God in our lives together, especially for the church we are now and are becoming, is about God's continuous act of creation, the working-out God's plan in our lives and the lives of the people we love and serve. It is the very unpredictability of our lives together that is the sign of how deeply God is embedded in them, changing the way we look at one another and the work we do together.

                           Maybe that is why I have such sympathy for those in the crowd who sneer at what they are hearing, languages from all the known world coming from these most ordinary men. They are trying to frame the work of God in some kind of context that makes sense, even if it is unflattering to these men who don't understand what is happening any more than those who are accusing them of being filled with “new wine”. It is Peter who tries to help them make sense of it all, that “God will pour out his spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.” But it is a prophet's explanation, and it is maddeningly unhelpful to those of us who want to chart a course for the church, who pretend that the church's responsibility is to conform to our own private agendas. Pentecost is a reminder that it is we who work with the spirit of God, not the other way around. We have a responsibility as stewards of the church to make the best decisions we can with our resources, but it is our attentiveness to the movement of the Spirit that will tell us how faithful we are.

                          One thing that makes it so hard to talk about the Holy Spirit, to begin to understand what it means, is that we tend to treat it as a private event or even as a personal attribute, something we have or we don't. We all have experiences in our lives that we cannot understand, the relationship restored with son, daughter or parent that seemed beyond redeeming, the meeting you fear because you know there will be as many different opinions as people, and somehow consensus emerges, or more ideas than you could have imagined.  The Holy Spirit works among us in ways that stretch us, reminds us that our hearts have to be bigger than what we think they can be. William Sloane Coffin, the late pastor of Riverside Church in NY, spoke about the need to broaden our hearts to accommodate the love of God. “If indeed we love the Lord our God with all our hearts, minds and strength”, he says, “we are going to have to stretch our hearts, open our minds and strengthen our souls, whether our years are three-score and ten or not yet twenty. God cannot lodge in a narrow mind. God cannot lodge in a small heart. To accommodate God, they must be palatial.” Indeed, the Holy Spirit is not a private identification card for our spirituality but shows us how unbelievably large God's love is for all of us, and how large our hearts have to be in return.

                            It's worth remembering for those of us who are longing for something that feels like normalcy. Because we are not called to be normal. Like Matthew the tax-collector, Peter the fisherman and the rock and the numberless saints that have come after them, we are unremarkable and extraordinary at the same time. The missionary work we have on this day and each day forward is seeking-out the Spirit among us, seeing where it is drawing us. And if we need something to hang onto, let it be the idea that we cannot be who we are meant to be without letting go, letting go of our need for explanations and letting the spirit of God give us tongues to speak, maybe even set our heads and hearts on fire, and breathe all we are into divine life.

                            So the calendars will tell you that the rest of the Sundays after Pentecost will happen in ordinary time, but don't you believe it. There is nothing ordinary about the love of a God who causes this blessed chaos in our lives, whose spirit blows through everything we do and are. All it takes is a little training, to learn to exhale when things feel a little dicey. Mostly what we need, though, is to expand our hearts to take in all this blessed, messy, chaotic love. What we will experience in our lives will often seem completely out of our control but, believe it or not, it is supposed to feel that way. And if we do believe it, we might find that that is when we have our souls, our hearts, even our heads on fire with love for this God.

 

  

Easter 7 B

John 17: 6-19

 

                        

                              On this Seventh Sunday of Easter, the Sunday after the Ascension of Jesus to his Father, I have been thinking about the time I learned to pray, and I remember it being a time of bewilderment and wonder. I remember being taught by my parents what to say, the words to use, the names to include, but it was not clear to me why I was saying these things, because I couldn't imagine what effect I could have on the lives of others, kneeling in the moonlight in my room at night. After all, most of the people whose names I would use could look after themselves and, being small, I was not sure that anything whispered in a dark room, would make any difference in the lives of people who often lived far away from us. Yet I remember saying those words like I remember the wallpaper in my room; I remember the sense of wonder they formed in me, that what I thought and said, a conversation I began then and that still continues, could somehow have an effect everyone around me.                                                                                                                                                                                             

                         On this last day of our Easter celebrations, we have a window onto a life of a community that is about to be changed completely, and prayer is at the heart of that change.  Jesus is finishing his goodbye to his disciples, yet at the end of this long farewell, he is not issuing last minute instructions. Instead, his final moments are spent in prayer to God on their behalf. He asks the Father to be their protection in the world, “to protect them in your name, that you have given me, so that they may be one as we are one,”  to sanctify them in your truth—your word is truth”, to send them out into the world to change it. He is asking for the completion of his mission through three hard years of ministry and the love it has borne through all his disciples.

                            We do not have the reaction of the disciples to the prayer, but it must have been bewildering. He has been at the center of all their lives through all the miracles, the teachings, the promises of what is to come, hearing them on the eve of betrayal. We, however, hear them all through the filter of the resurrection, where their world and ours has been thrown into disarray by this wonderful, impossible event that has taken place in the risen Christ.  It is in the light of this event that we have focused on him, on his presence with us, what it means for our relationships with the estranged father or daughter or colleague, what it means to seek out the Christ in everyone we see.

                             This morning is really about the Ascension and how it has changed all our lives. One of the great privileges of being a part of this place is being alone here some days in the late afternoon, when the sun strikes the windows around the nave and lights up everything in this sanctuary in a completely different way than we see on a Sunday morning, the light refracting in reds and blues off everything in the chancel. It's something like this that happens for us after the Ascension. For weeks now, Jesus himself has been the light on which we have been fixed, bringing us back to the fold, the one who has called us friends instead of servants. But even after he is out of our sight, he becomes more a part of who we are and how we see our world. Instead of being the thing we are looking at, he becomes the window through which we see everything around us, the work that engages us, all that has meaning in our lives. He is no  longer the thing we see but the way we see, our way of viewing everything through the promises of God. We look through this window and see everything changed, and we too are changed in the process. It means, says Rowan Williams, that “we think about Jesus not as someone completely outside us, but as the power in us gradually setting us free to see the world with clarity, hope and love. Jesus does not demand attention for himself: he...enables us to go on our journey toward God the Father as he himself did, by the path of commitment to the world.” However badly we want to gaze on this figure that has changed our lives, it is our own view through him that compels us to see our world and each other differently.

                                  Seeing our world through the window of Christ helps us to understand the eternal life that is at the center of Jesus' prayer for those who have been with him throughout his ministry. At the heart of that life is the willingness to see the smallest of our steps toward God and each other as the eternal life for which Jesus prays: the way we reach out to an estranged colleague, the family that comes together around a sick relative.  It is just because these steps can be so difficult that they are so crucial because they allow us to see ourselves as beloved of God; it is only in seeing ourselves as parts of each other that we become the people we were made to be. Eternal life means being bound to God, we who have been made in God's image.

                                       Looking through that window forming within us also changes the way we think about prayer. The church I attended in Atlanta, the one that supported my journey toward ordination, was much like this one, one that took its mission seriously but one that welcomed people from every possible background. There was a pew under a window depicting the Ascension and, as I would watch children crawl into it on a Sunday morning,  I would think about my own struggle with prayer as a child and all our struggles with our own holiness. Allowing Christ to be that window formed inside us lets us see in our prayers  that “there are no surplus people, people whose needs or claims we can safely ignore-- the handicapped, the dying, or those who are just far away from us...The loyalty of any Christian can't be given to anything less than the human race to which God has made commitment.” Our prayer on this Sunday  is a refraction of the prayer Jesus offers his own Father because it illuminates all of God's children, from those as bewildered as I was to those who have given their lives to the realization of the kingdom. It allows us to see that we cannot really see the divinity of the creator without acknowledging the holiness of each of us who were created in the image of God.

                                       Seeing that relationship between Father and Son through the window of the Ascension reminds us of who we really are. In Jesus' terms, we do not belong to the world, just as he does not belong to the world, but we have a dual citizenship, in the world we encounter every day and in the eternal. After all, we are very much in the world, but, changed as our view is through the window of Christ, it cannot look the same. It is shot-through with light, the light of clarity, hope and love, the love of a Father for a beloved son, and the love of a son who has given us a view of a new heaven and a new earth.