The Language of Hope: Sermon for the 1st Sunday in Advent, year C

At first listen, our gospel today is not exactly a ray of sunshine. There are a lot of words in there that can cause anxiety to rise in our throats: storms and fainting and earthquakes and traps are all mentioned. 

In my childhood, I was repeatedly exposed to preachers and Bible teachers who used scripture like we hear today to try to scare their listeners into accepting Jesus as their Savior out of fear. They ignored the fact that scholars point out that Jesus was describing events that were happening (Roman occupation brought war all over the known world) and that was going to happen upon Jesus’s crucifixion. But what if we heard Jesus acknowledging the pain in this world, and his solidarity with us, beside us, right in the midst of it?

God knows it is hard right now. And then let’s repeat it again: God KNOWS that it is hard right now, but as that saying goes, God is good—all the time. And all the time, God is good.

It does not hurt to have this reminder, as we continue on in pandemic mode if we are wise and loving, as we reject the forces of nihilism that try to overwhelm us and proclaim that their own freedom justifies others’ fear, suffering, and even potential dying.

The Rt. Rev. Steven Charleston is a citizen and elder of the Choctaw Nation, a retired Episcopal bishop of Alaska, former dean of Episcopal Divinity School. Today he published this meditation:

If you are walking a long and difficult path, you may find it worn smooth by the number of others who have had to pass this way before. Sorrow and struggle are not new to our human family. The number of people who have carried heavy loads along this same road are too many to count. You can see the evidence of their passing. You can also feel their presence for in their heavy burden they made their imprint upon the earth. You can feel them watching over you, encouraging you to take the next step. The silent witnesses to our pain walk beside us, the ancestors of our journey lead us to the high ground of hope. Keep going. (Facebook, November 28, 2021) (1)

Here Bishop Charleston hits upon that same thing spoken of reassuringly by St. Paul in Romans 5, and echoed by the authors of the epistles of James (James 1:2-4) and Peter (Peter 1:3-9):

Therefore, since we have been made righteous through his faithfulness,[a] we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. 2 We have access by faith into this grace in which we stand through him, and we boast in the hope of God’s glory. 3 But not only that! We even take pride in our problems, because we know that trouble produces endurance, 4 endurance produces character, and character produces hope. 5 This hope doesn’t put us to shame, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us. (Romans 5:1-5, CEB)

Hope is what brings us here.

Today we light the Candle of Hope on the Advent Wreath. It’s no coincidence we then hear our readings today. Unlike what we have been led to believe, they are reading meant to encourage. Meant to remind us that we are never alone.

We live in a time of lengthening shadows. This is LITERALLY true as we approach the winter solstice on December 21 this year. We try to deal with forbearance those around us who, like children, have just decided that they are done with this pandemic and think we can return to the way things were before—just because they say so. But that is not the language of hope. That is the language of denial. And the language of denial is ultimately a language of defeat, because it gives up rather than embraces life in all of its struggles as well as all of its glory. The language of hope acknowledges the now and looks toward the future. The language of hope acknowledges the depth of the anxiety and the suffering around us—and yet clings to the knowledge that there is something better we can grasp onto RIGHT NOW.

Yes, today we light the Candle of Hope on the Advent Wreath and we need to remember that and name it—not just that, but to will ourselves into embracing hope even as the shadows lengthen and obscure the clear sight of the way forward for so many of us through the gathering darkness. I am reminded of a poem by Mary Oliver called “Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness:”

Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends
into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out

to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing, as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married

to the vitality of what will be?
I don’t say
it’s easy, but
what else will do

if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?
So let us go on

though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed. (2)

“The vivacity of what was is married to the vitality of what will be.” And as Christians, we are called to proclaim—especially now—that the love we claim to have for the world, whether in spring or in winter, is true, and eternal, and holds us far more steadfastly than our own faltering attempts, at times.

In the face of all that tells us "NO! There is no hope!" the love we proclaim he's us to instead insist on "Yes" to persevering and proclaiming grace and hope in a world in shadow.

This is the season of Advent. It is a season of anticipation in response to a world that tells us that five seconds to load a web page is an eternity. It is a season of waiting with expectation and zen-like calm in a world that has people literally climbing over each other at the bargain bin, either online or in person, as the marketers scream, “Grab it now before it’s gone!”

Advent is a season of honesty and embracing of the truth that nothing lasts forever. And yet have you ever noticed that the way you change the inflections in those three words can make all the difference? When I was a child, I would mourn the day when all the leaves shook free from the trees this time of year, when the trees would stand barren and the colors on the forest floor would briefly radiate in oranges, reds, and yellows, only to subside to muddy, crackling brown a week later. “Nothing lasts forever,” my dad, who was also no fan of winter, would say, mournfully.

And yet, in spring, I would watch in wonder as the first buds would spring forth into purple coronas and then tiny green hearts all over the Redbuds in Redbud Valley where our Camp Fire group would hike in the spring. Those trees would shake off the constrictions of winter with abandon, and we would watch winter recede right before our eyes, promising a long and luxuriant spring and then the glories of summer. “Ha!” those trees would say to winter. “NOTHING lasts forever!” 

And so those who are resilient, or who want to be, repeat THAT phrase to themselves when they encounter pain, or heartbreak, or loss. Nothing lasts forever—not even this struggle, or this loss, or this tribulation.

Advent is a season of plucking one fallen leaf from the millions of fallen leaves in your back yard and admiring its architecture and fading glorious color rather than being compelled to rake, mulch and dispose of the accumulated mass of fallen foliage. As we look at that leaf, with just a bit of memory we can see the green energy gatherer it once was, and the bud it was before that. If we let it flutter to the ground, we can even see it as eventually joining to the soils to lay down its body in the service of next spring’s new buds, of whom the tree is already dreaming.

In our gospel, Jesus reminds us to do three things: to wait, to look, and to notice. These are always good things to do—but especially when se are not sure we know the way forward. Stop and wait. Look around and really be present in the moment, whether it’s one of joy or pain. Observe closely, and see what is going on all around you and within you at this present moment.

So listen again to what Jesus is telling us. Wait for the signs—of the world descending to sleep so that it can turn again toward light and life. Look at the fig tree and see those promises of spring’s leaves even when the branches are at their barest. Notice that just like the promise of those new leaves are already there, my truth-- and I --am also with you always. And it is there that we can make the turn from being lost to finding a path, from being frozen in place to finding a way forward.

Those three things lead to a fourth. Wait, look, and notice. Then, once you are centered, dare to imagine. Dare to hear the promise of presence and love that walks alongside you even when things are grim, and cold, and dark. It is that same promise that Jeremiah proclaimed in the midst of exile thousands of years ago. It is that same promise that Jesus makes to us yesterday, today, and tomorrow: Nothing lasts forever—nothing but God’s love and devotion to us, wherever we are, in exile or in homecoming, but above all in embracing the beautiful now. Beautiful because God is with us—Emmanuel.

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

Readings:

• Jeremiah 33:14-16
• 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13
• Luke 21:25-36
• Psalm 25:1-9

Links/Sources:

1) The Rt. Rev. Steven Charleston, post from Facebook, November 28, 2021.

2) Mary Oliver, "Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness," from A Thousand Mornings, 2012

Prayer for Giving Thanks: Speaking to the Soul, November 25, 2021

God of Abundant Grace,
your love preserves us
and calls us to wakefulness and compassion:
we raise our hearts in thankfulness and praise.
We give thanks for the First Nations
on whose land we now live:
may we seek justice,
and honor each other in holiness.

You, O God, call all the stars by their names,
and set them dancing overhead to our wonder and delight.
You teach the birds their songs
that lighten our hearts and call us to joy.
May we tend to the earth, and to each other,
with steadfastness and gratitude,
always seeing your imprint, Lord Christ,
wherever we look.

May we treasure friends and loved ones,
companions and fellow travelers on this earth,
and reach out to those around us in love and kindness.
May we seek to mend the wounds we have created,
and forgive those who have hurt us.
May we ever cultivate being honorable and compassionate,
being just while loving mercy and grace,
seeking purity while acknowledging our humanity.
Holy One, send your angels to tend to those
who call upon You and depend upon your care,
especially those away from home,
and those whose needs we place before You,
that your peace, surpassing all our knowing,
may be our embodied prayer.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on November 25, 2021.

Image: detail from Hunger by Walter User, photographed at Philbrook Museum, Tulsa, OK.

Prayer, day 3214

You are our song, O God;
You make our hearts glad
as we enter your courts. 

Make us a holy people,
consecrated and dedicated
and determined to glorify your Name.
Breathe on us, O Breath of God:
fill us with your Spirit,
and propel us into those places
which most need the light of Christ. 

In your great mercy forgive us all our offenses,
against both You and our brothers and sisters.
Remembering the great blessings You have given us,
let us open our hearts to those
who have no place to rest. 

May we open our hearts
so that Christ may reign in them always. 

Rest your hand upon all those whom we now name.

Amen.

The King of Truth: Sermon for the Reign of Christ, November 21, 2021

In 1925, the fires of World War I still smoldered in the memory of those who had lived before it. And yet, even with the memory of the suffering and destruction still vivid in the minds of millions on three continents, nationalism and fascism began to arise in Europe in the 1920s and 1930s--political movements who sought to gain power by dividing people into victors and vanquished, that sought to claim the right to empire, exploitation, and oppression as the natural order for humanity.

Ironically, 1925 was a Jubilee Year in Christendom—the 1600th anniversary of the final meeting of the Council of Nicaea, which confirmed that Christ is of the same substance as the Father. The second section of the Nicene Creed, explaining who Jesus is, ends with the statement: “His kingdom shall have no end.”

And so, when Pope Pius XI issued his encyclical Quas Primas, which discussed the threat of fascism and nationalism as it rose again across the planet even while World War I was a bitterly fresh memory, he also initiated a corrective to that threat—a threat which still hangs over all of us, especially in America, Europe, and elsewhere. That corrective was the Feast of Christ the King. And here’s what Pope Pius XI said about this concept, which relates so perfectly to our gospel today:

It has long been a common custom to give to Christ the metaphorical title of "King," because of the high degree of perfection whereby he excels all creatures. So he is said to reign "in the hearts of humanity," both by reason of the keenness of his intellect and the extent of his knowledge, and also because he is very truth, and it is from him that truth must be obediently received by all mankind. He reigns, too, in the wills of humanity, for in him the human will was perfectly and entirely obedient to the Holy Will of God, and further by his grace and inspiration he so subjects our free-will as to incite us to the most noble endeavors. (Quas Primas, 7)

Referring to our gospel passage, Pope Pius continued:

Before the Roman magistrate he declared that his kingdom was not of this world. The gospels present this kingdom as one which men prepare to enter by penance, and cannot actually enter except by faith and by baptism, which, though an external rite, signifies and produces an interior regeneration. This kingdom is opposed to none other than to that of Satan and to the power of darkness. It demands of its subjects a spirit of detachment from riches and earthly things, and a spirit of gentleness. They must hunger and thirst after justice, and more than this, they must deny themselves and carry the cross. (Quas Primas, 15)

The Rev. Edward J. Quinn KNEW what the battlefields of that terrible war had been like. The Roman Catholic priest had been a chaplain in that war. And in 1926, he had just been appointed the priest to a new parish in Cincinnati, Ohio—the first church in the world to be named after the new Holy Feast of Christ the King. The 200 people gathered to worship at the first Mass at Our Lord Christ the King parish on December 5, 1926 didn’t even have a building— not even electricity. Just a room in a storefront, illuminated by car headlights pointed into it. The Rev. Quinn used his mass kit from his army chaplaincy to celebrate the Mass. This was as bold a statement as could be that Jesus’s reign was not about power or strife, but about peace and reconciliation.

The very humility, simplicity, and hopefulness of the scene is a reminder of the humility, simplicity, and hopefulness Jesus calls us to practice in our relationships with each other—especially in a world that is founded even right now on exactly the opposite values. Those values are listed by Pope Pius: a detachment from earthly things that we too often worship, allowing our pursuit of them to rule our lives in place of God. A spirit of gentleness. An acknowledgement of the grace that sustains us, the source of all goodness in our lives so that we may live out our gratitude by caring for each other and fighting not for advantage over our neighbors but for justice for our neighbors—a hunger and a thirst after justice that Jesus embodied with every breath and every action but we far too often shove aside in our quest for more for ourselves.

Explaining why we stiff-necked Americans, who have ever claimed to disdain anyone who tries to be king over us has always been a difficult task for preachers—right up there with encouraging people to “carry their own crosses.” Also NOT a pleasant metaphor at a time when sacrifice is pretty much a dirty word.

Yet if we are call ourselves Christians, we are called to abandon our insistence upon our own way and our own prejudices, divisions, and narcissism and bow the knees of our hearts before the power of Christ to transform us and enlighten us. We are called to give our ultimate allegiance to no country or principality, but to a Savior who refused to bow before the Imperial authority that Pilate represented. It was in this context that the Feast of Christ the King was first proclaimed. It is a feast that calls us to remember whose, exactly, we are, and the real power to which we owe our allegiance.

In our gospel today, Jesus is handed over to the power of empire, and resists its claim of dominance. Jesus literally speaks truth to power in our gospel today. Governments rise and fall, because they are the work of human intention and fallibility, always, even the best of them-- but the reign of Christ is eternal. Pilate asks Jesus three questions in our gospel-- but Jesus does not answer a single one of them. This is a reminder that Jesus is not going to cower before power. Instead, he claims for himself the role of witness—a witness who testifies to the truth.

And what is truth? One of my favorite TV shows is Ted Lasso. On it, a wise therapist named Dr. Sharon repeats this mantra: “The truth will set you free. But first, it will [tick] you off.” She is speaking about the truths of this world. The truths agains the delusions people tell themselves to justify anything in order to preserve their own sense of privilege. Even though privilege is exactly what Jesus refuses to exercise, again and again, and as his followers we are called to a radical, fierce unity in the pursuit of justice and the ending of oppression for our neighbors, even those who are strangers to us. We are called by our true King to relieve the burden of the poor, the suffering of the sick, the isolation of the imprisoned even if they are guilty of wrong-doing, to bear banners of peace and justice rather than weapons of war in our streets, to prioritize life over property. And if you don’t think that is counter-cultural, you haven’t been paying attention to just this week’s news alone.

Jesus’s truth, Jesus’s witness must be OUR truth and OUR witness. And beyond any earthly maneuvers for power, for exploitation, or for domination, this truth will set you free, and give you life and joy and community. That’s the truth of Jesus’s life. He calls us to be the very best versions of ourselves because he knows that is how we were made to be all along. He has faith in us, and calls us to have faith in ourselves that a better way is possible, through the loving, healing, restoring touch of Christ within our inmost being.

This is the truth to which Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection testify: God is love, and those who follow the Way of Jesus walk and live and move in and through and out of love for God but also, and this is the harder part, being animated to live and breathe and speak love for each other. Especially those we believe are outside our comfort zone. The Good News is: God loves us immensely. The other side of that truth, sometimes less comforting and more challenging, is that we only follow God when we love each other, especially the people who tick us off, that much.

One of the key signs that one lives under the oppressive heat of empire is realizing that the values of the powers and principalities depends upon fabrication, defamation, and subterfuge. Injustice prevails by convincing the comfortable that if they dare push back against the unjust, they will only succeed in being at the mercy of the unmerciful. It is not for nothing that one of the ancient pseudonyms for Satan is “the Prince of Lies.” We spend too much of our lives in a kingdom of calumny, an empire of evasion, a realm of revilement, a principality of prevarication. Jesus offers us true freedom from being false to our true natures as God’s children, if only we can let go of the fear that causes us to go along to get along.

The Way of Jesus was and REMAINS a threat to the power and empires of the world and right here in our own country and communities. Yet, periodically, Jesus’s followers have been tempted to claim that Jesus’s kingdom IS of this world, to claim that Jesus loves the same few people we love and hates the same people we fear or despise. They have attempted to drape God’s altars with national symbols-- as Nazi Germany did, never forget-- as if Jesus was synonymous with any nation. But that is certainly not the truth Jesus embodies.

Jesus is not about power, but about service—and so we must follow if we claim his name. Jesus is not about taking, but giving—and so we must follow if we claim his name. Jesus stands before the man who can order his death and talks not about power but about truth—which is the most dangerous power of all, in reality.

Jesus’s truth—and therefore our truth, as his followers-- is about the power of compassion, the power of healing, the power of hope, the power of restraint, forbearance, and forgiveness. Jesus’s truth—and ours—is about nothing less than refusing to harm each other when we think we can get away with it but instead honoring the image of God Godself that resides in every single human being whether we approve of them or not. Jesus’s truth—and ours—is about nothing less than reverencing all of creation and devoting ourselves to caring for it rather than consuming it and using it up because every leaf and speck of dirt bears the fingerprints of their Maker—who is also our Maker, Our Sovereign, Our Beloved. Our Lord and our God.

Recognizing Christ as reigning over us and within us, as the only authority to whom we owe allegiance, means not just following him to gain eternal life but to GIVE all of ourselves to his work of love and healing, not just from our leftover scraps but with everything we are and have.

But beyond flags or nationalities or economic maneuvering or earthly empires, Jesus’s truth most certainly WILL set us free. Free to embrace each other in love, generosity and hope.

Preached at the 10:30 Eucharist, held in person and online in a continuing time of pandemic caution, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

2 Samuel 23:1-7
Psalm 132:1-13 (14-19) 
Revelation 1:4b-8
John 18:33-37

Citations/ Links for More Information:

Click here for the text in English to Quas Primas.

Click here for an account of first Mass at Our Lord Christ the King Parish in Cincinnati.

Reign of Truth: Speaking to the Soul November 18. 2021

John 18:33-37

In 1925, the fires of World War 1 still smoldered in the memory of those who had lived through it. And yet, even with the memory of the suffering and destruction still vivid in the minds of millions on three continents, nationalism and fascism began to grow in Europe, political movements that gained power by dividing people into victors and vanquished, that sought to claim the right to empire as the natural order for humanity.

It was in this context that the Feast of Christ the King was first proclaimed. It is a feast that calls us to remember whose, exactly, we are, and the real power to which we owe our allegiance.

In the gospel for this coming Sunday, Jesus is handed over to the power of empire, but resists its dominance. Jesus literally speaks truth to power. Governments rise and fall as the work of human intention, but the reign of Christ is eternal.

The gospel reading consists of three questions from Pilate. Let’s look at the actual statements of Jesus in our gospel. Notedly, Jesus does not answer a single one of Pilate’s three questions—indicating that Jesus refuses to cower before human power. Instead, he states one positive thing about himself: while turning aside questions about Jesus wielding political power, he does claim for himself the role of witness—a witness who testifies to the truth.

Jesus’s kingdom, however, is not geographically limited to a certain place, or even a certain people, which may be why he refuses to call himself the “King of the Jews.” As Jesus repeatedly reminds us, especially in John’s gospel, the commandments or laws of Jesus’s kingdom are not based on keeping order or expanding power, but instead on love (see John 13:34-35; John 14:15-31; John 15:9-19). And not just on loving God, but on loving each other.

In our world today, we remain adrift, bereft, cynical, and weary. Just like Pilate, we often try to preserve our own empires, our own edifices and walls that we tell ourselves are there for our protection and security. But really, those empires and walls just block out the light, hope, and peace that Jesus, in offering himself to us, offers to the entire world. No exceptions.

One of the key signs that one lives under the oppressive heat of empire is realizing that the values of the powers and principalities depends upon fabrication, defamation, and subterfuge. Injustice prevails by convincing the comfortable that if they dare push back against the injustice, they will only succeed in being at the mercy of the unmerciful. It is not for nothing that one of the ancient pseudonyms for Satan is “the Prince of Lies.” We spend too much of our lives in a kingdom of calumny, and empire of evasion, a realm of revilement, a principality of prevarication. Jesus offers us true freedom, if only we can let go of the fear that causes us to go along to get along.

One of my favorite TV shows is Ted Lasso. In one episode, a smart therapist repeats this mantra: “The truth will set you free. But first, it will [tick] you off.”

Jesus’s truth is not of this variety, though it certainly seeks to set us free. Jesus’s truth is stated earlier when Jesus said, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” Beyond any earthly maneuvers for power, for exploitation, or for domination, this truth will set you free, and give you life and joy and community. That’s the truth of Jesus’s life. He calls us to be the very best versions of ourselves because he knows that is how we were made to be all along. He has faith in us, and calls us to have faith in ourselves that a better way is possible, through the loving, healing, restoring touch of Christ within our inmost being.

This is the truth to which Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection testify: God is love, and those who follow the Way of Jesus walk and live and move in and through and out of love for God but also, and this is the harder part, being animated to live and breathe and speak love for each other. Especially those we believe are outside our comfort zone.

The Way of Jesus was a threat to the power and empires of the world. Yet, periodically, Jesus’s followers have been tempted to claim that Jesus’s kingdom IS of this world, to claim that Jesus loves the same few people he loves and hates the same people we fear or despise. But Jesus is not about power, but service.

As St. Paul insisted over and over again, Jesus emptied himself of all the privilege and power he had had since the beginning of time in order to enter the world as the weakest thing of all: a tiny baby born to a poor mother in a backwater not many people could find on a map, even today. Jesus represents the power of love, the power of trust. And I’m not sure that’s any less rebellious today than it was 2000 years ago.

Do we dare allow Jesus to reign in our hearts in such a radical, incredible way? Do we dare transform ourselves into disciples who celebrate Christ’s kingdom of love and compassion and healing?

It starts with witnessing to the truth, alongside our savior and sovereign.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on November 18, 2021. 

The Spirit of Service: Speaking to the Soul, November 11, 2021

Isaiah 58:6-12, Matthew 25:31-40

One hundred and three years ago on this day, a terrible war was at last grinding to a halt across much of the world. Those in charge of the perpetrating that war decided to declare an armistice on the feast day of the patron saint of soldiers (as well as conscientious objectors). So, on the Feast of St. Martin the Merciful of Tours, the trenches across Europe and Asia at long last grew silent, and the so-called “Great War” shuddered to a bloody halt. Today, here in America, we call today Veteran’s Day. We must never forget this as a day of peace honoring first that one who had the strength to lay down his weapons and take up the shield of faith, clothing himself in a spirit of service to others.

The assigned readings in today’s lectionary valorize not war, but peace. The reading from Isaiah is a bold proclamation of abundance that leads to the celebration of the dream of God for our lives. The prophetic words insist not that might makes right, but that the greatest strength is demonstrated by standing in solidarity with the vulnerable and the oppressed. The gospel reading insists that the face of Christ is found in every person in need whom we encounter, just as Martin showed mercy on a beggar in Amiens and gave him half his cloak, the first step in his journey from soldier to servant of Christ. And so, may we take a moment to center our hearts in gratitude for those who have laid aside their own desires to embrace a life of service, humility, and compassion, and to seek to follow in that same path.

We praise You,
O Compassionate One,
and lift our hearts
to be filled by your light.

May we embrace your call to sacrifice
that we may seek to serve others
as Blessed Martin did,
seeking not our own will but yours.
May we devote our lives and resources to peace

and the good of others:
setting the oppressed free,
feeding the hungry,
clothing those who are naked,
housing the homeless and the refugee.

Clothe us, O Lord,
in a spirit of compassion and generosity,
draped in a mantle of honor and integrity:
give us the imagination
to see ourselves
in the place of our suffering kindred.

May we see the face of our Savior,
in the one shivering in the cold,
and in the refugee fleeing the ravages of war.

May we put down our swords
in the name of your love, Blessed Jesus,
and work for true peace in the world.

Grant your peace and healing, O Great Physician,
to all in recovery from the shock and horror of war,
that they may lay down their arms in safety and gratitude.

Pour out your spirit upon us,
O God of Grace,
and grant your blessing to all who seek You.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on November 11, 2021.

Image: 12th century drawing of St. Martin with the beggar (who was Christ).

Unbound: Sermon for the Feasts of All Saints' and All Souls

 

One of the traditions I appreciate from our Latinx kindred is the tradition of the ofrenda. This is an altar which is decorated with names, photographs, and other mementos of those who have passed away. I usually put up a picture of my Dad near his name—and often one of his pocket knives. He collected them. This year, even though we have been back with in-person worship since the beginning of October, the number of funerals we have had precluded putting up the ofrenda again this year.

This pocket knife is also a reminder of the first time I saw him cry. It was when I was moving out to go to college. Sitting in his aluminum lawn chair in the driveway as the King of the Neighborhood, he watched me pack the car, and then he reached into his pocket and handed me this knife. He wanted to make sure that I had one of his treasures, not just because it was so practical (it’s a knife! It’s a screwdriver! It’s a narrow prybar! It’s a hole-punch! It’s a pencil sharpener! It peels apples! It’s a bottle opener!) But he also wanted me to have a reminder of him—as if I needed one.

He asked me for a nickle, because my Dad taught us that giving someone a knife was bad luck. So I dug around in the pockets of my shorts and found a nickle and gave it to him. As I climbed into my 1966 Mustang that he and I had worked on to move my stuff to the dorm where I would live, he burst into tears and hugged me, telling me how much he would miss me.

I was shocked. First of all, this was the man who hadn’t cried in front of us when his mother died. Secondly, I was going to college IN TOWN, so I was literally moving about seven miles away. When I could catch my breath—my Dad had the strength and build of a lowland gorilla—I reminded him, as practically as a hungry teenager can be, “Daddy, I’m going to be back in a couple of hours. The cafeteria isn’t open, and now I don’t have any money—not even a nickle.”

My Dad later admitted he had spent three years dreading my leaving, and so soon my leaving was all he could think about. Even though, unlike most of my high school friends, I didn’t move to Stillwater to go to OSU but was literally ten minutes away from our house in East Tulsa. I was the first kid on his side of the family to go to college, and so this was a new experience for him. His crying was a new experience for me and one I did NOT want repeated. And soon we got to where we could laugh about it—especially after I promised that I would come over and watch Monday Night Football with him at least every other week (and also do my laundry for free—I’m no fool).

But it’s so often like that with all of us, isn’t it? We spend too much of our lives dreading something, until that the thing we dread overshadows the beauty of now and even the hope of the future. Grief in all its forms is a natural part of life, and a natural response to some of the biggest changes we will encounter. Time rolls along in a blur, and suddenly we look up and a decade has passed. And yet the sharpness and ache of losses can rise up unbidden like a zephyr. All it takes is a sudden flash of memory—like when I opened a drawer a few weeks ago and found this knife my dad sold to me from his collection for a nickle as I moved into my dorm.

In our gospel today, weeping and grief also play a prominent role. We just heard the story from John of Jesus weeping over his friend Lazarus, even as he prepared to raise him again from the dead. Nonetheless he wept. And for a long time I didn’t understand Jesus’s weeping in that moment any more than I understood my Dad’s weeping back in August of 1982. Yet over the years of hearing this story, I have come to appreciate the fact that Jesus, in all his power and his glory, nonetheless reminds us that feeling and expressing grief is a completely human thing to do.

Jesus’s grief over his friend Lazarus is a grief he also shares with his friends, Lazarus’s sisters. In openly sharing that grief, Jesus hallows, makes holy, the grief we all experience at various times and losses throughout our lives. We are reminded that grief, like most pivotal experiences in our lives, like most weights we have no choice but to try to carry, is meant to be shared. Grief is an indicator of love, part and parcel of the vulnerability of opening your heart to others. Jesus also, once again and critically, calls us to embrace that vulnerability that comes packaged like a K-Mart blue light special whenever we allow ourselves to hope for the future. 

 

To be clear: Jesus models empathy, compassion, and solidarity, three things that seem to have become extinct in too much of our public life—even among too many self-identified people of faith. He doesn’t approach the grieving sisters and tell them what he is feeling, making his grief the centerpiece. He listens to them and shoulders their feelings of hurt and sorrow. He grieves alongside them, in solidarity with them. Throughout this story, Jesus speaks and acts from the center of love. Jesus is not at that moment the teacher, but the listener and the learner. This is what we are all called to do with those who mourn.

When Jesus calls Lazarus forth out of that tomb, he calls Lazarus with the voice of love-- not into his old life, but into a new life, a life of resurrection and hope. This is a story of death and life held in tension, as of course it is for us all at every moment. And then I focus on the last words in this story. Jesus urges those present to help unbind Lazarus from his grave-clothes. Lazarus can’t really be free of the prison of death until he is unbound-- with the help of others.

We in the West in particular take great pride in the belief that each person is completely responsible for his or her lot in life. The myth of the “Self-Made Man” or “Woman” looms large over the cultural landscape in the Western world especially. And this is one myth that I am certain does no one any favors. It leads to denigration and shame on the part of those viewed as “unsuccessful,” and to hubris and self-delusion on the part of those who are considered “fortunate.” It insulated us from any notions of gratitude. It denies the concept of grace—that idea that we receive blessings we do NOT deserve from God out of God’s incomprehensibly enormous love for us. That denial of grace received is also a denial of grace’s embodiment in the world—a grace we are called to embody as children of God. Too many only give when they expect a tangible return on their investment. Yet grace is NOT transactional.

Examine today’s gospel story again, and it becomes clear that a vital part of the miracle of Lazarus’s resurrection is not just his new life, but his restoration to the community with the help of the community. As family and friends unbind Lazarus, they also let their own fears and dreads drop to the ground. Perhaps Lazarus’s bandages symbolize all that holds us within the grip of sin and death, separating us from true communion with God and each other: our angers, our jealousies, our vanities, our competitiveness which always comes at the expense of others, our malaise, our lack of empathy, our compulsion toward dominance and power, and our festering wounds from the past that we often use as excuses-- and simultaneously seem vindictively determined to pass along to others.

Too many of us live our lives in fear of death—and that goes for communities of faith, too. Especially now, as we are told the church is declining or that it will not survive this current crisis, as some doomsayers predict. So we allow death to overshadow life. And while we do that, we cannot truly live. We are often unaware of the things that weigh us down, so that grief subsides to grief. We cling to what we know and habits of thinking and doing even if they hurt us, even if those habits and modes of thought leave us locked in patterns of helplessness and hopelessness. I am convinced that we cling to the familiar that does us no good because that familiarity is more comfortable than getting a hand free to take hold of something better. We gouge out a path of anxiety in not just our hearts but the hearts of those around us. Those old patterns only serve to deny love the power to heal, even when we name that healing as our most ardent wish.

And that has too often been the case in our own lives here too much of the modern Church. We hold the power in our hands to proclaim a gospel the world desperately needs; to seize back the lie that greed is good, that it’s clever to take more than you give, that even charity and generosity will only be encouraged if there’s a tax-write-off as an enticement. To celebrate how little we give to enable our common life together, rather than rejoice that we can use what we have to make a real difference in the lives of others. To embody the same empathy and generosity that Jesus did.

That last line in this story of Lazarus also reminds us even when we answer the call of Christ, there are other loving hands waiting to help free us and welcome us into new life. We can’t always unbind ourselves, but we can be grateful for those who are there to help. It is only when loving hands reach out to release us from our bonds that we can walk free. That’s why Christ calls us to follow him in that family and community known as “Church”- that ragtag rejoicing host of witnesses remembered as saints that extends from antiquity to friends, family, neighbors, and even strangers who themselves are attempting to shed what binds them too.

Lazarus had been shut away, his memory eventually to be forgotten forever, yet the voice of love spoke the breath back into his body. Loving hands helped him discard the raiment of death, and welcomed him back into the light. We long for that quickening, too—to be set free to live with the integrity and compassion that is the foundation of the life to which Jesus calls us to not just imitate but make our own. Like Lazarus, we have to shed those bindings of scarcity and hopelessness, so that we can walk out of the dank tomb and feel the light and love of resurrection. We remember the saints and souls who have gone before us for what they gave, not for what they held back. It’s just that simple. That’s what lives on.

And what a gift this resurrection faith is! It calls us to answer the call of love with love, to engage in reciprocity in all things: to celebrate our inter-connectedness, to our ties to each other. To acknowledge where, with the help of God and our community, we have been unbound from the things that hinder us, and to then accept the challenge to be a similar force for freedom and justice to those around us. To be able to celebrate our shared bonds, we are called to be brave enough to do what we can to enable our shared future together—not just for ourselves, but for those communities that we are called to serve and help reconcile—to welcome the refugee, help the struggling, share the light of Christ with the lost. This is our common purpose and honor—to share in this work of redemption and rebirth with Jesus Christ our Savior, who invites us into this holy responsibility in love.

All the fears we leave behind make us lighter for the journey ahead of us, and leave our hands open to receive the good things that lie before us. We are assured there will be companions with us on this journey. The hands that unbind us are just as important as the words that call us into the light, because they witness to us as well about the love of Christ in our lives—and carry it forward. 

 

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

Reading:
John 11:32-44

Given and Received: Speaking to the Soul for November 4, 2021

Mark 12:28-34

The scribe had a question.

Which law in Torah is the greatest?

With supposedly 613 separate laws in the Torah (365 of them negative), this had been a subject of debate for centuries. And many attempts had been made to distill these various laws down to an easier number.

Jesus puts a twist on his answer. The Law, he says, can be summed up in two things. First, he quotes Deuteronomy, a statement known as the Shema, a prayer that Jews were required to recite morning and night every day: Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.

But Jesus doesn’t stop there. He goes back to Leviticus and pulls this lesser-known verse out and sets it alongside the Shema: you shall love your neighbor as yourself. And he says this is the same as the first.

Jesus boils down the essence of the Law down to love.

Think about this as what he DOESN’T say the law is about.

He doesn’t say it’s about believing certain things- especially ones that Christians nowadays often argue about.He doesn’t say it’s about who will get into heaven or “personal salvation.”

He doesn’t say it’s about casting out folk you don’t like or don’t approve of.

He doesn’t say it’s about being RIGHT. He doesn’t say it’s about God being vengeful or punitive.

He says it is about LOVE. And further, he states very clearly that the best way to put your love for God into action is by loving those around you—your neighbors, whether you even like them or not, your political opponents– it doesn’t matter. He equates those two things as being the same.

Think about that! And then wonder at how revolutionary an idea this still is, 2000 years later! Love that isn’t about individual, personal relationships with Jesus so we can escape punishment, but love that is grounded in forming a community in which all are welcome—what the gospels call the Kingdom of God, or Dr. King called the Beloved Community.

Jesus repeatedly emphasizes that everything in the Law and Prophets is meant to create a community in which justice and peace prevail—what we would call “heaven on earth.” The heart of God’s kingdom on earth and in our hearts, which was considered to be the seat of a person’s will, is LOVE. That is what makes Jesus’s message so compelling, then and now. Love doesn’t seek control but the flourishing of the beloved.

In our gospel this coming Sunday, the scribe’s question and Jesus’s answer brings the scribe into a position to be openhearted enough to consider the truth of Jesus’s message. Jesus’s answer is straightforward. The living out of that answer is too often anything but straightforward.

But love, even as an answer to a question we have trouble forming, is at least beautiful and wondrous. It’s a mystery we experience when we still our hearts and souls so that we can hear and know God’s presence in our lives. It’s the kind of love that sings out, wonderingly, about amazing grace—both given AND received.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on November 4, 2021.