All for One: Speaking to the Soul for July 29, 2021

When I was a kid, one of the musicals that made a deep impression on me was West Side Story. A modern version of Romeo and Juliet, its beautiful music by the brilliant Leonard Bernstein spoke deeply to me.

My favorite song from that musical was “One Hand, One Heart.” It is sung in a scene where the two star-crossed lovers, Tony and Maria, pretend to have a wedding, since they believe a real one is impossible due to their different backgrounds. Despite themselves, despite belonging to groups who hate each other, Tony and Maria are drawn together, and able to see beyond the labels that try to keep them as enemies. They pretend to make their vows, then together they sing these simple lines, first in harmony, and then in unison:

Make of our lives one life,
Day after day, one life.
Now it begins, now we start
One hand, one heart…”

The beginning of the letter to the Ephesians starts with a magnificent description of God as the one who “chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world to be holy and blameless before him in love.” The letter then goes on to detail how God’s love for us, especially as revealed through God’s Son Jesus, has brought together a tremendous diversity of people in the Church, people who normally would not cross the very strict sets of hierarchies and boundaries in the Mediterranean world: slaves and free persons. Jews and Greeks. Male and Female.

In this Sunday’s reading from Ephesians 4: 1-16, we once again hear the word “one” repeated, seven times over:

one body,
one Spirit,
one hope,
one Lord,
one faith,
one baptism,
one God who encompasses all that exists, from sub-atomic particles to galaxies.

All things are one, brought together by God’s love. Our reading today begins by turning to how we respond to such an outstanding gift of love.

It strikes me anew every time I read the line about being chosen by God before time. Because much of the Christian thought that seems to dominate these days, that we see even in commercials on TV, starts from the other direction—it emphasizes that our relationship with God starts with our personal decision.

How would it change us if, instead of thinking that we have chosen God, to start from the conviction that God has chosen us, from even before the time we were born?

As Christ in the world, we are called to embody the love of God, which rests not on vengeance or fear, but on grace and abundant mercy for all who will open their hearts to the hope that is Christ. The life of the Christian individual and the Christian community is ultimately intended to reflect the life of Christ, because we are one in Christ for the world, called to work for true peace, which can only be founded on true justice, which is an outgrowth of true love for each other through grace which admits no exceptions. Through the true bread of Jesus, we come to know who we really are: bearers of God’s love into the world.

To act before God as God sees us: As beautiful. As beloved.
To act in the world as what we are: the Body of Christ.
One in Spirit. All for one.
What grace this is!

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul for July 29, 2021.

Beyond the Stormy Seas: Sermon for the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 12B)

“I go down to the edge of the sea.
How everything shines in the morning light!”

-- Mary Oliver, from “Breakage”

Yesterday, St. Martin’s celebrated a momentous day: the ordination of the Rev. Shug Goodlow to the priesthood in the Episcopal beanch of Christ’s one. Holy, catholic, and apostolic church. Apostolic, because at her consecration, Shug had hands placed on her by her kindred priests and by her bishop, a tradition we proclaim that stretches back in an unbroken line to the apostles. For me, the tears started at Veni, Spritu Sanctus, that ancient prayer. There were a multitude of witnesses and a multitude of hnads pressing down on Shug across places and centuries. It was obvious to me that the Spirit of God and God’s abundant grace were in this place.

Today in our gospel, we hear another reminder of God’s abundance. Last Sunday we omitted Mark’s recounting of the feeding of the multitude from the gospel reading in the lectionary, and many of us wondered why. This week we pick up that story, yet we are given the version in the gospel of John, not Mark, and the author of John lays out the story in a very specific way. The first part is familiar: Jesus feeds a multitude even though there is only a little food at hand; yet when everyone has been satisfied, there are heaping amounts of food left over.

The Gospel of John then makes an interesting claim: in response to the feeding, the crowd comes to believe that Jesus is “the prophet who has come into the world,” and they leap from prophet to emperor. Jesus is then said to realize that they are about to try to force him to become king, and withdraws away to the mountain by himself. As evening approaches, the disciples eventually get into the boat and set off across the sea toward Capernaum, toward home, after they have waited in vain for Jesus to join them. As the apostles propel themselves across the water, the sea gets increasingly rough, even as home beckons once they get beyond the storm. Finally, in the darkest part of the night, they see Jesus approaching them—by walking on water.

John’s account doesn’t include Matthew’s story of Peter impulsively hurling himself over the side to join Jesus’s perambulations. In Mark and John, the disciples resolutely stay glued in the boat as Jesus approaches them, walking on the waves as you or I would walk on a sidewalk, and yet they know they are three or four miles from shore. Matthew and Mark measure the distance travelled by the disciples’ boat by time: they claim that this miracle happens during the “fourth watch of the night,” which would be a time right before dawn, a time when the sages say it is darkest—you know: “It’s always darkest before the dawn.” For three watches, the disciples had been struggling against the oars, against the wind and the sea, against their own repeated inability to understand and accept who exactly Jesus is.

They’re still trying to wrap their minds around this miraculous feeding of a crowd and now Jesus is treating water as if it is solid ground, even as it crashes against the boat. John’s gospel states that the Passover was near at this time, and now Jesus is passing over the water toward them. Passover is the time when it is remembered that the angel of death had swooped over Egypt, carrying off the firstborn of every household that had not splashed its doorposts with blood—a night that is also follows a meal. Now here’s Jesus passing over and through storms and crashing waves like an angel himself. It’s no wonder those who were sitting in a boat amongst turbulent waves became afraid—of the storm yes, but also of this Jesus who comes to them in his own way, untroubled by the storm that encloses them. The crowd has still betrayed their misunderstanding of Jesus, and probably now the disciples too fail to understand. They are so busy goggling at how Jesus approaches them that they don’t notice that they are very near to the shore.

The feeding of the multitude and Jesus’s path across the stormy seas are told as one story for a reason. On one side of the sea the multitude is fed and on the other side of the sea Jesus is revealed as one who transcends limits. In between is the sea filled with our confusion, our doubt, our insistence that we not be shaken too much in our understanding. We are hungry for God, yet cast adrift by our own inability to accept who Jesus really is. We want Jesus to feed us but not transform us. We insist that Jesus to come to us in ways we can understand.

Jesus comes to us and expects us to wrap our minds around the fact that he feeds those who follow him, worthy or unworthy, lovable and unlovable—all are invited to the table, and all are filled to overflowing like that cup that runneth over in Psalm 23. In fact, there are small facets of the 23rd Psalm that glisten like precious gems in the midst of this story today, there for the finding: the very abundant grass in that place where Jesus bids the crowds sit down on is a detail only in John’s version of this feeding of the multitudes. Jesus feeds this multitude in a pasture—and this reminds us of the verse in the 23rd Psalm: “He makes me to lie down in green pastures.” Mark’s version even states that Jesus has compassion on the hungry crowd because they were “like sheep without a shepherd.” In John’s telling, Jesus is their shepherd, and he makes them lie down in green pastures so that he can spread a table before them.

This radical feast may very well overwhelm us, in a world in which we have programmed ourselves to respond to artificial scarcity created by advertisers and politicians determined to weaken us by driving us apart and teaching us to see each other as competition rather than kindred. This may scare us, in a world where we try to justify the deaths of people in jail cells or slums or war zones, who shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

This may terrify us, in a world where we continue to misuse creation and each other in countless ways to erode the bonds among us, and then angrily denounce how lost and alone we feel in the world, and how cut off we are from this good earth which bears us in its arms even as we declare ourselves aloof from its embrace. This may cause us to believe there is not food enough. This may cause us to push away from the shore, to resolve to stay adrift in the storm we know, no matter how awful it is for us. To embrace the nihilism of defeat and division from the Princes of Lies among us, rather than radically trust and accept the Jesus whose love promises to change us once we embrace who he really is—our living bread, our good shepherd. In this pandemic, there are far too many around us who have decided to embrace destruction, to embrace being in the midst of the stormy sea, divided and suspicious of each other. Yet aren’t we all, sitting here, hungry for that kind of grace and love that Jesus offers our starving souls?

It starts with receiving Jesus as our savior and the glorious transformation he offers us, rather than pushing our boats out into the stormy sea through pride and fear. It starts with also being willing to tend to each other in tenderness rather than fighting each other as enemies and strangers. Just like those apostles, we tell Jesus and ourselves We have no food to feed all these people. And yet Jesus insists we all sit together and eat.

Jesus continues to respond to us: together, we are called to give them something to eat—together, not as “us” and “them.”

We are called to understand that Jesus is not sent to us to be a bureaucrat, enforcer, or magistrate-- but to be the one to lead us into a new understanding of how we ourselves are called to be. Even with the little we think we bring with us, abundance and well-being and peace and satisfaction—all those things which we can’t seem to generate for ourselves due to our own fears—come from allowing ourselves to be blessed and fed by Jesus and his radical gospel of love. But we have to stop trying to remake Jesus according to our ideas of justice, which divides people into winners and losers, and let him come to us without trying to force him into our boat, to travel as we do. Once we see Jesus as he is, we realize that the shore is right before us, and the waves no longer threaten.

Lord, it has been a hard path through the darkness and the stormy seas these last many days. We continue to struggle against the storms within our hearts that drive us from You and leave us famished. May we always remember that, even when it is darkest, You are beside us, loving us. May we always remember that in You, there is more than enough- enough bread, enough mercy, enough grace—and let us allow ourselves to be filled, and to believe in our power and our duty even to fill each other—an obligation you place upon us as our shepherd.

Lord Jesus, beloved Savior, you are our bread and our cup, our peace and our path leading us home, beyond the edge of the sea to the shore of our home, our harbor, our God who sustains us in all things.

Preached at the 10:30 am online and unperson service at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO, on July 25, 2021

Readings:

2 Samuel 11:1-15
Psalm 14
Ephesians 3:14-21
John 6:1-21

Feeding Our Hearts with Grace: Speaking to the Soul for July 22, 2021

John 6:1-21

Lord Jesus Christ, we kneel before You in thanks for this day.
Forgive us our sins, O God, we humbly pray,
and guide us into new pathways of peace and mercy
for your love’s sake.
Bring us into a new fellowship of faith and hope,
and drive far from us all division and fear.
You, Lord, bid us sit down and eat:
open our eyes to see your abundant blessings all around us.
As you multiplied the loaves and fishes
to feed the multitudes,
feed us with your grace and peace,
satisfying our souls.
Pour out your Spirit upon us, O God,
that we may reflect the light of love and healing
into the darkest corners of the world.
We turn to You, O Holy One,
for your healing touch:
place the balm of your blessing upon all who call upon You.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on July 22, 2021.

Body and Soul: Sermon for Proper 10B

I don’t know about you, but there’s a lot going on in our family’s lives right now. I spent my day off in Tulsa, taking my Mom to the doctor and running a bunch of errands for her. I visited with and prayed with my sister, who was supposed to have surgery but had suddenly had it denied by her insurance company, which meant it had to be paid for out of pocket, which was incredibly stressful and even traumatic on top of the trauma of further surgery when she has been suffering for over four months.

I returned and did parish work while also rushing around doing things for my family in the evenings. I played phone tag with several people fruitlessly and frustratingly. We closed on a new house, and learned we needed new phones to be able to stay in contact with the outside world, and had to make the arrangement for all of the resulting changes. Bill was so excited we had to spend the night there even without our furniture and no internet. And more church work, and more family tasks. At the speed of sound.

And the truth is, it wore me out. And I thought about how we are prone in America to worship overwork, and overfunctioning, and how we take being tired and overscheduled to somehow be a sign to us of how important we are. And I give thanks that right when I needed it most, we get a gospel that reminds us of how Jesus calls us to remember the unity between body and soul, and the importance of honoring and caring for ourselves and others in our bodily needs.

To set the scene for the gospel: A couple of weeks ago in the lectionary, Jesus had sent the apostles out to evangelize throughout the Judean countryside. At the start of our gospel reading today, they return, exhilarated—but also exhausted. They have been more successful than they had ever dreamed they could be. After all, it was one thing for Jesus to heal the sick and explain the kingdom of God. Jesus is, after all, the Son of God. Miracles and healing are his specialty, we’ve been led to believe. But for merely human apostles to do the same thing? Inconceivable at first—but exactly what each person who follows Jesus is called to do.

Throughout this gospel today, we see Jesus lovingly, tenderly, perceptively taking human physical needs and limitations seriously. As always, he offers healing to all who ask—and even to the disciples, who forget to ask. Are you tired? Jesus asks. Rest. Especially, rest in prayer, in the presence of God. Honor your human body and its needs as well as your obligations as my followers. Being human is not less-than. Being human is holy, when all we do is lived in the pursuit and presence of God.

Far too much of Christianity today emphasizes the miraculous, divine side of Jesus and his status as the Christ. We then lose sight of the human being Jesus son of Mary also was— the son, the brother, the friend, the apprentice carpenter, the nascent rabbi. And that is not a good thing for a variety of reasons, but one of the most insidious of which is it leads to a splitting of our lives between the sacred and the worldly, the soul and the body, which can be very harmful to our overall well-being.

Worse, there are those who convince themselves that spiritual stuff is for Sundays, while also walling off the ethical obligations of being Christian the other days of the week. It has become common in our religious discourse to preference the spiritual over the material, and in particular the body —with often disastrous consequences.

Favoring the spiritual over the bodily has led to very real harm in Christian history. It has led to many pious people coldly discounting the pains, sufferings, and sorrows of this world and its inhabitants with a shrug of helplessness at best or unconcerned fatalism at worst. At its widest perspective, this disdain for bodily existence leads to talk about this world--and its inhabitants-- as fallen, evil, unredeemable, accursed, worthy only of being exploited and consumed rather than something holy that God from the moment of creation pronounced “good” and even “very good.” There are even groups of Christians who gleefully welcome natural disasters and diseases as signs of the Apocalypse, which they believe will lead to them being raptured off of this fallen world while millions suffer torment. It’s appallingly hateful and selfish—and also completely opposed to how Jesus lives his own life with others.

This denigration of the material world is also directed at our wondrous human bodies, which can be treated with contempt due to their mortality and fragility—and also, to be clear, due to some Biblical stories and verses that have been misinterpreted over the millennia. For women—and young girls, even—our bodies are slandered and denigrated as allegedly being sources of temptation and evil, even today, unless they are rigidly regulated, controlled, shamed while being simultaneously sexualized. Women’s bodies are even viewed as property, decoration, or trophies, or reduced to limited roles inside the home such as cleaning, cooking, or providing offspring—with alienation for those women who do not fit into this mold for one reason or another. And always, always, ruthlessly criticized and kept in their place at best or unprotected and undefended from violence at worst.

Men’s bodies, too, must be physically strong, vigorous, coordinated, masterful, dominant—or their very worth as men can be questioned. Weakness, emotion, or vulnerability must be denied at all costs. And it causes very real physical and spiritual harm for all of us.

Even more subtly, in our everyday lives, this false divide between body and soul can make it easy for us to excuse ethical decisions we make in our workaday lives that we know in our hearts violate Jesus’s gospel of good news for everyone.

We can find ourselves nodding our heads on Sunday to commandments not to lie or cheat or exploit others, but then relegate such promises to the spiritual world when confronted with the chance to grab power or make a buck during the rest of the week.

The contempt we can have for our own bodies and their needs is NOTHING compared to the contempt we can have for other people’s bodies and their needs if we believe it might cost us something in terms of advantage or privilege or freedom. Divorcing body from soul also costs us our integrity, compassion, and sense of duty to our fellow human beings by “othering” them and declaring “the weak”—a terrible word itself filled with blame and shame-- as deserving of their poverty and suffering for our own benefit.

We cannot draw a bright line between our bodily lives—political, economic, secular—and our spiritual lives. We have one life given to us by the gift and grace of God. That one life is a seamless whole, and we have to honor both our bodily needs and our spiritual growth as a unified whole. And as much as we honor our own bodily needs, as disciples of Jesus we are called to care for the bodily needs of others, particularly the vulnerable, and never insist on our own way if it could cause another person to stumble, or if it could obscure or refute the goodness of God in the world. We have to remember that each individual body does not exist by itself, but exists within a number of communities, including the Body of Christ.

Our gospel reading this week makes it clear that not only was Jesus human, he understood the cared for the very human needs of his disciples as they went about the shared work of bringing the kingdom of God to light on earth. The very human Jesus and the very human disciples spent large parts of their lives ministering to others because that is what the life of a follower of Jesus MUST be all about. Our daily lives flow out of our spiritual lives. What does our daily life say about our spiritual values? This is important, necessary and ongoing self-reflection.

Our gospel reminds us that body and the soul are the insuperable two sides of the same coin that makes up human existence, for Jesus as well as all of us. Jesus as the Incarnate One hallows and exemplifies human bodily existence, showing us all what wonder and beauty and nobility of which we are all capable as God’s children.

In unifying the body and the soul, the human and the divine, and awakening all of us to our possession of both natures from our very creation and first breath, Jesus has awakened us and those disciples that to the reality that we don’t get a free pass to leave the miracles to Jesus as the divine Son of God while we excuse our vices as being merely human.

Jesus spent so much time healing bodily ailments to remind us of how important bodies are. Jesus didn’t come just to show us how to go to heaven when we die and shed these bodies. Jesus comes to show us how to live, and how our lives testify to who we believe God is. Our bodies and their needs are reminders of God’s love for us, and desire for us to be happy. How we use our bodies and live our lives IS both worship and testimony. As children of God, our entire lives—not just our Sunday lives, or our worship lives-- tell the world who God is.

How would it change our lives if we actively acknowledged the truth that everything we do, no matter how mundane or trivial or practical—how we work, how we play, how we treat ourselves, how we treat others, how we spend our time and our money-- is done in the presence of God? To realize that body and soul together are what makes each of us who we are both as individuals but also has very real implications with how we use our time and our skills and our bodies in the world as a visible testimony to who we say God is and who we are as God created each of us?

When we view our lives as completely lived before the presence of God, both our work and our play will reflect God’s kingdom values of justice, compassion, healing, wellness, interconnectedness. There will be no more “them” and us.” There will be no more division between “work” and “worship.” There will be no more striving without rest.

We are called to stand before God with all that we are and all that we have—body and soul. What we pray and what we do is our true testimony in the eyes of the world.

There must be no more illusion that all that we are and all that we do, that all that we give and all that we receive are all not of one seamless whole before our Lord, our Savior, our Creator, who loves us beyond imagining and calls us to embrace the life of generosity and community that both sustains us and calls us forward as beloveds of God. Body and soul, at work or at rest, always in the presence of God, our Companion, Shepherd, and Creator.

Preached at the 10:30 online service at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, on July 18, 2021.

Readings:

2 Samuel 7:1-14a
Psalm 89:20-37
Ephesians 2:11-22
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

Prayer 3087

Most Merciful God,
We put our trust in You
and ask the light of your countenance
upon us and all those for whom we pray.
Grant your wisdom and guidance
to the hands and minds of surgeons, doctors, and nurses,
for all who practice the healing arts,
that they may restore their patients to wholeness and health,
and be protected from all danger and heartbreak.
Place the balm of your Spirit
upon all who are ill, anxious, or awaiting news,
that your Name may be glorified.
Strengthen us in faith, that we may go out
to live and serve you in faith and hope,
commending these loved ones to your care.

Amen.

Filling the Gaps: Speaking to the Soul, July 15, 2021

A few years ago, my daughter Katie and I traveled to the Catalan region of Spain with my dear friends Joe and Joanie, her godparents, as a gift from them for her graduation We spent most of our time in Barcelona, but we also took a day trip to Girona and Figueres.

Girona, in particular, was fascinating. Founded in 79 AD, it had been defended (and conquered) repeatedly due to its strategic location along major thoroughfares in the Roman, Moorish, and Holy Roman Empires and beyond. Walls thus became very important in keeping the town safe, and there were a series of walls built throughout the centuries as the town needed to expand its footprint as it grew. Walking along its cobbled streets, which were themselves works of art, you could see walls that were 1500 years old. They were a beloved reminder to the people of this town of their resilience.

In some places, gaps were visible between the stones. In some of the bigger ones, artists created small figurines like the one above-- carved like an atlas (a support column carved in the shape of a man common in Greco-Roman architecture) in a charming show of whimsy. This atlas appeared as though he was trying to resume his position holding up the wall above him. And yet he was only about 6 inches high, in the midst of a wall that soared twenty feet high or more. But what we noticed was how he was perfectly positioned for the gap he was in, symbolizing resilience and initiative.

By the 12th century, Girona had attracted a thriving Jewish population, who lived in a segregated part of the town, as was common. Our guide took us to a former residence there, and as she spoke, we noticed another niche in the doorway just higher than our guide's head. This was the slot carved into the stone where the mezuzah had been. A mezuzah is a container holding a tiny piece of parchment that contains the prayer known as Shema Yisrael from the Book of Deuteronomy. Jewish people touch the mezuzah and the Torah portion within when entering the doorway as a way of remembering their adherence to the commandment to worship God as One. The guide explained the mezuzahs throughout the quarter had been ruthlessly removed when the Jews were forced to convert or be exiled in 1492. Thus, this niche was noteworthy by its emptiness, reminding us of people who HAD lived here, but who were ultimately unwelcome. And although recently, a few Jews have returned to the town, their presence will forever be changed within that community, but they look forward to the future.

When we entered the Old Town square, we had much to think about, and as we came through the dividing wall, I happened to look up and saw a surprise. A flowing vine had established itself between the minutest of crevices in the doorway casing, and protruded out about a foot, flaunting one lone flower at its end that swayed and danced in the breeze. As tight as the stone work was, that vine and the life it represented was determined to find a way, and find a way it did.

Thus, we had seen three kinds of gaps: one that was the better for being joyfully and playfully filled; one that had once been filled but now testified to and lamented an absence; and one that made visible a gap and an opportunity for growth that would otherwise have gone unnoticed.

Since this pandemic began, and as it continues, sometimes all we can see is the gaps. Other times, we walk right past them without noticing. I want to suggest to you that, especially during these last 18 months, we have been presented with all three of these kinds of gaps in our parishes, and, frankly, in every area of our lives, if we think about it.

Where have you filled some gaps in your life with something playful or joyful, something meant to bring a smile to the faces of those who come after you? (And if you haven't, it's never too late to start or too small a thing to make a difference.)

Where have you mourned a new gap in your life? Perhaps it was the loss of being able to be with friends and family; perhaps it is even the loss of a loved one who has died. Perhaps it was a job. Perhaps it is suddenly being able to worship only online, and the continued reminder of how much you miss being in person with friends and family. How have you sought to acknowledge that gap, honor it, and open yourself to the possibility of hope and comfort?

Where have you found new opportunities in your life for growth and change, new opportunities to lend a hand and help others? Where have you sought new life, new habits, new flourishing in your spiritual practices? There are unseen opportunities all around us.

Even in the midst of uncertainty, and change, and absence, there are all opportunities for reflection, for growth, for action as well. We have the magnificent opportunity to grow together as a community in Christ, stronger than before-- if we are all eager to be mindful of the gaps and seek to fill them. There are new needs that this pandemic has exposed, and new ways of being the Church and disciples in the world for which the world is crying out. And it all starts with each and every one of us seeing --and seizing-- the new niches we can fill for the glory of God, for the love of neighbor, and for the testimony to the love of Christ and his gospel of love in a hurting world.

Faithful disciples are called to proclaim a gospel of hope and of faithfulness, and that is more needed now than ever. How can you seek out new ways to fill the gaps, and make your parish, and her mission beyond her walls, stronger than ever?

This was published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on July 15, 2021.

Dancing in the Streets: Sermon for Proper 10B (Seventh Sunday after Pentecost)

It is interesting to note that we rarely see readings that discuss dancing in scripture, and yet, this week, we get two readings that mentioned dance as a central figure in a story. And there's a great deal of contrast between the two dances depicted in our readings this week.

David’s dance is before God. It is not meant to please anyone but God, and is a sign of pure joy and triumph --and, dare we say it, worship? Most of us staid Episcopalians do not consider dance to be a normal part of our worship lives --and for many of us, dance is something that we do not consider to be a normal part of any of our lives. And there's a very simple reason for that. Dancing makes us self-conscious, mostly because dancing puts our bodies, and our sense of rhythm, on display.

It wasn’t always like that for most of us. As children, we delighted in the things we could do through movement: crawling, walking, and running led to twirling, bouncing, and leaping. This was allowed when you were at home, but not allowed when you were in public—and it is that prohibition, I think that led many of us to lose our joy in rhythmical movement.

For some of us this talk about dancing can bring to mind either humiliating, awkward mixers in our school days or parqueted floors at weddings —or worse, elementary school gym class, where we were forced to learn square dancing or the Virginia reel while our gym teacher snuck off for a smoke outside, we suspected. Then there are those songs that have formulaic dances or songs attached to them. But too many of us don’t join in. We worry that we are out of rhythm or out of step. We worry that we look silly. We worry that we don't know the latest moves.

And this extends into worship. Most Episcopal parishes do not incorporate dance into liturgy. We Episcopalians are generally very stodgy about body movement during worship. Sure, there’s standing, sitting, kneeling, genuflecting—what the late great Episcopalian Robin Williams famously called “pew aerobics.” But we don’t tend to make a lot of gestures—heck some of us can’t bring ourselves to genuflect, and that’s okay.

But it can be a hard habit to shake, this regulating every movement in worship. One of the things we had to be taught as we prepared for our ordination was the manual motions priests are called to make during the Eucharist. The first several times we practiced, I felt incredibly self-conscious. Was I flinging my hands out too wide? Was I moving too fast or too slowly? 

Bless you, my people.

How exactly do you hold your fingers when blessing the people? How do you avoid looking like Carol Burnett channeling the Queen of England waving from her carriage?

But when I first became an Episcopalian, I loved the predictability of it all, having grown up in some churches where people would be “seized by the spirit” and randomly speak in tongues. In the first parish in which I was a member, there was a young boy we’ll call Joey. Joey was not neuro-typical and largely non-verbal, but he watched everything. And when it came time for communion, he was often the first to run to the altar rail, hands outstretched. After receiving the host, Joey would pop it into his mouth with a shout, and then spin and twirl his way back to his family’s pew. Of course, there were people who disapproved. But luckily, we had a priest who knew that Joey was demonstrating for all of us the joy that communion is possible to elicit. He was being authentically himself—but himself joyfully grateful to a God he knew but couldn’t describe.

David, it is told, wrote many of the psalms, which meant he spent a lifetime trying to describe God and trying to define his relationship with God. Yet in our first reading today, David puts aside his pen, and instead puts on the garments of a priest, and dances before the ark of the covenant with all of the joy and wonder he felt, unashamedly, joyfully. He is dancing to express the joy of God’s throne being back among God’s people at long last, a moment of dramatic importance.

Contrast David’s dance with that of Herod’s stepdaughter, who is actually named Salome. David’s dance is understood as more acceptable because it is not for bedazzling a creepy despot, but for expressing his joyful worship—and no one loses their lives because of it, either. We can admire his bravery at putting aside his air of dignity to give full expression to what God means in his life, as imperfect as we all know he is. But how many of us are glad we are not being asked to dance with all our might in front of a gathered multitude?

What does this story mean for us? How often do we feel self-conscious about parts of our calling as Christian witnesses and disciples?

First, perhaps we should consider the false division between body and spirit that has taken root in much of our thinking about human life today. Bodies and souls are both dependent upon each other in this life. Bodies are not some shameful disposable container for our immortal souls but are instead a reminder that we share our embodied life with Christ himself. Just as bodies and souls depend upon each other, so too our faith and our life are intertwined, and depend upon each other. Listen carefully to what we pray in worship. It tells us important things about how to live—how to get out there and dance the dance of God for the world to see.

Then there’s the spiritual dance of discipleship, and how we can embody that in our lives. How many of us hesitate when the Spirit calls us into the dance of love and true worship that might make us forget ourselves and possibly open ourselves up to scorn and mockery in the eyes of this cynical divided world? Oh, it probably wouldn’t take actual dancing to do a number on us.

It wouldn’t take actual dancing in the streets-- or, in a way, does it? What if it required us to be better evangelists? Oooh, just as scary. But as we learned with the revival of line dancing after the disco and Urban Cowboy eras, anything is less embarrassing if done in groups rather than individually. And that’s key: we do this together, supporting each other. Inviting each other into the dance of faith, the dance of the Trinity of God that makes us all one.

Let us dance in the freedom of religion as a guide for our own behavior rather than a bludgeon we could use on OTHER people’s behavior, especially if our religious beliefs cost us nothing and cost them their identity or dignity.

Let us dance in a new understanding of how our public opinions and actions —both as individuals and as a group-- toward the poor, the marginalized, and the outcast fare next to Christ’s gospel actions toward the poor, the marginalized and the outcast.

Let us dance together in using our power to alleviate the potential suffering of those around us instead of idolizing our own rights at the expense of others.

Let us dance in a new understanding of how powerful our words are to build up those around us in unity and grace, rather than tear others down.

Let us dance into speaking honestly about what God’s love has meant for us in our lives when someone asks us if we go to church.

Could it be that, for all the fear of looking foolish, there would also be indescribable joy that we might open ourselves up to receive?

Each of these things would put us as much on display as actually joining David in dancing in the streets before the Ark. Yet God is inviting Christians, especially now in this time of hatred, division, and contempt, to literally embody Christ’s loving values against the forces of inhumanity, dishonesty, and exploitation.

That may sound scary. But God is also calling us to embrace joy, and generosity, and gratitude, and be blessed as these gifts take root in our lives, softening the hard soil that can seize up our hearts so that we could be truly happy and fruitful.

Come, join in the dance, and see where it leads.

Readings:

2 Samuel 6:1-5, 12b-19
Psalm 24
Ephesians 1:3-14
Mark 6:14-29

Preached at the 10:30 online Eucharist at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO on July 11, 2021.

Homily for the Funeral of Dee Robinson

Readings:

Isaiah 61:1-3

Psalm 23 (NRSV)

I John 3:1-2

John 5:24-27

We are gathered today to remember and celebrate the ongoing life and love of Dorothy “Dee” Robinson, a woman of incredible strength, grit, joy, humor, and faith.

There are some people whose personalities are just too much to be contained by their bodies. Dee Robinson was apparently one of those people.

When I first was talking to the family about Dee, I made the mistake of referring to her as “Dorothy.” Apparently, no one knew her as Dorothy. She was Dee. Dee as in “determined.” Although she lived 50 years of her life under a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis, one cannot say that she was a “victim” of MS, or even that she “battled” MS. No, Dee also stands for “dominate,” because she dominated MS and any wayward body part such as a foot that would dare not bend itself to her will. Dee “stands” for determined, because she faced the world on her own two feet even if one of those feet got ridiculous ideas about disobeying this lady’s absolutely resolute will.

Dee stood for D as in “dynamic.” Dee lived her life with certain distinct preferences: vegetables, no; extra vermouth in her Manhattan, yes. When it came to vegetables, and her repugnance for them, Dee also stands for the D in “dramatic” in the best and most charming sense.

And frankly, Dee stands for “d” as in “dynamo.” She loved and raised five kids, including her beloved Wendy, who is interred next to Dee and Mel in our columbarium. Her kids Deborah, Cindy, Ron, and Chuck in turn raised their seven kids, who in turn are raising, at last count, 8 great-grandkids and this web of love, loudness and laughter all traces itself back in all its glory to Dee. This is the ultimate testimony to a life well lived on Dee’s own terms.

One of the greatest challenges in preparing for services such as funerals is our misconception about them—and sometimes, the Church itself does not help. Some of the funeral readings provided for as suggestions in the Episcopal Church and elsewhere in Christendom can get downright depressing. Readings such as those would not have shone any light on the reality of Dee’s long and determined life. Yet Dee was also a woman of deep faith. And the readings we hear today reflect that.

The passage of Isaiah speaks of good news being proclaimed to those who most desperately need it—and that IS perfect for a funeral service. In particular it contains words of comfort for those who mourn. These are the same words Jesus read from the scroll in his hometown synagogue, after his baptism and temptation in the wilderness. He arrived back into town after those 40 days of testing, shook the sand and dirt out of his hair, got himself presentable – and if he followed Dee’s example this would include some anointing with the first century equivalent of Chanel No. 5. I know I did that today, from a bottle my own mother gave me, in memory of her.

Jesus sat himself down among a bunch of people who were undoubtedly ready to underestimate him—and proclaimed himself as the Messiah—the one to free captives and prisoners, the one to declare a Jubilee at a time when most people were bowed down under Roman occupation, and to encourage those who mourn to put on their party clothes and get ready to dance from joy at the fact that liberation from death and disease and pain and anxiety was there in the midst of them. I think Dee admired chutzpah like that. I am sure some people made the mistake of unserderestimating her too-- to their immense regret.

Jesus’s life and values of care and protection for those who are his own like Dee are also woven deeply into the fabric of our beloved 23rd Psalm. This is a psalm that is so beloved for a reason: its very movement from speaking about God to speaking TO God in just six verses reminds us of the general path of movement in our lives of faith. Did you hear that? If not, try listening again, this time in Robert Alter’s beautiful poetic version rendered just a couple of years ago:

The Lord is my shepherd,
I shall not want.
In grass meadows He makes me lie down,
by quiet waters guides me.
My life He brings back.
He leads me on pathways of justice
for His name’s sake.
Though I walk in the vale of death’s shadow,
I fear no harm,
For You are with me.
Your rod and Your staff—
It is they that console me.
You set out a table before me
in the face of my foes.
You moisten my head with oil,
my cup overflows.
Let but goodness and kindness pursue me
all the days of my life.
And I shall dwell in the house of the LORD
for many long days.(2)

This psalm reflects the struggle we all face in our lives of faith and shows us the way forward. When we speak of God as distant, it is not God who has wandered away. Many of us have experienced times when we have felt that God is far from us. Or we may feel that way due to the scars and wounds the world has inflicted upon us. We may feel unloved and unlovable, and treat ourselves as disposable- or allow others to treat us that way. It’s the same way sometimes in our relationships in our families.

It’s important to remember though, that it is not God who has wandered off. So, remind yourself that God is your shepherd, and the blessings and love and grace God shows upon us—especially when we might not deserve it. Grant each other that same forbearance as you grieve together. Return to God, and then repeat to God: “I know You are with me. Your rod and staff comfort and protect me, and remind me that you are my portion and my cup, that overflows with love and mercy.” Dee knew this. Dee knew God’s presence alongside her, especially in times of trial that demanded every ounce of her formidable will.

Our final two readings work together so beautifully because they also bring this point home: we are God’s, and nothing we can do will change that. God’s love is that all-encompassing, God’s love is that strong. Stronger that any obstacle. Stronger than death itself. She is not gone, but instead has gained the victory over anything that dared get in her way in life. That is the testimony of Dee’s life for all of us. Her strength and her love lived boldly endure, in each and every one of you. And that strength welled up from her faith, her certainty, in Jesus as our Savior, our Redeemer, our protector, our guide, our shepherd.

In the months since Dee passed away, the reality of her absence has certainly been a terrible ache for this family, her friends, and all who loved her and her indomitable spirit. But I am hoping also that at the same time, signs of her ongoing love and care and how it continues to animate her extended family have also become apparent. The strength and force and faith with which she lived her life cannot be quenched even by death. For all of you who knew and loved Dee, I hope you can look within yourselves and see the way that she inspired and inspires you, challenged you and challenges you still, and encouraged and encourages you to seize life—and faith-- with both hands, and get the most out of it.

1) Image from The Daily Mirror, UK.

2) Robert Alter, from his translation of the TaNaKh, 2017.

--Preached at the Service of Burial for Dee Robinson, July 10, 2021 at 11 am online and in person at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Prayer day 3083

Blessed Savior,
God of All Mercy, we gather before You in joy and gratitude,
drawn before your altars to sing your praises.
May we make our hearts fertile fields
to produce abundant love and healing for the world.
May we receive your gospel, Lord,
and plant it deep within us
to reconcile with all of creation
and live into your dream for us.
May we seek to serve You, Blessed Jesus,
as faithful witnesses and healers in the kingdom of heaven.
By the power of the Holy Spirit,
unite us as one body,
filled with grace,
remembering always our redemption.
Pour out your blessing upon us, O Creator,
and uphold and bless those whose hope is in You.

Amen.

Prayer, day 3082

Eternal God, we open the doors of our hearts:
enter into our lives this day, and make us whole.
Reconcile us to You, and one another
that we amend our lives
and repair our relationships.
Let the radiance of God's glory
shine forth from our countenance
and testify to God's unending mercy.
May we embody
the compassionate, healing love of Christ,
living as true disciples and companions in the Way.
Teach us to cast wide our nets,
drawing all to you in freedom, justice, and peace.
Draw near, O God, to the broken-hearted:
give your angels charge over those wait upon You.

Amen.

Prayer 3081

Almighty God,
You call us into community.
May we never take more
than we are willing to give.
May we never limit
the label of “neighbor”
to those with whom we are comfortable.
May we walk gently upon this earth,
caring for it in consideration
of those who will come after us.
May we rebuke the power
of division, self-centeredness, exploitation, and lies
IIn our mutual life together.
May we welcome each stranger as kindred.
May we work for healing over hatred.
May we offer grace
as much as we have received grace.
May we stand with the oppressed
and give of our abundance.
And May God’s light shine into the depth and breadth of our lives,
and over those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Safe Above the Storm: Speaking to the Soul for July 8, 2021

As the sun rises into the sky
on the songs of sparrows,
let me think on God, and praise God’s Name.

Blessings upon you, Eternal One:
You are my rock,
my refuge to keep me safe above the raging storm.
Even when the heat of turmoil and trial swirls about me,
You, O God, are cooling water,
and my ever-present help.
You dry my anxious tears,
and comfort the mourning;
I find my home in your tender embrace.

Your love, O Savior, forever will I sing,
and I will sing to You even in the darkest hour.
You refresh my soul, Lord Christ,
and knit my tattered heart together again.
You draw to me the solace of friendship,
the prayers of friends to lift me up and ease my burdens.

May I stand upright before You, O Holy One,
and this day grow deeper in charity, faith, and hope.
Turn the eyes of my heart outward, O God,
that I may sing anew your grace in your community.
Blessed Jesus, take us by the hand,
and grant your blessing upon those we remember before you.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on July 8, 2021.

Safe Above the Storm: Speaking to the Soul, July 8, 2021

As the sun rises into the sky
on the songs of sparrows,
let me think on God, and praise God's Name.

Blessings upon you, Eternal One:
You are my rock,
my refuge to keep me safe above the raging storm.
Even when the heat of turmoil and trial swirls about me,
You, O God, are cooling water,
and my ever-present help.
You dry my anxious tears,
and comfort the mourning;
I find my home in your tender embrace.

Your love, O Savior, forever will I sing,
and I will sing to You even in the darkest hour.
You refresh my soul, Lord Christ,
and knit my tattered heart together again.
You draw to me the solace of friendship,
the prayers of friends to lift me up and ease my burdens.

May I stand upright before You, O Holy One,
and this day grow deeper in charity, faith, and hope.
Turn the eyes of my heart outward, O God,
that I may sing anew your grace in your community.
Blessed Jesus, take us by the hand,
and grant your blessing upon those we remember before you.

Amen.

This was published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on July 8, 2021.

Prayer 3080

Almighty God,
You enfold us beneath your mighty wing
and watch over us with unfailing tenderness:
accept our prayers and praises
as we bow before you in gratitude.
Help us to follow the pilgrim path
of holiness and compassion for all living things,
that we may drink deeply
of the waters of wisdom and truth.
May your words melt like honey upon the tongue,
that we may be nourished by your commandment of love always.
May we journey together in unity,
and serve together for the love of your Name,
O Beloved Savior.
Extend the shade of your right hand over us,
and over these whom we lift before you now
as we pray,

Amen.

July Thunder (Domine non est)- Speaking to the Soul for July 1, 2021

 

Psalm 131

 

My shivering dog draping himself over me 

like a quaking blanket, pride abandoned,

driven to anxiety by the sound of thunder 

rumbling overhead for most of this week, sometimes 

bringing rain, sometimes just a threat. And for all with pets, 

 

this entire week holds more of the same--

the neighborhood will echo with the report of 

fireworks and hopefully not gunfire 

at least through the sixth of July. 

 

 “Domine non est

exaltatum cor meum…”

 

But the sky right now is exactly the color of a bruise, 

matching the one inflicted on me as

he pawed me last night to make the insufferable

thunder stop. Stevie Nicks once 

famously sang, “Thunder only happens when it’s raining.”

 

She was wrong. But Kobe believes her. His first owners 

left him outside in all weather, and thunder is a memory 

of being swept into wind and downpour 

with no chance of shelter. Thunder is the memory 

of storms and cruelties long past, 

the menace fresh, the carelessness vivid.

 

Don’t we all know the weight of helplessness

when hoping in God is all there is? 

 

So into the basement we descend. I will 

sit next to him, the press of my body and 

Bach cello suites by Ma in attempted comfort, 

notes gliding and bouncing exactly like rain,

the blare of the C string masking the thunder 

perhaps enough that he can be quieted and rest.

 

And sleep will come and breath will ease 

for all afraid yet drawn into love’s leeward side,

like a child upon his mother’s shoulder

asleep on a damp cheek,

sliding gratefully into open-hearted trust,

elusive too often for the proud and haughty self

I too often wear like armor.

 

I wait upon you gratefully, O Mothering God,

and rest upon you as the storms 

within and without subside.

I have no need to walk in mighty matters

for the reward in my soul

is your abundant lovingkindness and mercy--

more than enough.

--LKS, written for Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul for July 1, 2021.