The Abundant Gift of Freedom: Sermon for the Proper 19A

We are here this weekend celebrating so many things: the start of a new program year, the 58th anniversary—on Tuesday, actually—of our first Eucharist as a parish in 1965—58 years ago, and the start of our annual pledge campaign at a critical juncture in the life of this parish.

Since the start of September, we have met seven times for worship, offered three online services to the world, all due to hundreds of man- and woman- hours in preparation, from more than 15 hours creating and printing all the bulletins, to the efforts of the altar guild, the printing and the publishing of them here and on the website and newsletter that a volunteer curates and maintains to the preparation of the readers and Eucharistic ministers, to the ten-plus hours of programming the broadcast crew provides and then watches over each week, to the preparation and return of our choir and the efforts of our music director. We have excited volunteers offering scores more hours creating the curriculum and teaching our littlest members in church school, and are preparing for the launch of a new adult forum.

We have had staff and volunteers adapting, printing, and preparing the mailings for our annual pledge campaign and getting them to the post office. We held a fellowship gathering out at a local restaurant in our community. We are preparing to enjoy a delicious feast with our brunch later this morning, and preparing for another day of fun and fellowship with the Lunch Bunch, and are in the midst of preparing for our annual pet blessing on October 7 and our Fall Festival on October 21.

But that’s just within our doors. Since the start of September, this parish has kept one family from losing its electricity; has provided one person with the means to get new clothes so that they could work after everything they had was stolen as they moved here; has funded and assisted in cleaning laundry for a dozen households; has provided school children with new backpacks, food, and personal items from our blessing box; and has begun winding down our garden ministry which provides food throughout the Midwestern growing season to hundreds of people. We have visited and cared for members who are ill or housebound.

And that’s just in 16 days—because this day has barely started. In the next few days, we will, God willing, hold a nearly fully subscribed blood drive that will help as many as 144 people in need of blood in the coming weeks throughout the St. Louis region. We will also attempt to help a person struggling to get to work who lacks transportation whom we also helped keep their power on in the spring.

We are preparing to provide the means for people in our community to avoid death by overdose in the midst of a silent plague of opioid addiction in this county that enslaves millions of people and devastates millions more and costs billions of dollars each year. This parish has provided a priest to pray over and share the communion of this parish with the dying last night, and to comfort the living as they begin both their anticipating the grief of the passing of a loved one.

In other words, we have been not just a beacon of Christ’s love, but a beacon of the freedom and abundance that Christ lived and died and rose again among us to embody and to model.

Now imagine if St. Martin’s was not here. The world, my friends, would not just tick on, unnoticing. Instead, there would be an enormous void throughout this area. And in our own lives.

Each one of those ways we help our community around us is an offer of empathy, independence, and most importantly freedom with our joyful, generous accompaniment alongside them. Not out of a sense of superiority but out of a recognition that we are all equally beloved in the sight of God. This parish is a living witness to the actual real, LIBERATING love of God in a world that spends 99% of its time trying to divide, oppress, and impoverish the majority in the service of a few who then benefit with the hoarding of wealth and power.

A world whose modus operandi is TAKING from others rather than giving to others. A system that actually fears the growth of generosity and empathy for fear of people realizing the liberating power and the joyful sense of freedom that God’s love in action in the world offers.

We stand as witness to the power of freedom—real freedom. Not the freedom to oppress, or grab at the expense of others. But the freedom and flourishing that love, compassion, repentance, and forgiveness bring. The freedom that comes from believing that there not only is enough, there is MORE than enough among us.

In our gospel passage today, Jesus is concerned with helping his followers live a life embued with grace, but even more importantly, with freedom.

Peter’s question that opens our gospel reading today should be relatable to most of us. Peter wants to know what the limit is. He wants to know what is the least he can do when someone has wronged him. He wants to know when he is let off the hook if someone continually injures him.

He starts—like most of us—in thinking about times when he has been the injured party. Yet how would the question change if we approached it from the position of the transgressor? “Lord, how many times should my brother, sister, or friend forgive me?”

Do we want the answer then just to be only seven?

I am certain that I could pile up seven offenses against my loved ones in a very short amount of time. When we are on the giving end, we like to limit our obligation. When we are on the receiving end, we want a never-ending stream.

But life together in this parish of St. Martin’s reminds us again and again that the “least we can do” is basically the same as doing nothing, the same as standing by a burning house with a fire hose and refusing to turn it on because we are worried about the water bill.

We are called to embody the grace of compassion, mercy, community, and forgiveness because we ourselves have received it without limit. That’s who God is. God never gives up on us or keeps tally when we fall short in our lives of living the completely loving, completely free way God created us to embody.

We all know apologizing sometimes seems to be harder than forgiveness in our culture. And that is exactly why using today’s gospel for self-reflection is so necessary. Because when we try to avoid apologizing, or when we refuse to forgive, we are chaining ourselves to the past. I ask you to think really hard about the last time you really forgave someone, yes, but also the last time you apologized and were forgiven.

Do you remember the sense of relief you felt in both instances? Do you remember the weight that was released from your shoulders and your heart, and the freedom you felt?

Yes, freedom. Yale professor theologian Miroslav Volf calls forgiveness “… a genuinely free act that “does not merely re-act,” forgiveness breaks the power of the remembered past … and so makes the spiral of vengeance grind to a halt. This is the social import of forgiveness.”[1] And that is true relief, and repair of our fragmented world. That is our path to true freedom. And it starts with loving and caring for each other as though we were a single body.

Because we are. What happens to anyone happens to all of us. That's another reason why forgiveness and repentance are vital Christian practices.

Forgiveness, and true repentance, are part of the gift of freedom Jesus pleads with us to accept. To use our own freedom to set real love in motion throughout our lives and the lives of our communities-- for our own flourishing, and, better, for the flourishing of others.

As we begin our program year and our annual pledge campaign, it is more important than ever that we step out of the paths in our past that have not served us well. The paths that have sought to find “the least we can do.” The paths that have convinced ourselves that this parish of St. Martin’s doesn’t really matter, and does not make a vital difference in the lives of literally hundreds of people each and every week of our 58 year existence. And the next 58 years in the future. And beyond.

We are, instead, called by God to embrace our freedom by seeing the world through the eyes and heart of abundance and grace. Of forgiveness and reconciliation. By pooling together our substantial resources to OWN our agency and our witness to the world that there IS enough. We are called to free ourselves from the fear of scarcity, and embrace the abundant freedom of securing our financial not just survival, but flourishing. For the life of the world. For the lives of our neighbors. For the lives of joy we all want and NEED to live.

And in that proclamation, to embrace the freedom of living in a way that matters, a way that gives purpose to each day because we know we are accomplishing real miracles and making a real difference in the world. And it starts by truly walking the path that the liberating love and forgiveness of God places before us. Starting now.

Amen.




Preached at the 10:30 Holy Eucharist at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO, on September 17, 2023.

Readings:
Genesis 50:15-21
Psalm 103:(1-7), 8-13
Romans 14:1-12
Matthew 18:21-35


Citations:
[1] Miroslav Volf, Exclusion and Embrace, Revised and Updated (pp. 121-122). Abingdon Press. Kindle Edition.

Watching, Waiting, Hoping: Sermon for Lent 5A

When I was about twelve, we went to San Diego, and my Mom took me to a beach in La Jolla that was a perfect little crescent moon. I had brought a mask along because I loved to look for shells as I swam, since the beach was usually picked over by the hundreds of people who had been there before me. And so the beach where we were was shallow, until it suddenly plunged to about ten feet deep, and that’s where the shells were, down past that plunge. So down I would go, and when I would find a treasure, I would swim back to shore and deposit it on my beach blanket. By the way, this was also about the time that my lifelong bitterness about men’s clothing having pockets when the corresponding attire for women had none was reinforced. It’s an injustice, I tell you!

But I digress. Anyway, back then, I also was really good at holding my breath—just like I am still holding my breath about those pockets. So at one point I was down scrounging along the bottom for shells, and I happened to look up, and noticed the waves rolling over me way over my head. I kind of sat and floated there for a while, watching those waves roll, seemingly inside-out, the play of light and shadow, all the different subtle shades of blue and gray spinning overhead. When I swam back to the surface, I saw my parents standing with a mixture of dread and fury on the beach. I guess I had stayed down there too long. They kept motioning for me to come back to shore, but I am no dummy and so I tried to give them some time to cool off before I got within spanking distance. They had been calling my name while I was down there, but I couldn’t hear them so far underwater. All I could hear was the rolling of the waves overhead—that and my own heartbeat.

The image of the waves rolling over your head is not always an image of comfort, I have to admit. For the ancient Israelites, who were a desert people and NOT a sea-faring people, the ocean was the place of chaos, disorder, danger-- the home of monsters like the Leviathan and that whale that gobbled Jonah up. The apostle Paul claimed to have been shipwrecked more than once during his missionary travels because he knew that would send a shiver down the spines of his audience, and prove how MUCH he had suffered in carrying the gospel all around on that treacherous, salty menace known as the Mediterranean Sea.

A few months after that experience at the beach, I first attended an Episcopal church. One of the things I first noticed when I began attending an Episcopal Church was the Book of Common Prayer. Even though there were Bibles right next to them in the pews (this being Oklahoma, after all, where “Bible Belt” is not just a phrase but a stating of the obvious), a goodly portion of the BCP was taken up with the inclusion of the entire psalter. It drove home to me the beautiful realization that the Psalter is the Prayer Book within the Prayer Book. And so this began a years-long fascination with the Psalter that continued today.

It is amazing what you see if you sit down and look at how the psalms are arranged. When you sit down and read the psalms in the psalter, you notice that often there are pairings within its pages. Psalm 1 and Psalm 2 go together, for instance, likewise Psalm 22 and 23, and also with Psalm 130 with Psalm 131.

Psalm 130 starts with a cry of distress and fear, but reminds us of this precious truth: mercy is part of the fabric of God. Ultimately, both this psalm and our gospel passage are about hearing: Does God hear us? And do we hear God?

Psalm 130 is a cry for help. And so I want you to imagine Martha and Mary praying that psalm as their brother falls ill, and as they send word to their treasured friend, Jesus. They are waiting like watchmen for the morning, certainly. And I believe they prayed this psalm knowing that God hears us and redeems us from death, from the breakers of death and suffering that roll over our heads especially in times of crisis and despair. But we have to be willing to wait, even while we are holding our breath as the waves seem to be crashing over us.

Tom Petty WAS right. The waiting is the hardest part.

That’s why this word is repeated four times at the center of this psalm.

Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.

What we hear in all our readings is the power of God’s voice, and the reminder of what amazing things can happen when we listen to God’s voice directed back at us. Jesus weeps at Lazarus’s grave, just as surely as God weeps alongside us when we despair or feel the waves breaking over our heads. God sees us loves each of us individually enough to speak words to us of forgiveness, of presence, of a new, better restored life to us—if only we will listen, and have faith. God’s voice is the power of resurrection in our own lives, calling us out of the tomb of hopelessness and fear.

The psalter reflects this same assurance. Take a look. Turn in your Books of Common Prayer to Psalm 131 later and see. Psalm 131 comes from a place of calm and security—the psalmist even goes so far as to envision themselves as a child upon its mother’s breast—one of the most obviously maternal images for God in the entire Bible. Where Psalm 130 begins with a cry as the waters rise over our heads, even by verse 3 we are reminded of the forgiveness that is intrinsic to God’s relationship with us and God’s self-disclosure to us.

If you consider the two psalms together, you will notice that Psalm 130 begins with the author’s own personal experience of anxiety and plea to God, followed by a reminder to himself of God’s justice and compassion, even though the word “feared” is used at the end of v. 3. In v. 4, the psalmist has moved to hope through verse 5. You can hear with wistful longing when the psalmist speaks of “my soul waits upon the Lord, more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning.”

The idea of “waiting upon the Lord” is one that I think especially resonates in this time of pandemic, anxiety, and fear. In Psalms for a Pilgrim People, Anglican priest Jim Cotter, whose work also was included in the beautiful New Zealand Prayer Book, rendered the psalms in verse. Psalm 130 was entitled “Watching and Waiting:”

Dare I enter the dark?

Empty, exhausted, and ravaged,
in the depths of despair I writhe.
Anguished and afflicted, terribly alone,
I trudge a bleak wasteland, devoid of all love.

In the echoing abyss I call out:
no God of Compassion hears my voice.
Yet still I pray, Open your heart,
for my tears well up within me.

If you keep account of all that drags me down,
there is no way I can ever stand firm.
Paralyzed and powerless, I topple over,
bound by the evil I hate.

But with you is forgiveness and grace,
there is nothing I can give - it seems like a death.
The power of your love is so awesome:
I am terrified by your freeing embrace.

Drawn from the murky deeps by a fishhook,
I shout to the air that will kill me:
must I leave behind all that I cherish
before I can truly breathe free?

Suspended between one world and the next,
I waited for you, my God.
Apprehension and hope struggled within me,
I waited, I longed for your word.

As a watchman waits for the morning,
through the darkest and coldest of nights,
more even than the watchman who peers through the gloom,
I hope for the dawn, I yearn for the light.

You will fulfill your promise to bring me alive,
overflowing with generous love.
You will free me from the grip of evil,
O God of mercy and compassion.

Touching and healing the whole of my being,
you are a God whose reach has no limit.
All that has been lost will one day be found:
the communion of the rescued will rejoice in your name. (1) 

This psalm, which begins “out of the depths,” is also ironically what is called “a psalm of ascents.” These were chanted by pilgrims as they climbed the steps to the Temple in Jerusalem. And fittingly, the movement starts from a low place and ends on a high place. We *may* be in the deep, with the water over our heads, but God is near, hears us, forgives us because God treasures each of us, and accompanies us.

The structure of the psalm is much like a liturgy: v. 1 is the invocation, vv. 2-3 are a confession and absolution. It is at verse 2 that we are reminded that God watches us, including “taking note of what is done amiss.” The absolution in v. 3 ends with the unfortunate choice of the word “feared” used in its original sense that we have completely lost. “Feared” in this context originally meant evoking a feeling of respect and awe. In vv. 4-5 we center ourselves in the presence of God, as in the heart of the liturgy—if we are really paying attention, if we are here not just to check off a box but to worship and praise. A watchman looks for morning because his shift on the fortifications is then done, the danger that lurks in the night is now driven back by the light of day, and the watchman anticipates home and bed after a job well done. In vv. 6-7, we too turn for home—not as individuals, but as a community that has just shared communion and reminded ourselves of our bonds with one another and with Christ. We leave, assured of God’s care for each of us and presence alongside us, offering us renewed and restored life sustained by faith.

Three things reside “with” Yahweh: forgiveness (v. 3), steadfast love (chesed, translated here as “plenteous redemption” in v. 7), and the power of redemption, also in v. 7. Redemption is a word we seem to skim over and take for granted in our worship and in our understanding of God’s forgiveness, so it bears emphasizing: to be redeemed is to be reclaimed, ransomed, restored to wholeness and home. It is to be a captive who has been freed from captivity—in this case, the captivity to sin to which we all are prone when left to our own desires and devices. These three qualities that dwell with God demand an ethical response from us, as we acknowledge and give abundant thanks for God’s redemption and restoration of us to new life.

First, we give thanks when we truly worship with our hearts and allow that worship to transform how we live in the world. That is what we are here for in the first place, after all. Second we share that gift of forgiveness and reconciliation with those we encounter rather than judging them, condemning them, or targeting them. I am convinced that right there is a word that needs to be preached to those struggling for power and control in our common life together outside these walls. As the writer Anne Lamott famously remarked, you can be pretty certain you have created God in your own image when God hates all the same people you do.

God not only hears us, God calls us to be honest that here are times when the waves crashing over our heads are waves of our own fashioning, as we fall subject to the temptation of sin—when we act hatefully toward marginalized groups in our society—or just remain silent as the powerful in the world perpetuate injustice and hatred in our names. So God calls us to listen for God’s voice of resurrection and redemption in our own lives—to listen, and to be formed and shaped by the ethic of abundant love, abundant life, and abundant grace that we ourselves receive.

When we hear that voice of forgiveness of resurrection, we can then feel the power of God’s loving call to us in everything we do, and we can then embrace the pure joy of Psalm 131. I share again Jim Cotter’s beautiful interpretation of Psalm 131, which he entitled “Calm and Contentment:”

Dear God, my heart is not proud,
nor are my eyes haughty.
I do not busy myself in great matters,
nor in what is beyond me.

I am glad I depend upon my neighbour,
I make no great claims of my own;
Sealed off by myself I would never know gifts,
never know the bonding of trust.

I have calmed in quiet and my whole being,
I am like a child contented at the mother's breast,
in the stillness I look into the eyes of my lover,
I am absorbed in the task of the moment.

It is like the silence of an evening in spring,
made intense by the bleat of a lamb.
It is like the waves of the sea come to rest,
no more than a whisper in the caress of the shore.

The silence and stillness lift the woodsmoke of prayer,
a song of quiet gratitude wafting it high.
Aware of descendants an ancestors with us,
we join the soft chorus of praise. (2)

Listen carefully. We are those dry bones, being restored to new hope and new life at just the word of God being spoken over us. We ARE Lazarus, beloved so much that Jesus weeps over us, drawing us forward in response to the loving call to us from the grave of our own fears and prejudices.

God’s dream for us is resurrection, redemption, and abundant life. All these things are there for us. All we have to do is listen. Listen, and come forth out of the tomb, our of the depths.

Preached at the 505 on March 25 and at the 10:30 Eucharist on March 26, 2023 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville.

Readings:

Ezekiel 37:1-14

Psalm 130

Romans 8:6-11

John 11:1-45

Citations:

1 and 2) Jim Cotter, Psalms for a Pilgrim People, kindle edition.

Two Before the Altar: Speaking to the Soul, October 20, 2022

“There is a crack in everything;
That’s how the light gets in.”—Leonard Cohen

The upright Pharisee, each hair in place, not a
Fringe on his tasseled loafers askew, stood
Before God’s altar and prayed to himself
Congratulations for his impeccable soul.
He knew what others thought of him.
His righteousness shone from his shoulders
Like epaulets- so certain was he of his goodness.
He checked the lock on the vault of his heart,
And nodded, satisfied. Nothing
In, nothing out, undisturbed. Shrugging deeper
Into the mantle of his own esteem,
Duty satisfied, he knew he was blessed.
Nothing had changed.

On trembling legs the tax-collector climbed the steps, aware
Of the eyes that turned his way, the stink of collusion
That clung to his fine clothes. He could still turn away,
But his heart urged him forward. No one
Expected to see him here in God’s courts,
And some sneered as he passed.
He knew what others thought of him.
Eyes downcast, he made himself small,
And beat his breast,
Pouring out his sins until his soul
Was an empty bowl, so thirsty was he for God’s mercy.
A spark of forgiveness lit the tinder
Of his heart. Cheeks wet, he resolved to turn.
In the new fire of grace and gratitude he was reclaimed.
Everything had changed.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on October 20, 2022.

Between Two Fires: Speaking to the Soul for April 28, 2022

John 21:1-19

 

Simon Peter’s head was swirling with thoughts, and his heart was churning with emotion. He needed to get away. So he decided to say he was going fishing overnight—and of course, half of the other apostles immediately jumped in, demanding to come too.

It was torture. All he wanted was to be left alone with his failures—but instead he spent all night listening to the chatter of his fellow-apostles, who didn’t seem to notice he wasn’t his usual, impulsive self.

All he could think of was the red glow of that coal fire, and the reflection of that glow in the faces all around him as he had denied again and again that he knew Jesus. And then the rooster had crowed, and his heart had sunk like a stone, and he had run away.

He would never forgive himself.

Jesus had made a terrible mistake in claiming that he, Simon Peter, could be the head of the group, the leader of the apostles. He couldn’t continue Jesus’s work in proclaiming the good news of Jesus! He couldn’t even stand up for what he believed standing on a side street with a bunch of strangers.

Dawn came and, on top of having to endure PEOPLE all night long in that little boat, they hadn’t caught a damn’ thing. It was hot, and it was still, and the beer had run out a long time ago. It was the perfect combination of conditions for someone determined to be miserable, and it almost gave Simon Peter a grim, black sense of satisfaction.

Then, just about dawn, some guy on the shore had started calling out advice—and if there’s one thing a fisherman can’t stand, it’s some yahoo giving advice from the comfort of shore. “Cast your net on the right side,” the stranger had called. Oh, sure, THAT must be the problem.

But they hauled the nets up, sorted and rolled them, and then cast them on the right side of the boat. For a moment, the nets just sunk out of view into the gloom. And then, when they started to haul it up, the resistance caused the boat suddenly to tilt to one side. As soon as they had shifted their weight to right it, John had yelled out that the guy on shore was Jesus. He sounded so sure that Simon Peter squinted hard at the stranger—and he recognized the slope of those shoulders.

Simon Peter’s heart leapt to his throat, and he did the only thing he could think of—he made himself presentable and jumped over the side. It seemed like it took just seconds to reach the shore. Dripping, he took the hand Jesus offered as he flopped through the rushes, but then dropped it like it was hot. He saw that coal fire, burning merrily, and remembered.

He had no right to expect anything other than condemnation. He had denied his Savior three times to save his own neck, and he deserved nothing more than to be cast out.

Instead, he got breakfast. Breakfast, and forgiveness. There between the white-hot memory of two fires, and three denials.

It is in the ordinary that the true miracle of Christ’s love plays itself out for us in each moment, whether of joy or sorrow. We too often live between the fires of our past failures and our current temptation to take the easy way still. Yet we have all been called, like Peter, to proclaim our discipleship—and all of us have had times where we have failed. But not a word of blame is spoken by Jesus to Simon Peter, or to us. Just a simple question: Do you love me? And then he feeds us, body and soul.

Each time Jesus asks, one of Simon Peter’s three denials is blotted out. “Do you love me?” Jesus asks again and again, even though he already knows the answer.

“Do you love me?” Jesus asks us right now. Yes? Then let down your nets, and gather all you can. Draw the world to Jesus in your words and actions, and in your love most of all. Don’t worry about being overwhelmed, or about the net breaking. The net of faith is strong enough to hold everyone. Don’t worry about your own failures and shortcomings and doubts—know that you are beloved of Jesus, beloved, and worthy, and called.

“Do you love me?” Jesus asks us right now. Yes? Then let down your nets, and gather all you can. Draw the world to Jesus in your words and actions, and in your love most of all. Don’t worry about being overwhelmed, or about the net breaking. The net of faith is strong enough to hold everyone. Don’t worry about your own failures and shortcomings and doubts—know that you are beloved of Jesus, beloved, and worthy, and called.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on April 28, 2022.

Coming Home to God: Sermon for Lent 4C

Chapter 15 of Luke’s gospel begins with two other stories right before our gospel passage: the parable of the lost sheep, and the parable of the lost coin:

4‘Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? 5When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. 6And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, “Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.” 7Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who need no repentance.

8 ‘Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? 9When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, “Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.” 10Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.’

The eliminated stories make very clear that all three parables are about rejoicing when the lost is found—for relationships that are restored. The application for our behavior then also has to do with rejoicing over the one who has repented instead of judging them and refusing to forgiven for their mistakes. These stories are about accepting repentance freely, rather than demanding punishment from those who have done wrong so that they “earn” forgiveness.

I think too often when we hear this parable, and many other parables, we want God’s “justice” to mirror human “justice.” And the human “justice system” is not about reforming people; it’s not about reconciling those who have hurt others to those they have hurt. It’s simply about punishing wrongdoers. It’s about responding to the lost coin by locking the remaining one’s into a tighter grip. It’s about writing off the lost sheep as collateral damage. But God’s justice is NEVER about punishment, which is something we all can be grateful for if we acknowledge how God’s grace has worked in our own lives.

We hear three parables in quick succession of seeking and restoring precisely because Jesus is insisting that God is a seeker and a restorer, NOT a punisher.

The younger son has demanded the portion of his inheritance that would have gone to him—when his father died. The outrageous implication here is that he is not willing to wait and work to inherit, but is willing to break up his father’s estate and household in order to live according to his will rather than by his Father’s.

The younger son goes to a distant country—one where there is no sense of obligation to each other, the kind of obligation that is at the heart of the Great Commandment to love God and each other no matter if you know that other person or not. In this country to which the younger son travels there is no concept of living by a covenant of grace, as the laws of the Torah and the New Testament demand. In that place there was no command to love your neighbor. In that place there was no obligation to care for the widow, the orphan, or the poor. In that place there was no concern for the oppressed. As long as you have plenty of resources, you can cruise along. Sounds like the world in which WE live right now. And it’s a place of the heart rather than a particular geographical place. It’s a place where people deny the universal need of all of us for the grace of God.

The older son refuses to enter and resents the feast for the younger son because he is eaten up with the idea that junior has gotten away with something. Yet the father, when he pleads with the elder son to join the feast, assures him that it isn’t going to cost him anything to be glad his brother is back and not dead. I mean, remember, he’s turning down a FEAST. And it will cost him nothing to come in and be glad his brother is still alive, is still capable of redemption.

Nothing but his pride. Nothing but his hard heart.

You know, there’s a reason why there is a common saying, “There but for the grace of God go I.” Instead of being grateful for the fact he has NOT been through what his brother has, instead of being reassured that the same rules of forgiveness and abundant mercy apply to him, he wants to tear down the bonds of love, so sure is he that he will never himself need help.

There’s a name for that. It’s called self-righteousness. And self-righteousness poisons the person who wraps themselves in it. It causes us to be lost in a foreign land of our own bitterness, our own resentment, our own pain where we tell ourselves we have no need for God’s grace, that grace is a safety net only for sinners—forgetting that all sin and fall short of the right relationship with God and their neighbor. We all do.

No, we certainly are all prodigals. We are extravagant when spending our emotional and even spiritual currency on ourselves, rather than realizing that all we have belongs to God. And that leads not to happiness and contentment, much less real joy. It leads, as we see with both sons, to despair, bitterness, ruin.

Notice that with both sons, the parent, who could simply demand obedience, instead goes to them. To the wayward younger son, who has been physically lost, his parent even RUNS to greet him before he is halfway up the street. To the bitter older son, he leaves the feast and pleads with him for a change of heart, from demanding that someone else be punished to being grateful that the same generous, amazing grace and mercy his brother is visibly receiving now is always there for him too. To both sons, the parent offers his love, his assurance to them of how precious they are to him.

But what if the important point is that no matter how far we stray from God, God is always more than willing to call us back, and will start toward already from the halfway point. We don’t have to be able to take the whole journey ourselves, with God as some sort of immovable wall to be scaled. 

No, God’s abundant lovingkindness and grace meets us more than halfway and always calls us to return no matter how truculent we are. St. Augustine claims we are born with a space in our heart that only God can fill—and that we keep searching until we find it. Sometimes, like the kids in Willy Wonka we try to fill that space with other things, cheap substitutes that do not fill our need for connection but instead feed our greed and fears. They will never satisfy. When people have fallen into that kind of thinking, there will NEVER be enough. We see it all the time in our public discourse.

Our hearts are placed in the center of our bodies for efficiency when we think of them as mere pumps. But our spiritual hearts are placed in the center of our bodies to remind us that what is on the surface means little.

Both sons have an affliction of their hearts—their hearts are turned toward themselves rather than outward toward love of God and love of each other. The same affliction that shapes the world in which we live right now. But the cure begins small—one heart at a time. In our own hearts. As former Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams states:

It is not that I have a long journey to undertake in order to get to God, but that I have a long journey to my own reality. It is my heart, the centre or source of my own being, that is furthest away from my surface mind and feelings, and pilgrimage is always a travelling to where I am. . . . God is not merely, like the Prodigal’s Son’s father, on the way to us: he is there at the heart. Or: he travels to meet himself in what is always other, eager to recognize his own joy and beauty in the distinctness of what is not God’s self. However we put it—there are countless ways—God’s loving kindness is there ahead of us. Forgiveness is never a matter of persuading God of something but of discovering for myself that there is no distance to be crossed, except that longest journey to that which gives truth and reality to my very self.

What if we heard this story as a story of gratitude for unearned forgiveness? What if we paid attention to the JOY that the finder expresses in each of those three parables, instead of focusing on the bitter whispers of others who expect God to balance out punishment to everyone else on some great heavenly balance sheet so that they can feel better about themselves?

Some of us identify with the younger brother: we have all done thoughtless things. Some of us identify with the father, especially if we have ever thought we lost someone or something precious only to have the joy of restoration take the place of our anticipatory grief. Some of us identify with the older brother, and resent the heck out of anyone who gets a second chance when we think they don’t deserve it.

As you know, I have also been including poetry in our adult forum classes, and while doing my reading, I discovered what is considered to be one of the shortest poems in the English language, so short its title is longer than the poem itself. It is attributed to George MacDonald, called “The Shortest and Sweetest of Songs.” Here it is:

Come.
Home.

As we prepare for the easing of restrictions from these long months of COVID precautions, I hope you hear the promise of the two most beautiful words that lie under our gospel selection from Luke. Those two words were probably in the heart of the father every day his son was gone.

Those two words also have a very practical component in our church life right now, too. As we find a new normal, rather than mourn or resent what we’ve done without, let’s return stronger and more resolute than ever to holding fast to these precious relationships that feed us. Let’s join hands, and give thanks for the amazing grace of those two words: Come Home. Let’s say them to each other, and invite those we know into the warmth and welcome of this place and the knowledge and love of God in Christ.

But as we look over the long journey of the last two years, even when we have felt isolated or alone, remember that God has been beside you, supporting you and reminding you of the abundant, tender care God lavishes upon us, in times of joy and also, even though we might need to reach through the anxiety or numbness, in times of trial.

And all along, we have each other. And as long as we have that, we can hold fast to each other, and return to living into ways old and new that we remain bound within each others’ lives.

Come as you are. Come home to yourself, and the amazing gift of God’s grace and mercy that upholds each and every one of us no matter our circumstances.

Come home.

Preached at the March 26 505 and the March 27 10:30am Eucharist (in person and online) at St. Martin's Episcopal Church in Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Prayer, day 2853- Lord's Prayer Cycle: As We Forgive Those Who Have Sinned Against Us

Our Father in heaven, 

loving Parent and Creator,
tender Mother,
strengthen us and soften our hearts,
for You call us to forgive others as much as You forgive us.

Help us let go of anger and resentment
when we have been wronged,
and nurture understanding
in place of feeding the weeds of rage.
Help us to understand
that all are wounded and in need of healing,
including ourselves.
Help us to lower our defenses
and not impugn the motives of those we love,
and remember they love us.
Help us to judge only as harshly
as we ourselves wish to be judged,
and no more.

For You are our loving God,
and You forgive us repeatedly when we fail You.
Teach us that in bearing grudges
we grip a weight that will sink us,
and when harboring anger
we risk loss in a sea of recrimination.

Let us embrace those who seek our pardon,
and repair mutual injury
with the balm of Love that never fails.
O Loving One, hear our prayers
and grant your benediction and grace
to those whose needs we now raise before You.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2852: The Lord's Prayer Cycle, 4: Forgive Us Our Sins

Our Father in heaven,

loving Parent and Creator,

tender Mother,
we thank You for your forgiveness
of our manifold sins.

Again and again You call to us
when we have wandered from your ways,
and stubbornly separate ourselves from your Love.
We repent of the evil we have done,
the evil that is done on our behalf,
and the very real hurt we have caused.

Forgive us when we place our selves
as an idol in the sanctuary of our hearts,
which should be dedicated to worship of You alone,
O Redeemer.

Help us to acknowledge the sins done
because we do not try to prevent them,
and arouse in us the will to take action.

Teach us that the root of righteousness and salvation
is found in fully opening our hearts
to each other and to You.

Help us clothe ourselves
and our motives
in charity and obedience, O Christ.
Help us direct our wills
to the establishment of justice and peace.

Come into our hearts, O Spirit,
and guide us in matters great and small,
for your Love heals all our woundedness.

O Loving One, hear our prayers
and grant your benediction and grace
to those whose needs we now raise before You

All Apologies: Sermon for Proper 19A

As a Christian, as especially as a preacher, I always approach this reading with a good dose of fear and trepidation. I have had people attempt to use this injunction against me—and I bet you may have too. You know what I am talking about—the person who knows that as a Christian we are supposed to forgive, and when they have knowingly done wrong, perfunctorily apologize and demand forgiveness.

Now maybe you can go ahead and forgive them—but unless their request for forgiveness is back up by a turning away from the habit or action that caused the initial injury, the relationship cannot be fully reconciled. 

To be very clear: Jesus does not expect us to deliberately place ourselves at the mercy of those who abuse us or even just take advantage of our good graces. Asking forgiveness is not a get-out-of-jail-free card. Asking forgiveness without being willing to make amends and to name specifically what one has done does nothing to actually create a spirit of reconciliation.

And let’s face it. We live in an era where the non-apology has become an art form. 

Apologizing makes one vulnerable—even sometimes legally vulnerable. 

People try to wriggle out of apologizing so that they won’t be seen as being at fault. 

Some examples include, for starters, anything with “I’m sorry” followed by “but,” “if,” or “that you….” Such as

1. “I’m sorry if you were hurt.” This is called a “conditional apology.” It can be used to gaslight the person who was hurt by suggesting that the wrong didn’t really happen. And speaking of gaslighting, there’s

2. “You know I would never…” Nothing to see here folks! Didn’t happen. Why are you so sensitive?

3. “I’m sorry that you…” This is called a "blame-shifting apology"—it puts the onus on the person hurt and evades making the wrongdoer the subject of the sentence.

4. “I’m sorry, but ...” This is the “excuse-making apology.” It is worse than saying nothing at all.

5. “Mistakes were made…” Nice "passive voice" non-apology there. Mistakes just sprung up out of nowhere!

6. “I regret that you were injured…” This so-called “side-stepping apology” is also terribly passive voiced.

7. “I guess I should apologize…” Also known as a “phantom apology,” it also never actually apologizes AND is self-delusional while also trying to inject doubt into the admission of fault.

8. “If anyone was offended by my behavior, I apologize.” This one seems to be a favorite of politicians. What does that even mean? If no one was offended, I got away with it? There’s even a great word for this one: the “ifpology.”

9. “I was just… (kidding, trying to help, etc.) This is known as a “self-justifying apology.”

10. “The Devil made me do it/I am not that person” which shifts blame onto, no kidding, Satan, The Prince of Darkness, Lord of Hell. This was an actual excuse used most recently by an Arkansas sheriff recently who was caught using repeated and disgusting racial slurs in a tirade. This is the "demonic possession" non-apology, I guess.

Apologizing sometimes seems to be harder than forgiveness in our culture. And that is exactly why using today’s gospel for self-reflection is so necessary.

We are always interested in mercy, as long as those receiving mercy have not harmed us personally. But, as we discussed last week, the far more difficult thing to do is to get our own house in order and forgive those who hurt us, even when they do it repeatedly. Some other scriptural reminders that this has been true throughout cultures and throughout time:

“Do not be so confident of forgiveness

that you add sin to sin.” (Ecclesiasticus 5:5)

Yet a common misperception is that the verses we’ve been hearing about forgiveness and reconciliation have only to do with approaching the offender. Jesus is advocating care for both the offender and the injured party.

Jesus calls us to forgive, and to remember that we ourselves have been unconditionally forgiven by both God and others in our lives. But forgiveness does not take away the original injury. And one of the great sicknesses in American society is a lack of empathy for others—an ability to discount or deny the validity of others’ suffering and pain. In the places in our own lives where we have hurt others, an illustration I like to use is that of a piece of paper, fresh out of the package. If you wad up the piece of paper, no matter how much you try to flatten it out, it will always bear the mark of having been crumpled. Even when you say “Sorry” to the paper, it will never be the same.

Peter’s question that opens our gospel reading today should be relatable to most of us. Peter wants to know what the limit is. He wants to know when he is let off the hook if someone continually injures him. He starts—like most of us—in thinking about times when he has been the injured party. Yet how would the question change if we approached it from the position of the transgressor? “Lord, how many times should my brother, sister, or friend forgive me?” Do we want the answer then just to be only seven? I am certain that I could pile up seven offenses against my loved ones in a very short amount of time. When we are on the giving end, we like to limit our obligation. When we are on the receiving end, we want a never-ending stream.

This gospel message calls us into something that is uncomfortable for many of us—reflection. In our busy lives, this is hard for us. It hurts if we have either been terribly hurt by someone who has not sought reconciliation. But it is FAR WORSE if we ourselves are the ones who have wronged someone and we have not sought not just forgiveness but reconciliation. 

And that’s the thing—we are pretty apt to view forgiveness from the perspective of the person who has been hurt. But we also have erred. 

We’ve been bad friends. 

We have betrayed confidences, or said something unkind behind someone’s back, or lied, or cheated. 

We have cut people out of our lives when they were too much trouble, or became too needy, or just when their friendship just became inconvenient. 

It’s important to go back through this gospel and look at from the perspective of one who has hurt others either by what we have done, or by what we have remained silent about—what we have refused to acknowledge. Jesus here is not just calling us to forgive, but more importantly, is calling us to examine ourselves.

This is a daunting task indeed—impossible for any individual. To try to live a life based on the determination to forgive as is described here would require help. That’s when we remember that these instructions Jesus gives us are addressed to the community of faith—to the Church. We are reminded of the communal nature of this commitment to forgiveness every time we say the Lord’s Prayer together at worship and repeat, “Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.”

Because we have been fasting from Eucharist in this time of pandemic, it has been a long while since we have said the Lord’s Prayer together. But there’s another prayer we do say that reminds us that forgiveness is a two way street. Thinking about forgiveness from the perspective of the person who has been sinned against is easy. Thinking about forgiveness from the perspective of being the person who has harmed others is harder—our tendency is to flinch from that, or deny our fault altogether.

Yet anyone who denies that they hurt others is dangerously fooling themselves. As the Church, we are called to the work of discipleship—by both reaching out to the world to share the good news of Jesus, but also by holding each other accountable. By naming sin as SIN, and not just an “accident.” Everyone sins. Everyone has things for which they need to atone—both for the sake of the person they have hurt, and for their own sakes. Thinking you have nothing to apologize for is the mark of a narcissist.

So how DO we apologize? By acknowledging that sin exists both individually and systematically. Listen to the words of the Confession we often say this service. We often say it together in a block, it’s hard to see how much is being said here. Let’s look at it on page 12 of our service leaflet together:

"Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. We are truly sorry and we humbly repent. For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ, have mercy on us and forgive us; that we may delight in your will, and walk in your ways, to the glory of your Name."

What does this mean? Let’s take it apart.

“Most merciful God,” -- we are reminded that God’s very being exudes mercy and grace.

“We confess that we have sinned against you”—We confess. Together. And we confess that each time we have sinned, we have harmed our relationship with God who calls us to be a new creation in Christ.

“in thought, word, and deed,”—Our sins start even in our intentions and snap judgments inside our heads, that little sarcastic silent running commentary no one usually hears, and includes even careless words as well as deliberate choice.

“by what we have done,” -- these are known as “sins of commission;” we did something that hurt someone else.

“and by what we have left undone.”—This is actually an important point to understand. By failing to act or refusing to acknowledge the hurt even our passive acceptance or support of a wrong, we sin. And the excuse of “that’s just the way it is” doesn’t excuse us.

“We have not loved you with our whole heart;” -- this refers to the ancient Jewish statement of belief, the Shema Yisrael found in Deuteronomy, that promise to love the Lord your God with all your heart, your strength, and your mind.

“we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.”—this ties to the Great Commandment that we have discussed several times recently. We should love those around us and care for them as if we were caring for our very own self.

“We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.” – No dodging. Just acceptance of blame and a determination to turn from the path of sin and being the cause of pain for others. In the Greek, it’s called metanoia—the turning to repentance.

“For the sake of your Son Jesus Christ, have mercy on us and forgive us;”-- We are God’s children alongside Jesus, and as children seek reconciliation.

“that we may delight in your will,”—Love does not insist on its own way, but delights in the wellbeing of the beloved. Likewise, God’s will for us is our full flourishing. If we look at it this way rather than as “submission"—a word that scares far too many, we will DELIGHT in making God’s will our own.

“and walk in your ways,”-- As disciples it is not own way, but the way of Love as revealed in Jesus that we are called to emulate.

“to the glory of your Name. Amen.”-- Our actions as professed Christians should bring glory to God- Our lives should be our most powerful testimony to God’s goodness. And “Amen” signals our full-bodied assent to this new creation God is calling us to be, seeking forgiveness and reconciliation with all.

This willingness to apologize and turn aside from holding grudges is anything but bad news! No! This is the way of freedom. The way of compassion and empathy for others, that hopefully will lead us to be more mindful in our care of each other and faithfulness to God. In this way, we are given new life in Christ, and renewal of the bonds of community which are more important now than ever.

Amen.

Preached at the 10:30 am worship service at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO on September 13, 2020

Readings:

Exodus 14:19-31
Psalm 114 
Romans 14:1-12
Matthew 18:21-35

Citations:

1) Top image is Forgiveness © Jan Richardson. Used by permission from janrichardson.com.

Prayer, day 2787: Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Lord Christ, you called us to forgive from our hearts,
without reservation:
lead us to reconciliation with
and empathy for each other.

Open our hearts to acknowledge
the wrongs we do each other each day
and grant us the courage
to treat each other with love and compassion.

May we repent of the barriers we erect
within our hearts and minds
against those different from us.

May we forgive each other
for the times we have exploited each other
or denied your goodness
in those we have judged less worthy.

As we gather in worship today, O God,
remind us of your call to love
and the grace You freely bestow upon us.

May we reflect that mercy back into our communities,
examine our faults
and acknowledge our sins,
and work to heal our divisions.

Teach us to support each other
as we all seek our way
that we may grow and learn in faith.

Gather us in one fellowship,
nourished by Christ,
sharing one bread and one cup
lifting up each other's cares as we pray together.

Amen.

Prayer 2614

God of Grace,
we ask for your guidance this day,
for your ways are the ways of life and light,
and your wisdom is woven into the fabric of the world.
May we praise you without ceasing,
and ever remember that you are alongside us,
O Shepherd of Our Souls.
Help us to care for one another,
upholding each other's dignity and worth
as members of the Body of Christ.
Drive far from us all wrong desires,
and give us the courage 
to make amends for all the wrongs we have done, O Savior.
Spread the awning of your mercy
over all who cry out to You, Lord,
and anoint those in need or peril
with the blessings of your comfort and peace.

Amen.

Prayer 2566: Praying for those who hate us

Caligula, Emperor of Rome for four bloody debauched years, 37-41 CE.

Precious Savior, we rise and praise You
for the gift of this new day,
for the wonders of your grace 
and the glory of your creation.

Holy One of Blessing,
pour out your spirit over us
that we may be molded and shaped by your love,
just as the western wind caresses the hills and plains,
shaping them like clay
upon the inexorable wheel of time.

In obedience to your gospel, Lord Christ,
may we resist the forces of division and hatred,
and pray for our enemies and those that hate us,
even as they reject your commandments
in derision and contempt.
May we never lose heart
as they cling to their throne of lies
and sow the twisted seeds of fear and prejudice.

Instead, may we be empowered by your love
to tear down the edifices of falsehood
that divide us and weaken us
when we lose sight of your promises
and are led astray by fear instead for love.

May we never make our peace with the sacrilege
that denies the goodness from which you formed us all,
that resists the love you breathed into our spirits,
but be united in our desire to stand alongside each other in Your Name.

As we long for your kingdom,
and for the sake of your truth,
may the hearts of all those who overflow with malice
instead be converted by your grace,
and brought into your fold, O Shepherd of the Lost.

And now, O God and Hope of the Fallen,
place us securely within the shelter of your mercy,
and stretch out your hand of comfort and peace
over all those needs we humbly lay before You.

Amen.

Prayer 2464: Lord's Prayer Cycle Prayer 5: As We Forgive Those Who Have Sinned Against Us

Our Father in heaven, 
loving Parent and Creator, 
tender Mother, 
strengthen us and soften our hearts,
for You call us to forgive others as much as You forgive us. 

Help us let go of anger and resentment 
when we have been wronged, 
and nurture understanding 
in place of feeding the weeds of rage. 
Help us to understand 
that all are wounded and in need of healing, 
including ourselves. 
Help us to lower our defenses 
and not impugn the motives of those we love, 
and remember they love us. 
Help us to judge only as harshly 
as we ourselves wish to be judged, 
and no more. 

For You are our loving God, 
and You forgive us repeatedly when we fail You. 
Teach us that in bearing grudges 
we grip a weight that will sink us, 
and when harboring anger 
we risk loss in a sea of recrimination. 

Let us embrace those who seek our pardon, 
and repair mutual injury 
with the balm of Love that never fails. 
O Loving One, hear our prayers 
and grant your benediction and grace 
to those whose needs we now raise before You.

Amen.



Image from Medium.com