Living By Our Faith: Sermon for Proper 22C

Today we complete the five-week liturgical season of creation in the Episcopal Church. The season is planned so that it concludes with the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi, which is celebrated yesterday, on October 4.

In yesterday's Beacon, I shared with you all a sweet story of St. Francis preaching to the birds about gratitude. In his Sermon to the Birds, the Saint noted that the birds receive everything they need for their not just survival, but flourishing, from the abundant creation God provides in all its complexity. If you remember, in the story the birds then flew into the sky, formed the shape of a cross, and then divided into four groups and flew away, each group in a cardinal direction, to share the gospel of Christ all over the world.

Francis's love of nature, and the way that his spirit was nurtured by the natural world as a living testament to God's mind-blowing love for us, is quite famous, and so tender. No wonder he is that patron saint for creation.

The readings we hear today however, are the readings regularly scheduled for this week, not the propers for our saint. And yet it is interesting to examine the way that the life of the saint intersects with our readings we just heard about having faith in God in the face of injustice.

For there was another side to Francis than just a tree-hugging nature lover. His story is also an incredible conversion story. In his youth, he had been a wealthy young man, born into a wealthy merchant family, and he lived the life of a playboy-- a kind of work hard, play hard kind of existence. He also became a soldier and fought in the Crusades, killing in the name of Christ as European armies attempted to win the Holy Lands from the control of Muslims. He was captured and imprisoned, became very ill, and was released to return home to recover. It was during the recovery that Francis began experiencing his first visions of the presence of Christ in his life. Francis abandoned his wealth, his privilege, renouncing them all, and soon became a wandering preacher who lived by begging from town to town, occasionally gathering followers as he went along.

Francis looked upon a church that at the time was a sponsor of warfare through the Crusades-- He himself knew that first hand. And yet the more that he preached and lived a life of poverty and simplicity in solidarity with the poor and the marginalized. He also realized that the gospel of Christ called him to renounce violence. As he went from town to town, he would great people by saying, " "Pace e Bene!" -- "Peace and goodness to you!"

He devoted himself so firmly to the cause of nonviolence and the renunciation of war that in 1219 he trailed behind crusaders heading for the next wave of fighting, and spent a year walking from Italy to North Africa, where the Sultan who led the Muslim armies was encamped. After pleading with the Cardinal who led the Christian armies to stop the violence and killing, and being turned back with scorn and derision, he then managed to gain an audience with the Sultan to urge the same thing, impressing the Sultan greatly by his humility and piety.

Francis did not succeed in his mission to either side, and the wars continued to rage on. Yet this aspect of the saint's life is where we see a connection with the readings that we have just heard. In our reading from Habakkuk, we hear yet another prophet they're crying the oppression of the poor and the lack of justice that is available in the land. God answers the prophets lament in the first half of our first reading by reminding The prophet, and all who listened to him, that God's will and God's justice are not based upon abstract principles of winning and losing, especially not of power and the will to use it. Instead, God joins the prophet in Condemning the perversion of justice that is pervading the government of Israel. Our brief reading ends with this observation: "Look at the proud! Their spirit is not right in them, but the righteous live by their faith."

This declaration leads directly into the opening verses of our gospel passage. In the opening verse, we hear are apostles exclaim, "Increase our faith!" Jesus then goes on to tell the apostles that if they had the faith the size of a mustard seed, they would be willing to accomplish great things. It mustard seed of course was one of the tiniest of all seeds, then and now.

Surely, the apostles have faith that size. Surely the crowd's following Jesus have faith that size. Surely we can have faith that size, faith in a God who calls us to work for justice and to fight against oppression, even in the face of our position by the world all around us, just as Saint Francis himself faced in preaching a gospel of nonviolence, yes, but also a gospel that called Christians to be willing to place everything on the line who could not in the cause of those on the margins, those who were most vulnerable, those who could not speak for themselves, and who would not be heard, even if they had tried.

Jesus's message, amplified by servants like Saint Francis, is just as relevant today as it was 2000 years ago. Especially now, as we are plunged into a world in which the nihilistic pursuit of power and wealth justifies or, kidnapping, violence, and even contemplates genocide.

Jesus's entire life of ministry on this earth was lived in the pursuit of embodying God's justice-- which is not based on punishment and violence, but on love and mercy and grace. It is a life that we who follow Jesus are also charged with taking up as our calling: like Jesu, to give of ourselves and of our resources to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick, welcome the stranger and the homeless, and transcend barriers.

This is the heart of the gospel, this is what Saint Francis sought to embody in his life, and what we are called to embody in ours. We are not called to silence and apathy in the face of the pain and suffering that swirls around us. We are called to seize hold of our mustard seed faith, to plant it in the soil of the love that God has for each and every one of us, and then to share that faith in action abundantly by standing up for those who are unable to stand up for themselves. We are called especially to renounce a gospel of hatred, a gospel of destruction, a gospel of exploiting human and beast and forest for the profit of only a few.

On the day Saint Francis died, he said to his followers, "We have only begun to practice the gospel." Seven hundred years later, those words still ring true, and yet we have the assurance that God calls us into relationship with each other through even the tiniest amount of faith, faith which is in itself can achieve miracles. Amen.

Readings:

Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4
Psalm 37:1-10
2 Timothy 1:1-14
Luke 17:5-10

Preached at the 505 on October 4 and the 10:30 Eucharist on October 5, 2025.

Refreshment: Speaking to the Soul, March 9, 2023

John4: 5-42

Lenten violet and white papel picado flutter overhead,
the bougainvillea blooms sprawl
over the crisp white tablecloths,
altars beneath the warming Oaxacan sun.

Come, be refreshed. Offer up your cup
from stall to stall, a feast amidst fast
for stranger or friend, all receive refreshment:
Agua frescas, jamaica, tamarindo, chilacoyata, horchatas,
tejate brimming from clay bowls
on the Dia de la Samaritana.
The Pacific air is redolent and vibrant
with chocolate, sugar,
sunlight and music.

Remembering the heat of another noonday sun,
in Samaria, scorned for its mongrel faith,
sprawled between the boundaries
of Jerusalem’s industrialized religion
and Galilee with its olives and figs,
crocus and anemone,
cyclamen nodding from rocky crevices.
His face was turned toward home.

He did not seek more contention
or midnight visitors brimming
with questions. He sought
a shortcut. The route
should have been along seashore or river bank,
but God so loved the world,
and the world begins
within the hostilities in Samaria,
beyond boundaries of belief,
or the scorn of gender
or judgment and prejudice.

Photina sought to retrieve her water
when the gossiping tongues remained at home,
the heat of the sun less bitter,
her footsteps slowing as she took in
the shimmering shape of the dusty traveler
seated despite the noonday heat.
Only her need overcame her wariness. But
despite all differences,
he did not judge her but loved her,
stripping away all the rumors that clung to her,
and seeing a disciple instead.

Through her refreshed perception
she was emboldened to witness;
by calling her to tend his humanity--
his weariness, his thirst, his hunger,
and seeing hers--
the disillusionment, the contempt she bore
even among her kindred, the
burden of abandonment and scorn
but also the strength of mind and heart to dare.
His words provoke and promise,
testimony received and boldly proclaimed
to her and to us.

Nicodemus saw he was from God,
but Photina saw he was Savior.

Come, be refreshed.
Let down your bucket within your heart
to receive the living water of joy,
faith and hope--
a wellspring of witness.

Come be refreshed and restored,
stranger or friend,
by the love that was always within you
from the Maker’s handiwork
and seal upon your soul.

It is only those who have need of Jesus
who hear the hope of the invitation,
who receive the offered cup of fresh water
of God’s kingdom.


Note: the Oaxacan festival of the Dia de la Samaritana will be March 17 this year.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on March 9, 2023.

The Faith Of A Seed: Sermon for Proper 22C

What’s the difference between a mulberry tree and a mountain?

I think we would all agree they are very different. In our example, outside of stories by JRR Tolkien, trees don’t move around by themselves, and they certainly can’t grow and flourish in salt water. Likewise, mountains that get up and move are called volcanoes and usually the way they move is by erupting and nobody wants to be around that.

But they do have one thing in common: they are both things Jesus uses to help us grasp something important about faith. In the gospel we heard just now, we arrive mid-conversation with Jesus sounded noticeably annoyed with the disciples. What our reading omits is that Jesus has just advised the disciples that they are required to forgive others multiple times, even up to seven times a day if they are repentant. This concept was so mind-blowing for the disciples that they are dumbstruck. “Increase our faith!” they beg in wonder. Jesus tells them that if they had faith the size of a mustard seed, they could order a mulberry tree to uproot itself and plant itself in the sea.

When Jesus talks about faith the size of a mustard seed in Matthew’s gospel, he says this after the disciples have tried and failed to cast a demon out a man. After they ask him why, he tells them they have no faith. But this time, that mustard seed faith he advises would allow them to tell a mountain to move and it would obey.

Interestingly, the Buddhists have a parable of the mustard seed as well. It goes like this:

A mother’s child died, and she was inconsolable. She approaches the teacher Shakyamuni, who has a great reputation for helping people in their suffering. She wails about being alone, about her heartbreak, and is inconsolable. She asks the teacher to bring back her dead child, back to the land of the living. “Certainly,” he agrees---if first she can bring him a single mustard seed from any house that has not known death. The woman goes from house to house but can find no one who has escaped mourning and loss. After weeks at her quest, the woman goes home. Her understanding of her grief has changed: it’s no longer a weight erased but a weight made bearable, because she has discovered that everyone shares this burden in one form or another. She has learned that she can share her grief with others who too have experienced loss. A shared loss is a bearable loss.

It's amazing that mustard seeds can end up causing so much inspiration when it comes to matters of faith.

In Jesus’s talk about mulberry trees and mountains and mustard seeds, whether you think about a mulberry tree, which is big, or a great mountain, which is big, getting up and move themselves around, isn’t the real miracle.

The miracle is in the faith that makes things possible. The amount of faith you have isn’t the issue. It’s allowing faith to take root and grow in your life that matters.

It reminds me of the scene in the second Star Wars movie made-- The Empire Strikes Back. Luke has gone to find the great Jedi master Yoda to complete the training his friend Ben had barely begun with him. After a slow start, Yoda has Luke stacking rocks using only the Force while doing a handstand—and it’s hard work. Suddenly, Luke realizes his ship is sinking into the water. Yoda encourages him to use the Force to lift it. Luke exclaims that there is a huge difference between a rock and a spaceship.

"No!” Yoda exclaims. “Only different in your mind!” 

And so, Luke tries to raise the ship, and at first it rises from the water, but then Luke’s concentration breaks, and it sinks below the surface worse than before. “It’s too big!” Luke gasps. And after explaining the Force again, Yoda raises the spacecraft out of the water and places it on dry land.

When it comes to faith, size is not the issue.

Perhaps the disciples get it wrong when they think that faith is quantifiable. If you think that way, a little is good, but more must be better, right?

Jesus’s answer avoids using measurements. He doesn’t say, if you had an ounce of faith, or a pound of faith, or a gallon of faith. Instead, he says, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could do the impossible.”

Jesus chooses a small seed, a living thing, to describe faith. Seeds are amazing things, too. In the case of the mustard seed, a seed the size of a period at the end of a sentence is all you need in terms of faith. But a seed is a paradox. It looks inanimate, but it is alive, and from it grows a plant hundreds of times bigger that the seed from which the plant came.

Then I wondered: what kind of faith does a mustard seed itself actually have?

It doesn’t let its smallness get in the way of doing its business. But drop it into the soil and give it some sun and water, and it gets to work.

I know this because the January I was four, my mom bought me this “kid’s garden” kit at the local TG&Y—it was a five and dime store that was around when I was very little. My mom bought this kit for me, I suspect, to keep me occupied, because she was 41 and pregnant with my sister and had two little kids who both asked lots of questions. 

The garden kit had glass jars that fit on a tray, a bag of soil, and even a wee red tin watering can. There were seeds for sunflowers, marigold, lavender, chives, and mustard. Frankly they all seemed small to me. After assembling all the jars, we put them on the windowsill in the dining room and waited. That was the hard part. Every day I would watch and watch and have to hold back from watering too much. Every day I would lose more of my mother’s lap, and every day she distracted me with these jars of dirt.

Mom had always made sure to plant one of the seeds close to the edge of the glass. And finally, after what seemed like forever but what probably about three weeks, in some of the jars I could see a tiny pale sprout from the larger sunflower seeds. Mom assured me that all the seeds, even the tiniest, did the same thing. 

The sunflower seed cracked open, and that first sprout began to spread out into tiny roots to feed the seed. Then another sprout emerged and began to push like magic toward the top of the soil. It broke the top of the soil and kept going up and up. Then it formed a few tiny leaves. Over the next few days all the other pots began bursting forth with sprouts and then seedlings. Every day they seemed to grow and grow. Finally, in the middle of June, all of them had grown into plants—even the tiny mustard seed. 

And guess what also happened? My baby sister was born. Boy, my Mom sure could time things. And luckily, the plants were at a stage when they could be ignored for a while, we got to turn our attention to the baby. But I remember how proud I was when some of my own plants were used when we made dinner—even the marigolds went into the salad! And we ground up a little mustard and put that on sandwiches.

What made those seeds grow? Soil, and water, and the right temperatures, and sunshine. But it started with the seeds doing what was inside them all along, responding to the right conditions with the will to break open and sprout.

Even the smallest seeds-- acorns, nuts, berries, even-- can become amazing plants, providing shade and food and fragrance and beauty—even medicine. It all starts with the seed breaking open and straining into roots and sprouts.

What if Jesus is reminding us of this? Sometimes, we develop a shell that prevents us from growing into what we are meant to be as disciples. We hold ourselves aloof from experiences that might crack us open, like love, fellowship, or trust in God rather than hoarding our own resources and depending only upon ourselves. Or maybe we doubt ourselves, or that we can really trust God to use us to do great things. And so, we hesitate in growing, and instead ask God our favorite request: Give us more.

But there’s no need for more. We have everything we need right here to grow in faith, to grow in discipleship. It’s all inside us, waiting to sprout.

More faith isn’t required. Instead, Jesus then makes an important point in the middle of our gospel: you don’t need to have a huge amount of faith to do this. You just need a tiny bit. Faith the size of a mustard seed can produce wonders and miracles. With God’s help, anything is possible—including transforming our tiny, grinchy hearts that get paralyzed through fear, cynicism, or lack of faith from doing what they were meant to do: act in love for the healing of the world.

Faith isn’t about knowing how to measure it. Faith isn’t about what you know. It is about how you love, and how you act on that love. And loving means leaving behind the fear that others will hurt you, even through potential grief at maybe losing them some day. It’s about investing your heart, your strength, your love, your resources in what really matters—in making the world a better place, in helping the kingdom of God to grow and flourish to give hope and nourishment to the aching world.

Jesus describes faith as a tiny seed because it is how it grows inside you that makes all the difference. Faith isn’t about flashy miracles like ordering around trees or mountains—not really.

When it comes to faith, size is not the issue. Action is what matters. Letting go of what holds you back matters. Being bold because you are on the solid rock of confidence and trust in God is what matters. A little is all that it takes—but together, it can make all the difference.

Preached at the 505 on October 1 and the 10:30 Holy Eucharist on October 2 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville.

Readings:

Lamentations 1:1-6
Psalm 137
2 Timothy 1:1-14
Luke 17:5-10

Faithful in Little Things: Sermon for Proper 20C

First of all, Rev, Shug likes to claim that she always gets the short end of the stick when it comes to difficult readings in the lectionary. This is proof that she is absolutely wrong.

Right off the bat, I would like to say a few things about this perplexing gospel. We have fallen into the habit of thinking that all of Jesus’s parables are stories about God. Not this one, baby. Every single person in this parable is engaging in cut-throat competition. In fact everyone in this parable is looking out for number one. To be specific:

The dishonest steward is, first of all, engaging in corrupt, criminal behavior. He is basically bribing the debtors to owe HIM rather than his master. He may be helping the debtors, but he is doing so with money that is not his. He is planning that they will HAVE to offer him hospitality when he is fired for his original malfeasance. The debtors get part of their debt forgiven, but they know they now owe an unscrupulous person. The master apparently has to admire the utter chutzpah of the steward—and perhaps considers that where before he had debts hanging on the books, at least he has gotten something in repayment.

No one in this parable is either Jesus nor God. Let us be clear.

BUT they certainly are characters that Jesus’s audience, then and now, can recognize. We see people and corporations acting like this all the time. Pay day loan firms, pawn shops, collection agencies and even some municipalities here in our own back yards can and do operate out of this same corner of the economy. 

We see the same thing in corporations who have been ordered by courts to pay large fines and damages for hurting people, or who have squandered the pensions of their employees, simply evading their obligations by declaring bankruptcy to avoid paying the penalty. We see this kind of behavior in impoverished communities, where authorities constantly write tickets for violations of codes to make up for the lack of a tax base. We see people who don’t have enough money to open a banking account being forced to pay part of their money just to cash a check, paying fees much higher than they would pay if they could afford to have a checking account.

Some people have taken this parable to mean that Jesus condemns all wealth as hopelessly corrupt. And, thinking about it, I can think of only one time in scripture where Jesus is depicted as touching money, and he’s not too complementary about it then. Furthermore, the common purse for the disciples was held by Judas. On the surface, the stance Jesus appears to take here is this: Money is corrupt—how can we be surprised when people use it dishonestly?

This is also an opportunity to tell you a bold-faced truth. Sometimes, the gospel will make us uncomfortable. Sometimes preachers are standing before you sweating and wishing to be anywhere else at that moment because we are compelled to acknowledge that Jesus offers forgiveness and grace, yes, but he requires self-examination and repentance as well. Jesus taught about how to live with each other in love and respect. That sometimes means acknowledging where there is injustice in the world, and where we may even profit from it, and then determining to do better. That can be scary. It can make us temporarily feel guilty—or make us lie to ourselves in order NOT to feel guilty. The gospel is NOT always what we want to hear. It IS always what we need to hear. Just don’t shoot the messenger!

The 16th chapter of Luke is all about money, and money can be an overwhelming subject. A hugely powerful subject. Let us remember that for Jesus and his audience, the coins in circulation were themselves reminders that they lived as oppressed people under a foreign empire. This is not the case with us. But growing up working class, I can tell you about knowing the power money has when you DON’T have it, and I can also tell you what it’s like to be able to walk around with $20 in my pocket without having to search the couch cushions. And I do NOT kid myself that I got here on my own.

My parents paid my car insurance until I got married because I worked at a parochial school and rent cost half my paycheck. I couldn’t afford health insurance, because that cost 25% of my pay, and when I got injured, my principal sent me to her doctor and loaned me the money for the visit. The early married years were a blur of how many different ways I could turn 20% fat content hamburger into a meal and not give my spouse and I clogged arteries. And along the way, there were people who tried to take advantage of us. At one point, my brother, sister, and I kept lending each other the same $100 round and round while we were in school. Yet also, all along the way, there were people supporting us, encouraging us, and sharing with us what they had.

But here is where we CAN nod our heads in recognition right along with Jesus’s audience: when we hear about dishonest people manipulating a system that admires dishonesty, we can all nod our heads in recognition.

So what can we take from this gospel reading today?

This is Jesus’s word that provides me with new insight into our relationship with each other, and with money: faithfulness.

In verse 10 Jesus says, "Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much; and whoever is dishonest in a very little is dishonest also in much.”

Faithfulness here is used as a synonym for honesty. Someone who will be honest even in small things will be honest in big things.

Here at St. Martin’s there are many ways little things add up. One of those is our wonderful Laundry Love ministry, which is celebrating its one-year anniversary this month after being delayed for two years by COVID. This ministry is based on a very real, often overlooked need: for clean clothing. There are lots of people in our area that, after paying for the rent, food, and utilities, just don't have any cash left over for laundry. So we encourage you to gather up your spare change, like these quarters here, and put them in this white box. Each month, your contributions are gathered together and they provide clean laundry and dignity to numerous families. Also once each month, on the second Tuesday, volunteers from this parish donate three hours of their time to meet with people and help them get their laundry done at a local laundromat, getting to know our clients in the process.

These are all little things. Little things where we can grow deeper in faithfulness.

And here’s the amazing thing: the last several months your faithfulness in turning in your change has fully funded that month’s Laundry Love—we haven’t had to touch our reserves a bit. What a blessing! And all generated from small things so that we can work, faithfully, for the good of people in our community whose needs are often overlooked.

Jesus reminds us that being faithful, with money or anything, means being honorable. In terms of money, it also means using it humbly, not to self-aggrandize or to separate us from others, but to build relationship. Listen, that’s even what the dishonest steward was doing. 

Jesus’s observation is about humility. First of all, there’s the humility of the little things themselves. Often, the true change in the world comes from the humble power of little things, and faithfulness is a tremendous example of that. I thought about that in the poem I wrote while thinking about this gospel, called “Little But Fierce.”

Whoever is faithful in a very little
is faithful also in much…- Luke 16:10


Some pray for faith to move mountains;
but overlook the gnarled and knotty pine
that grasps the cliff face
with roots as strong as talons
that persistently turn that mountain into soil,
daredevil defying gravity and wind
its needles whistling a laughing alleluia.

Some pray for the faith of a mustard seed,
forgetting, in the parable
it was an ugly, humble weed
better located outside the garden wall.

Lord, let me pray for the faithfulness
proclaimed by the honest little flower
that’s blooming in the pavement crack
or garbage dump; the dandelion,
maned all in white ruff, who
though spurned, has nourished the bees all season.

This is my prayer:
to be brave enough to offer my heart
like a flare of blue in an autumn sky
without calculus of renown or esteem.

O Lord, make me faithful
like little, overlooked things.

Being faithful in little things actually reminds us of the humble power of little things to do great good. If we become mindful about the dozens of ways each day we can do small things for others, our own happiness increases. If we examine the dozens of ways we have money pass through our hands each week, and make a conscious decision to redirect those small amounts toward something that benefits not just ourselves but others, we start developing a habit of being faithful in little things. And since little things make up a majority of our experiences, suddenly the little things add up to big things.

Thus, being faithful in little things builds us up in the habits of holiness and discipleship. It turns each day into a collection of opportunities to make a difference and to live a life of joy and generosity. Developing that habit then outfits us to be bold when great challenges and opportunities present themselves to us.

Being faithful with money means never letting it take over the place in your attention and values that should belong to God: “You cannot serve God and wealth,” Jesus insists. Being faithful in small things restores money to its proper place as a tool for good rather than as something that we serve. So the humility works both ways.

Being faithful in little things is God’s gift to us to enable us to develop our spiritual strength. It offers us the perspective to see opportunity for worship even in simple things throughout the day. Thus even by these small things do we become more openhearted in our dealing with our neighbors. This leads to us being more grateful in our purpose in life and in our testimony to the world of the generous, abundant love of God, reflected in a thousand different ways through our own humble, yet never insignificant actions.

As I pointed out in my rector’s reflection in the Beacon, the little things are our greatest teachers as we grow into adulthood. When we were infants, even little things were big things, because we depended on others to meet our most basic needs. As we became young adults, we learned independence, and insisted on doing things for ourselves—and as long as we stayed humble, those little things gave us confidence. But independence is not where our journey to full personhood ends, especially for those of us who claim to follow Christ. You can’t do whatever you want and follow Jesus. The little things, when considered maturely lead us to the greatest wisdom of all: the wisdom of interdependence, of recognizing the imprint of God in each other and our obligations to each other and our mutual flourishing. That kind of faithfulness leads to true wealth: wealth in spirit, secure in our knowledge that we are living lives of meaning and generosity.

Preached at the 505 on Saturday, September 17, and at the 10:30 am Eucharist on Sunday September 18 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church in Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Jeremiah 8:18-9:1
Psalm 79:1-9
1 Timothy 2:1-7
Luke 16:1-13

Little But Fierce: Speaking to the Soul for September 15, 2022

  

Whoever is faithful in a very little 

is faithful also in much…- Luke 16:10

 

Some pray for faith to move mountains;
but overlook the gnarled and knotty pine
that grasps the cliff face
with roots as strong as talons
that persistently turn that mountain into soil,
daredevil defying gravity and wind
its needles whistling a laughing alleluia.

 

Some pray for the faith of a mustard seed,
forgetting, in the parable
it was an ugly, humble weed
better located outside the garden wall.

 

Lord, let me pray for the faithfulness 
proclaimed by the honest little flower
that’s blooming in the pavement crack
or garbage dump; the dandelion,
maned all in white ruff, who
though spurned, has nourished the bees all season.

 

This is my prayer: 

to be brave enough to offer my heart
like a flare of blue in an autumn sky
without calculus of renown or esteem.

O Lord, make me faithful 
like little, overlooked things.

-- Leslie Barnes Scoopmire, first published at Episcopal Journal's Speaking to the Soul on September 15, 2022

Stars and Bars: Sermon for Proper 14C

This weekend, we celebrate the baptism of young Will Ross, the infant son of Sean and Cary, baby brother of Elliott. Baptism is a time of great joy, a time of commitment, of expanding the circle of the community, of welcoming the newest member of the Body of Christ into a life of joy, love, worship, and compassionate service as a disciple of Jesus. Alongside Will and his family and godparents, we commit ourselves once again to renewing our commitment not just to Christ but to each other and to the Ross family. It’s a glorious time of new beginning and of celebrating not just a new life, but the hope, joy, and beauty we image for him and his beloveds throughout his life, and for all his beloveds.

It is, indeed, a glorious time for new beginnings, a time of wonder.

God knows many of us need a good dose of wonder and amazement to bring us light and life. Wonder and amazement helps us see beyond the stresses and distractions that can cause us to forget our belovedness, our rootedness in the kin-dom of God.

We DO live in a time of wonders, after all. Just a couple of weeks ago, on July 11, the James Webb Space Telescope transmitted its first pictures back from Earth from its own spot orbiting the Sun 930,000 miles from Earth. One of the first images it transmitted was of a cloudy area known as “The Cosmic Cliffs” in the Carina Nebula. (1)

The image is dotted with spectacular six-pointed stars against a midnight blue and black backdrop. A gossamer curtain of red, orange, and rust colored clouds hangs across the bottom 2/3 of the image, and hundreds of stars of various sizes shine out of and through the veil. The image practically pulsates with light and life, giving the appearance of movement. And indeed, this is a place where, even better than in Hollywood, stars are born. This area is a veritable star nursery out on the edge of our own Milky Way galaxy about 7600 light-years from Earth.

This incredible photograph immediately brought to mind one of my favorite paintings—The Starry Night, painted by Vincent Van Gogh in 1888. Van Gogh painted this painting in the small town of Saint-Remy de Provence while housed in an asylum there. The sky was the one visible from his east window. He then added a cypress tree on the left edge of the painting, and part of the town only visible from another perspective to anchor the lower part of the painting. And of course, over the town, the stars and the moon pulse and vibrate with a vitality that draws the viewer’s eye directly into painting.

Apparently, I am not the only person who associated these two images in my mind, because someone has actually taken the painting and the image from the telescope and superimposed them upon each other. The result is astonishing. (2)

And come to find out, scientists agree that Van Gogh’s iconic masterpiece, from a period of personal turbulence in his life, also reflects the turbulence of molecular clouds like that in the Carina Nebula, the churning birthplaces of stars. And so, for the first time ever, I am about to quote from Physics magazine in a sermon. As they recount it:

A student at the Australian National University, Canberra, [James] Beattie studies the structure and dynamics of molecular clouds—the birthplaces of stars—whose churning eddies often make him think of the Dutch painting. He recently put that resemblance to the test with help from Neco Kriel, a student at Queensland University of Technology in Australia. Using techniques developed to analyze the patterns of simulated molecular clouds, the duo compared art and reality, finding that both display the same turbulent features. While it may only be a happy coincidence that Van Gogh’s sky contains star-related patterns, the presence of turbulent motifs is common in paintings, likely due to the abundance of turbulent phenomena in our everyday lives. (3)

Looking only with his naked eye—but most importantly, the eye of his imagination, Van Gogh captured not only an evocative representation of his own inner anxiety and hope; he also depicted a quality of the heavens above us that can currently only be seen by use of powerful telescopes. It truly is miraculous!

Here, truly, we have an example of art imitating life. Perhaps we need that reminder. For many of us, after all, we also live in turbulent times. In just the few days since NASA posted that image of the Cosmic Cliffs, the Midwest and Kentucky has been inundated with severe storms and floods, while the West, under its years-long drought, continues to burn and even cause fish kills, all while the reservoirs that make life possible there begin to empty out. We’re still in the midst of the COVID pandemic, washing over us wave after wave after wave. The economy can’t seem to make up its mind as to whether these are the best of times or the worst of times. Turbulence, indeed.

And it is in this situation that perhaps we can hear anew the gospel message Christ gives us in today’s reading from Luke. Sadly, our lectionary skips over the verses in between this week’s and last week’s reading. Because they would help center us even more fully in the message Jesus is giving us, I want to remind you of them, and not just because they include one of the Rev. Shug's favorite images.

Here’s what we missed after last week’s parable of the rich fool:

Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing. Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds! And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? If then you are not able to do so small a thing as that, why do you worry about the rest? Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, how much more will he clothe you—you of little faith! And do not keep striving for what you are to eat and what you are to drink, and do not keep worrying. For it is the nations of the world that strive after all these things, and your Father knows that you need them. Instead, strive for his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well. (Luke 12:22-31)

As someone who could probably medal in the Olympics of worrying, these verses have always been very helpful to me. The verses we then heard in our gospel reading a few moments ago reinforce this missing passage.

So let’s look at the assigned verses for this week. Once again, like last week, the topic is priorities and the trust that is required to have them in the right place.

One of the great cures for worry and despair, I have found, is action. And here Jesus gives three commands to his followers, that makes that point clear to all of us:

1. Do not be afraid.
2. Sell your possessions and give alms.
3. Be ready for action, with lamps lit for a journey even in the dark.

Remember the classic trio of faith, hope, and love (or charity)? Here they are again! Look at the commands again. In other words:

1. Have faith.
2. Have charity.
3. Have hope for God’s kingdom here on earth.

1. Have faith- do not be afraid. Did you know that the command “Do not be afraid” occurs 67 times in the NRSV version of the Bible, 49 times in the Old Testament alone? Fear prevents us from thinking and seeing reality and instead causes us to react instinctively. Once we are not afraid, we can ACT. Specifically, in this reading, Jesus reminds us of God’s providence and love for us. Following the command not to be afraid, three command verbs are specifically used: sell, give, make. Sell your possessions, give to the poor, make a purse for your REAL treasure—life in God here on earth, which you will have so abundantly you will need a purse for it.

2. Have charity. The action that flows from conquering our fear is to show our love for neighbor, which the kingdom of God will be grounded upon, by taking care of others. That’s what alms are for. Give to those who can give nothing back. Your reward will be from God for putting your priorities and actions in the right place. Once you have faith, act upon that faith by focusing on others, especially the poor. Just as the opposite of fear is faith and trust, the opposite of fear is being openhearted. This involves more than just charity, however, but a total realignment of the values human societies are all-too-often based upon. The foundation of God’s kingdom is justice and generosity.

3. Have hope. Be ready for “the master’s” return—here Jesus is talking about when the kingdom of God will be established here on earth and “he will come to judge the living and the dead.” We do not know when that will happen, but it is clear that we have a part to play in establishing it—we must act to bring it into being. This is another tie to the Hebrews reading, by the way—the audience was despairing that the Parousia—the return of Christ from Heaven discussed in the Baptismal Covenant and the Creeds—had not occurred yet. Thus this gospel reading could be addressed to the same audience there, as well.

Jesus seeks to encourage us in our continuing life of faith—encouraging us to not just grit our way through, to not just endure when times can seem difficult, but to see life, joy, and hope even in the midst of turbulent times.

Van Gogh’s painting can actually help us here, too. In order to create this luminous picture, he chose to creatively arrange the sections of his painting. The town at the bottom was not visible from the vantage point from which he painted—but he added it anyway. And down in the center, so often overlooked, is a glowing white ember of the village church—whose church bells soothed him so often during each day and night. 

But an even more significant choice Van Gogh made is in what he DIDN’T paint into the image—the bars on the window of his room in that asylum. He looked through them, and beyond them, in order to capture the throbbing turbulence and yet also hopefulness of that night sky. As we see from the picture from the Webb Telescope, that turbulence also represents new life, new stars, coming into existence.

We too, can spend our life looking at the bars, or looking at the stars. We can spend our life looking on a darkened town—or we can see the brave, resilient church that shines out day or night, a church that has no idea how much its mere presence alone encourages those who encounter it.

Jesus calls us to faith, to hope, to charity, to look for and embrace the wonders all around us. To embrace the wonder of a new member of the Body of Christ, as we will now do.

Amen.

Preached at the 505 on August 6 and at the 10:30 Holy Baptism on August 7 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church in Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Isaiah 1:1, 10-20
Psalm 50:1-8, 23-24
Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16
Luke 12:32-40

Citations:

1) Picture of the Cosmic Cliffs from NASA is found at https://www.nasa.gov/image-feature/goddard/2022/nasa-s-webb-reveals-cosmic-cliffs-glittering-landscape-of-star-birth

2) Van Gogh's The Starry Night Combined with the image of the Cosmic Cliffs found at : https://www.reddit.com/r/deepdream/comments/w4d916/starry_starry_night_nasas_cosmic_cliffs_from_the/

3) Article from Physics magazine quoted at https://physics.aps.org/articles/v12/45

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

Prayer 2919: For a New Day

Merciful One,
We praise You and bless You.
We offer You a song of hope,
and watch it flutter to your hand on gossamer wings.
Receive our prayers and praises, O Lord,
for You are our Savior and Guide.

God of the Rising Wave,
may we have faith
to lay back within your embrace,
trusting that You will bear us up.

May the roots of our faith
drive deep into the soil of our hearts,
when we remember all the wonders You have done,
O Eternal Flame, O Sustaining Companion.

May we wrap our arms round each other
in kinship and love,
and walk gently and reverently upon this precious earth
which you have spread before us,
marvelous and thrumming with life and energy.

Awaken in us true grace and kindness,
Blessed Savior,
and make our hearts beat together as one.
Pour out your peace upon all peoples,
and your comfort upon all for whom we pray

A Time to Choose: Sermon for Proper 27A

Choices. This week especially we have been reminded that we have choices.

We can choose one candidate, or the other. Or we can choose not to choose, and fool ourselves into thinking that refusing to choose isn’t itself a choice, and the worst one of all possible options, because it surrenders the agency that is part of what makes us human.

We can choose to be present in this moment, with all its pain and potential, rather than distract ourselves with electronics for fear of "boredom." We can choose to forgive someone, even if they never truly repent of the wrongs they have done us, even if they vaguely mutter that they “may have” hurt you when they know damn well that they have. Even if we know they ask our forgiveness out of selfishness, rather than because they seek healing or reconciliation.

Some people get lots of choices, because they’ve got lots of resources. Some effectively don’t have many choices, because they don’t have resources, through things they don’t get to choose, like the color of their skin or the place of their birth or their name or their caste. And we can choose to acknowledge that, and work together for better.

This week in America, we celebrate the fact that we DO have choices, and we stand up to make sure that our choices build up rather than destroy, that they are motivated by love and faith rather than hatred.

Even when you make the choice to come to church, there are choices in the lectionary. And our lectionary readings today are about choices, as well, as they often are, because no matter what some people claim, God wove the ability to make choices into the fibers of our bones and does not foreordain the outcome of illness, elections, or even football games that go into double overtime, no matter how strong the fans of Notre Dame think their connection with God is.

In our reading from Thessalonians, we see people being urged to choose faithfulness in the face of disappointment. In our gospel, we see both wise and foolish people within the community of Jesus can fail to have faith in the abundance of God and help support each other in remaining within the Body of Christ, instead choosing to live by a heartless insistence on scarcity that we ourselves know all too well.

The starkest choice in all our readings, though, is the one laid before the people in our reading from the Hebrew histories. The book of Joshua is the first of the books of history after the five books of the Torah, and tells the story of what happened under the leadership of Joshua, who succeeded Moses. Due to the placement of All Saints’ Day, this is the only reading from the entire book we will hear.

What we miss is the sweep of Joshua’s leadership. Moses, remember, dies without being actually allowed to enter the Promised Land. Joshua is anointed as leader, it actually has to bear the responsibility of leading the Israelites into Canaan. And it's a temptation, just like in the founding of America, to imagine that the land that they entered was empty of people already there (by the way, that is never true --not in America and not in Canaan). Instead, what happens is that the Israelites almost immediately have to engage in a series of wars with the various inhabitants of Canaan in order to get a part of it for themselves. That constant warfare is what we missed in the chapters we have skipped over.

When two cultures collide, there was always an exchange of customs and ideas that goes both ways. One of the common effects upon the colonizers, whether they were Europeans in America or Israelites going into Canaan, was the tendency of “going native.” When our first Anglican ancestors landed in Virginia in the 16th century, they soon ditched the European garb made for a European climate, and instead began to dress in buckskins and moccasins, and ate native food, such as corn, succotash, and pumpkin, even adapting canoes and dugouts for transportation on rivers and streams.

With the Israelites, the temptation to “go native” was different. They were, after all, a people who had already three times under Moses promised to worship only Yahweh. And yet, as they settled in their new lands, hard one through numerous battles, they looked around and saw their neighbors worshipping a variety of weather and fertility gods in particular-- gods who are small enough to fit into your pockets. Gods who were small enough to stick to one particular area of life and not be so terrifyingly, overwhelmingly all-knowing and all-seeing and creator of every single thing in the universe, as Yahweh claimed to be. Their neighbors’ gods were appealing because they were manageable gods. Controllable gods. Gods who sometimes demanded human sacrifice—but hey, those sacrificed were usually enemies, so it really wasn’t seen as a loss. The kind of gods humans have ALWAYS loved to fashion for ourselves, because in the end they are handy scapegoats for problems and outlets for our longing to have a powerful, wish-fulfilling genie in our weak little hands.

And so Joshua lays it all out for them: they must choose. Yahweh or idolatry. And he doesn't do too good a job of selling it, either. He claims-- falsely-- that God will not forgive , I guess he might have been injecting some of his own frustration with this stubborn people.

Against all odds, they choose Yahweh. And it is a choice that periodically has to be renewed in the history of Israel. It's hard to remain faithful, especially when you're surrounded by people who live a different way. It's hard to remain faithful, because there are idols everywhere. And that is just as true now, 8000 years later, as it was there as Joshua addressed the people of Israel and laid the matter out for them starkly.

We may take pride in our ultra-modern, postmodern way of life, where we are surrounded culturally by a social order in America shaped by Christendom specifically. We take it for granted that we will get time off for Christmas or get visited by the Easter Bunny, even if we never darken a church door. In this country, as well as in most of the Western World, Christian traditions and holidays remain ubiquitous even as those who claim to be Christian has steadily decreased until people who acknowledge themselves as Christians are now approaching a minority in this country. 

Yet it's true: we are all born with a God-shaped hole inside of us that only God can really fill, as the French theologian Blaise Pascal pointed out in the 17th century. But it’s easier to try to fill that hole with things. And those things anesthetize us, and close us off from being open to God and seeking God. We want control. And so we too often we want those tiny little gods, rather than the capital G God.

I want to propose to you that rather than being necessarily a tragedy, this decrease in nominal Christian identity is actually might be a good thing. There has been and there continues to be great damage done to the cause of Christ by those who in name only are Christian-- by those who subvert and tarnish Jesus’s name as a way to gain political power or economic advantage. Because then we are living in a world shaped by Christendom, which seeks to dominate and oppress dissent, but not by Christ, who seeks to call us to choose love and see our commonality with all of creation.

This week, we continue to see COVID-19 numbers exploding, despite ridiculous predictions to the contrary, and all this week we heard a lot of arguing about ballots and whether or not to count them. And what boggles the mind is that there are people in this world who claim to be Christian, and yet look at that suffering and injustice, and shrug—or worse, become gleeful about it by calling it “justice.” This is not faith, but hatred.

The words we use matter. Look behind the mathematical words "numbers" and "counting" and remember that there are human beings behind those COVID cases and behind those votes. All just as beloved of God as we are, and who are our kindred as God’s children. No matter what, as our kindred, not our competitors, we are called to love and works with each other. Choosing Jesus means choosing the well-being of each other, turning aside from trying to push others down, or strip them of rights we claim for ourselves.

We need to remember that every number represents a person, and a web of family and friends around that person.

It's not about "us" and "them."
It's all "us."

The goal of our political lives, especially of the political lives of those who are people of faith, must never be the destruction of our “enemies,” but to abandon the language of “enemy” on those who are our fellow-humans. To understand that disagreement is healthy (and can even be educational, if you listen as much as you talk), but compromise and collaboration are healthier still. To remember that the benefits of living in a community such as a parish or a nation outweighs the fact that, just like toddlers, we don’t always get everything we want, and that our greatest strength comes from each other in times of crisis, not setting up lines of battle between us.

Being disciples of Jesus means that the most visible way of showing Jesus’s power and glory is by how we demonstrate our love for other, even those with whom we disagree. And that’s important as we desperately need to heal the wounds inflicted by this last many months, especially.

This is the absolute core of Jesus's teaching, and it is a revolutionary idea meant to turn the world upside down, just like those Beatitudes we have been urged to lean into since hearing them last Sunday. We are all one. We are all beloved of God. Rights are not pie-- we don't get more for ourselves by denying rights to other people. Similarly, God’s love is NOT pie, either.—we don’t get more for ourselves by excluding others.

And the world needs to see this witness from us in our relations with all of those around us. Even in, especially in, this modern time, the greatest competition to Christianity is not atheism, or trendy mishmashes of spiritual practices from around the world. The biggest idols we often worship instead of God are ourselves—especially our tendency to draw a tiny circle around those we consider worthy, and making everyone else around us an enemy. And it sneaks up on you, because these gods and idols are everywhere. So we all need to ask ourselves: what gods am I worshiping to fill the God-shaped hole inside myself?

We must not make enemies of each other. We must not put our trust and faith in things or human-designed economic or political systems that benefit the few at the expense of the many and treat them as if they are sacred. People, even those different from us, are sacred. Creation, which we are called to care for not drain dry, is sacred. God, who chooses us and ask us to choose God back, is sacred.

Jesus did not come to teach us passivity or to draw exclusionary lines. Jesus came to urge us to choose the power of community, and to remind us that we may not be able to do everything, but we all have the ability to do something to make things better for those around us. Even if that's just mask-wearing, hand-washing, and distancing from others.

Now is the time to reach deep within ourselves, and witness to the healing and reconciling love of Christ. The easiest way to witness to that love and its power is to choose it and commit to that love ourselves. Right now. All that we have and all that we are comes from God. That’s why we are called to take care of each other and this earth we live upon, and to give to God boldly, so that we may witness boldly. Choose community over division. Choose love for everyone. Choose God.

Amen.

Preached at the 10:30 am online worship service from St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, in time of COVID.

Readings:

Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25
Psalm 78:1-7
1 Thessalonians 4:13-18
Matthew 25:1-13

Prayer 2818: When words fail us, let love be prayer

Almighty One,
You are our Rock and our Hope,
Our Ever-present help in times such as these:
receive our prayers and praises,
as we proclaim your steadfast lovingkindness in our lives.

When our words fail us,
let our love be a prayer to You,
O Precious Savior,
and a witness to your grace.
As we meditate on your many blessings to us,
may we ever employ our reason and obedience
in the service of your reign over us--
a reign marked by tenderness
and a call for us to grow in faith.
Strengthen us in joy and gratitude
for carrying your light within us
for the sake of your Beloved Community.

Spirit of Devotion,
kindle within us a thirst for wisdom
that we may drink deep of love's commandment,
and be a blessing to each other in God's Holy Name.
Envelop all who seek you, O God,
in mercy and resilience,
and grant your peace to these beloveds.

Amen.

Inspired by the words of St. Teresa of Avila, whose feast day is tomorrow.