The Song of Ruth: Speaking to the Soul, October 28, 2021

Ruth:1-18

 

          The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

                   In ancient days by emperor and clown: 

          Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

                   Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 

                          She stood in tears amid the alien corn 

                                                - John Keats, "Ode to a Nightingale."

We six came apart slowly,
like a child plucks petals from a flower.

First Elimelech, the father
whose name and protection showed me that
My God could be kind;
he left us not yet old. And we wept,
and tore our garments, wore
ashes like a waxen crown.
Yet we had each other,
Chilion and Orpah, Mahlon and Ruth—
and we girls embraced you, dear Naomi,
whose loving heart was a foreign land
that made us forget the cruelties of our youth.

I remember well
the day I entered your house;
the swallow had woven her nest on your lintel
and sang honeyed notes.
To be greeted with a kiss and a sweet
word from you, Naomi,
of pleasant face and lovely gaze, remains a balm
to one who had been declared
a burden by the one who bore me into this world—
I drew the first free breath of my life.

Your son beautiful and strong
as my bridegroom, my young stag
brought down by Death
the remorseless hunter.

The last, sputtering pillar of our lives
crumbled to earth that last day,
the day that Mahlon’s breath left him.
Chilion, too, sleeping in the dust
went down before his brother,
our wails keening like a skylark in flight.

“Turn back to your mother’s house,”
you told me, with tears
as bitter as the name you now claim.

My sister Orpah kissed you, her face lined with
tears tracing watercourses of the Negev, weeping
from the well of grief
you would think had run dry by now.
She turned her nape to us reluctantly, persuaded
by your pleas.

                           But not I.

The nightingale’s song lays a path
straight to my heart’s core;
I would rather
stand in tears in an alien field,
homeless as a nightjar, gleaning
for the reluctant scraps left behind
under your Law’s commanded compassion
than return to the cold dwelling of my birth.

Your heart is my mother’s house and hearth:
I who first knew kindness with you
will trace the arc of my life within your embrace
even unto Death’s final stitch in my winding-sheet. To you
will I cling beyond my last breath.

In the midst of your people
will I pitch my tent;
your God will I worship,
whose lovingkindness I know in your eyes.

I would rather shelter with you, rootless
under the cold light of foreign stars,
wandering without a doorway of our own
than be parted from you, ever. Your tenderness
the only inheritance I claim, your embrace
I will never surrender. With you
I will lodge in Bethlehem,
lay my life upon altars
to a God known only through your friendship,
and give you descendants dancing like constellations
to banish your bitterness,
to secure you a home redolent of bread,
abundant with the attar
of roses.

This poem was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, October 28, 2021.

The Gift is the Call: Sermon for the 22nd Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 25 B

One year in the 90s,  when I taught middle school, the choir teacher decided to take her students on a singing tour of nearby nursing homes. She had enlisted me to be a special accompanist that season because they were singing a song that had classical guitar accompaniment, and so even though I am not a classical guitarist, I agreed to give it a go and learned the music. It was a beautiful piece. The bad part was, there was another piece of music they performed which absolutely drove me nuts. It was the theme to that movie, Titanic. 

And because we were short of sopranos that day, and I was more fully soprano-y back then, so I was asked to stand behind the kids and belt out the melody line in support. Yuck. Couldn’t stand the song, couldn’t stand the movie. I mean, really—plot holes you could have driven an ocean liner through and why didn’t Rose scoot over on that door if she loved Jack so much but she managed to hold on to that necklace? But when we went on our tour, the older folks just ate it up. Which just goes to show you. Sometimes we put our own issues aside and go for it.
We went to three different nursing homes, right around Christmas, and so we also sang some seasonal tunes and a couple of classics from the 1940s as well as those two pieces.

Afterward, the kids would visit with people who were sitting out in the common area and share some treats. We talked to the kids beforehand to prepare them, and some kids were worried, because they didn’t know if they would have anything in common to talk about with people half a century older than they were who were strangers. So we suggested they start out with introducing themselves, and talked to them about shaking hands (not too firm a grip, not too soft). We suggested they could ask residents about what their favorite songs were when they were kids, or pets, or maybe Cardinals baseball or Blues hockey, or their favorite movie stars or movies.

There were lots of people who came out, with varying levels of need. But at the first place we visited, one man didn’t wait. He reached out and grabbed the hand of one of our boys and asked him to sit down and talk with him. He confessed that he had no family nearby and few visitors. He saw his opportunity for a visit, and he grabbed it, literally, with both hands. Soon he was regaling our student with his life as a minor-league baseball player, and giving the kid batting advice. The thirty minute visiting period flew by, and at the end, both the boy and the gentleman had had a great time.

In our gospel today there were lots of people who sat by the gates of towns, and they had various needs. Some came to conduct business, or seek advice, or make a contract with another person, or to ask for alms, like Bartimaeus. Jericho was no different. And Jesus very easily could have passed Bartimaeus by. But Bartimaeus called out and would not be shushed. Just like our friend in that nursing home, he didn’t wait—he asked outright. He perceived an opportunity for help, and he grabbed it and would not be denied. When Jesus hears Bartimaeus’s cry for mercy, he calls him forward. That word call is important—it’s used three times in that single verse alone.

And Bartimaeus responds to that call from Jesus instantly. Even though blind, he “springs up,” throwing off his cloak, and moves confidently, answering Jesus’s question with a bold declaration of Jesus as “My teacher….” The casting off of his cloak, the garment which a beggar used to collect and carry his alms, signifies the throwing off of his old life, the giving up of the possessions urged upon the rich young man we heard about two weeks ago. Bartimaeus is eager to leave his old life behind.

And even though Jesus can probably tell what the man needs, he asks him. For the second time in two weeks, Jesus asks someone what they want from him. Last week we had James and John asking for preferential treatment and honor; this week we see a humble beggar, who sees with his heart and soul what the disciples cannot see despite long experience, asks for his vision to be healed. Jesus doesn’t just assume what Bartimaeus needs—he gives him the dignity of asking for himself.

Jesus heals Bartimaeus’s sight, asking nothing in return, telling the healed man he can go. Unlike almost everything else in our own society, this interaction is NOT transactional. Jesus doesn’t give in order to get something in return. Yet Bartimaeus does NOT go. He stays. He stays and becomes a disciple, rejoicing, not taking the gift he has received for granted.

The blind man sees clearly who Jesus is and what Jesus’s ministry means, even though he is a stranger, not a disciple, and is physically blind. Meanwhile, the disciples with been alongside Jesus for these last 10 chapters have repeatedly shown themselves incapable of seeing and recognizing Jesus for who he is, much less accepting his predictions about his ultimate fate. Here’s what a true disciple like Bartimaeus sees with the eyes of the heart and soul: Jesus came to earth for a little while, filled with the power of God through the Holy Spirit that descended upon him at baptism. In his temptations, he was tempted to use the gift and powers he had received for himself. But instead, Jesus steadfastly insisted on being a conduit of God’s power of love and redemption, to spread wisdom and healing and hope to those he encountered.

Bartimaeus KNOWS what Jesus has done for him, what a gift he has received, and in gratitude he responds by dedicating his life to supporting Jesus and his ministry. This is a story about gratitude—and about giving, perhaps even more than it is a story about healing. It’s a story about how we can live into the ways Jesus calls to us as disciples.

And there’s a lot for us to hear in this story as we begin our annual giving campaign today. We often hear about the three “Ts”—time, talent, and treasure. In the area of sharing our time and talents, there’s all kinds of activities we can engage in, both here at church and in our daily lives. Being a good steward always means being like Jesus, really—and in this particular story, that means being willing to respond to those who are sidelined or silenced by the community. 

Sometimes that response may involve financial resources. 

Those funds are given to literally “treasure” the PEOPLE we meet here even more than the buildings and programs. Empowering St. Martin’s not just for the opportunities for fellowship it provides us but being empowered by that fellowship to hear the call of the world for healing and hope, and be thrilled for the opportunity to give back just a part of the manifold blessings we ourselves have received.

Here’s the practical truth. Each year we ask you for an estimate of your giving for the coming year. We then build a budget off of those collective estimates. And we need to look at what that budget says about our mission and our priorities. What we spend money on in our lives is what we most value. It’s that simple, and that stark. Our giving—yours and mine—is a statement of the depth of our faith and our acknowledgement of our gratitude and our love. Our giving is NOT about using money as a way to settle grievances, or expressing our displeasure or pleasure, a kind of carrot and stick contraption to get our own way. It’s not based on a profit-and loss calculation, on a measurement of how much we first get. No, it’s a way to rejoice for God’s love and presence in your life. It’s a way to live without fear or limitation. It’s a way to be a part of God’s healing work in the world, and to make a real difference.

Sure, some of the money given to St. Martin’s will go to pedestrian things like maintain the building and grounds, paying the light and the heating and cooling bills, finding and fixing leaky pipes. But if that’s all we take care of in the budget, we have failed as a congregation. Even more important, the money we raise each year is a spiritual statement from each of us individually as well as collectively. That statement either empowers us or hinders us as a congregation in our ability to reach out, listen to, and be with folks like Bartimaeus, because we recognize that we have all BEEN Bartimaeus at one time or another.

Whether we engage with someone whose society deems is to be marginalized, or whether we merely keep the lights on for our own sake, our annual budget becomes a spiritual document. It declares to ourselves and to the public our priorities in our efforts to be good stewards and disciples. To follow Jesus on the way. And following Jesus starts, like with Bartimaeus, with gratitude—with recognition for the very real ways Jesus has touched our lives and healed us of our fears, our own willful blindnesses, our tendency to turn inward upon ourselves.

We live in a cynical time. It has become a national sport in some quarters to blame those in need for their situations. We even see so-called Christians engaging in this attitude, even though time and again Jesus models the opposite path: giving because he can. Denying that idea that God punishes people with illness or suffering as we have heard play out in the story about Job in our first reading for the last several weeks—an idea that many people in Jesus’s time held about people like Bartimaeus. That’s why they shushed him at first. Asking for healing was viewed as asking to avoid God’s justice. Again and again, Jesus rejects notions of justice based on the suffering of the most vulnerable. And this story gives us the gift of reminding that above all things we are called to be like Jesus.

We can often close our eyes to the suffering of the world, and refuse to acknowledge the needs of others. We try to avoid placing ourselves in situations where a voice crying out for help can interrupt the rhythm of our lives. That hesitancy can become a weight, like a heavy garment holding us in place, preventing us from following Jesus with our whole hearts, like the weight of that garment Bartimaeus threw aside as he boldly stepped toward the call of his Savior and Redeemer.

Jesus is calling to us, calling to each of us because he loves us and desires to be our companion along the way of this life we are given as an opportunity for connection. This is a moment, right now, when Jesus is specifically calling each of us into the special gift of taking what we individually have, and joyfully, hopefully, faithfully joining together to engage in mutual ministry here in this place. So that we may have life more abundantly. Living joyfully, generously, and open-heartedly. Without the constant anxiety of whether there will be “enough.”

“Throw aside your cloaks, the weights of fear and anxiety that holds you back!” Jesus calls. Throw them aside, and embrace the freedom and the joy of following Jesus.

Amen.

Preached at the 10:30 Eucharist, both online and in person, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Job 42:1-6, 10-17
Psalm 34:1-8, (19-22)
Hebrews 7:23-28
Mark 10:46-52

Notes/ Attributions:

I am indebted to a meditation by the Rev. Todd B. Freeman, pastor of College Hill Presbyterian Church across the street from the University of Tulsa campus, for insight about the gospel reading. And I hope you all in the congregation have forgiven my friends and me from what was then called Canterbury House for all the times we climbed up your fire escape onto the roof to enjoy the night view when we were in college.

Prayer, day 3186

God of Abundant Grace, your steadfast hand

guides and upholds us, in joy and in struggle.
You, O Most Holy One, are our covert and our shield,
our very present help when we call upon You.

Let us declare your faithfulness with a glad cry,
and sing out our testimony
to the transforming love of our Creator and Redeemer.
Let us seek the good road of wisdom and compassion,
that we may not disgrace your name,
but imitate our Savior in word and deed.

Lord Jesus, place your healing hand upon us:
relieve the suffering
by the tender warmth of your embrace.
May your voice of justice and mercy
resound throughout the earth,
calling the lost and weary to your side,
O Shepherd of Our Souls.

By the power of the Holy Spirit,
bless and consecrate us this day,
and pour out your grace and hope
over those we remember before You, O God.

Amen.

On the Wings of Angels: Speaking to the Soul, October 21, 2021

Holy, holy, holy, the hand of the Almighty One,
that brushes away the cares of the troubled
and stands guard over those who sleep.
Like a child, O God, I trust in You;
your praise is ever on my lips,
O my Savior and Redeemer,
whose love never fades
but burnishes and blesses
all it touches, all it embraces.
Revive my spirit, Lord Christ,
that I may serve you in all I do–
each breath a prayer of gratitude,
each day a hymn declaring your grace.
On wings of angels, we raise our prayer to You.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, October 21, 2021.

A Prayer of Praise for Creation: Speaking to the Soul, October 14, 2021

God of the Honey Bee,
God of the Lark,
God of the Aspen Grove,
we join with all your creatures
in a chorus of praise and worship.
We are upheld by your almighty hand;
all that we have and are is yours,
and we bow in gratitude before you.

May we echo the humble thanksgiving
sung out by cicada and tree frog,
who praise You and your provision without ceasing.

May we find delight in the labor you set before us,
as the hummingbird does.

May we lift our arms to you in praise
like the oak as it stretches skyward.
May we constantly sing your praises
like the wind that weaves through pine-needle
and sets them to resonating in joy.

May we open our hearts to your guidance
for our own sake and the sake of the world,
led by wisdom of the Spirit of Truth,
enlightened by the example of the Prince of Peace,
rooted deep in the verdant garden of the God of Life.

Holy Trinity, One God,
envelop us in your mercy and grace this day,
and place the kiss of your blessing
upon those for whom we pray.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on October 14, 2021.

Prayer 3173

Holy One of Mystery,
Loving Ground of Being,
Creator of All,
we bow before you in wonder.

May our every breath be a prayer of gratitude and hope
that rises like the morning mist over still waters.

May we know peace by sowing peace,
and release all fear and anxiety
like autumn leaves that cast their blessings to the ground
to nourish the roots of tomorrow's growth.

May we, like the mockingbird, find our true song
in a heart of joy broadcast from the rooftops,
testifying to the gift of light ythst warms us
and love that bears us aloft--
all from You, O God:
Earth-maker, Companion, and Inspiring Force.

May the strength we have today be used to your service
and the service of our fellow-beings;
may the need we have today be laid at your feet.

May we be unafraid to ask for help,
and unafraid to offer the same to others,
looking always outward with eyes of compassion and grace.

Trusting in your unfailing mercy,
sealed by the Spirit of Truth,
O God of the Rising Wave,
we lift before you these beloveds as we pray.

Amen.

Looking for a Bargain: Speaking to the Soul, October 7, 2021

Mark 10:17-31

This Sunday’s collect reads as follows: Lord, we pray that your grace may always precede and follow us, that we may continually be given to good works; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

Despite this collect, this Sunday’s lectionary readings are about how one cannot gain faith by good works alone. Grace, as the first part of the collect reminds, is required. God always makes the first move in salvation. God takes the initiative. Something inside a person responds to that pull from God, even if we are unaware of God’s invitation as such.

The gospel story includes Mark’s version of the “rich young man” who approaches Jesus to find out how he can “inherit” eternal life. This young man means well, and is humble enough to be a seeker after this wandering teacher, instead of attempting to summon Jesus to him, as a person of privilege might do. Jesus at first inquires as to his following of the commandments, and the young man affirms his commitment to them. What is interesting is that the gospel states that Jesus looks at him at this point, and “loved him.” Mark doesn’t usually talk about Jesus’s feelings of love in this way, so this is a significant statement. But somehow, this young man also thinks that he can earn salvation without some cost to himself. When Jesus tells him he should give up his wealth in service to the poor, he goes away, not just sad, but “shocked and grieving,” because he has great wealth.

This passage thus brings us once again to a word that causes so many of us to shudder: sacrifice. Passages like this one make us associate sacrifice with deprivation, with pain, with loss. But the most literal meaning of sacrifice is “something that makes one holy.” This young man, who has probably never been excluded from anything in his life due to his wealth and the privilege wealth brings, hesitates to give that up. Even for “eternal life.” He is looking for a bargain, for a lever with which to move God—always a foolish presumption.

The young man remains inwardly focused, seeing the relationship with God as, ultimately transactional: I will do X and then God will reward me with Y. He is doing what we all do: trying to bargain with God and get the best deal according to a human calculus of value and loss. But that subverts the point of faith, which is to look outside our own concerns to the needs of the community, to the needs of others. To celebrate our common bonds with our neighbors and with creation. To look beyond our delusion that we can earn God’s grace at bargain-basement prices to ourselves and our delusions of autonomy.

In God’s kingdom values, people are not “in” or “out” by accident of birth—where they are born, or who their parents are, or the color of their skin or the language they speak or whether they are outwardly good at following rules while inwardly cruel and hard-hearted. At some point in your life, you are responsible to choose whether to follow God and God’s expansive vision of community or not.

We see it a lot in our society right now, across those parts of the globe formerly known as “Christendom.” There are people who were born into Christian homes, and brought up with going to Church. They even absorbed knowledge of Bible stories and perhaps can quote the Lord’s prayer and the 23rd Psalm. They’re “culturally Christian”—nominally fluent in the language and rituals of the Christian religion. But unless anyone decides for themselves to walk in the Way of Jesus, no matter how imperfectly, their knowledge doesn’t translate into faith.

Luckily, if we can hear aright Christ’s loving message of radical generosity and inclusion, it means that as we embark on our journey of faith, we are assured that we are not only never outsiders, we are never alone. We not only have Jesus. We have each other. We are called to deny the forces of the world that seek to exclude, to divide, and instead to embrace those we encounter, especially those who call out for help.

We ourselves have received astounding grace and mercy, whether we have deserved it or not. Jesus calls us to demonstrate that same grace to the world around us—especially when everything around us tries to make us hard-hearted and afraid. That’s how the light of Christ will shine, even in this time of fear and darkness. It will shine from inside us, once we embrace each other in true charity and empathy. No bargains necessary.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, October 7, 2021.