Prayer 4292

On this crisp morning,
let my heart sing a song of gratitude,
that I may like with eyes of wonder
upon this world of delicate beauty
your fingers have woven, O my God.

Let me sing out
the praise of your encompassing lovingkindness
sustaining all that is
in each moment.

Holy One, Shepherd of Our Souls,
guide us into deeper knowledge of you
and grant us the wisdom to live in love and faithfulness
with purity of heart and intention.

In your abundant compassion,
spread the awning of your mercy
over those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Home Among the Weeds: Speaking to the Soul May 25, 2023

At our former home

my beloved disliked
our Rose of Sharon trees—
he likened them to weeds.

Yet I am convinced
that it is always the “weeds”
that provide the most refuge
without asking anything in return.

In five minutes,
I watched six hummingbirds
zoom around the blossoms
as they jockeyed for a chance
at each unfurling blossom.

I watched cardinals
and Carolina wrens fight
over the ripening grape clusters
from the vine
that is supported by not one but two trees
along our fence.

I watched butterflies—
humble little skippers,
but also hairstreaks, fritillaries,
swallowtails,
and oh my God, even a monarch,
once so ubiquitous
but now almost as surprising to see
as a Bengal tiger.

Even on my deck I could hear
the thrum of probably thirty bumble bees
hovering like tugboats from blossom to bloom,
staying aloft
only God knows how.

We owe our lives
to the “weeds” of this world,
to their humble welcome
and hospitality,
anchoring the chain of life.

Is that not beautiful?

--This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 25, 2023.

The God of Green Pastures: Speaking to the Soul, April 27, 2023

Let me give thanks and praise to God,

my Shepherd and Provider,
who claims and unfailingly loves me as God’s own.
I lay all my trust at the feet of the Almighty,
Lover and Seeker of my soul.

The One Who Sees leads me into verdant, abundant pastures
filled with all I need, and gives me rest and security.
God restores and refreshes my soul,
tending and guarding my inmost being.
My Shepherd sees my weariness, and lifts me up;
guiding me in right pathways,
that I bring honor to God’s Name.

Searcher of the Heart, You shield me with your strength and vigilance;
may I always remain at your side.
No matter what terrors or trials approach me,
I am not afraid
for You,
Emmanuel,
are with me, even if death overhangs me.

Maker of Peace, You provide for me plentifully and exalt me,
even as my enemies look on,
helpless to harm me.
You have consecrated me
and blessed me abundantly,
and the cup of my blessings overflows
like a spring in the desert.

O God That Formed Me, your promise to love me
envelops me in goodness and mercy,
following me as my companions throughout my life.
I am secure as a child in God’s arms,
and my home is with you forever,
even into eternity.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on April 27, 2023.

Praise Now: Speaking to the Soul, December 1, 2022

Inspired by Caedmon’s Hymn

O God the Maker, whose creation brings forth stuttering praises of awe and wonder
from the untutored tongues of your children,
our hearts overflow now with your marvelous love.

Holy One, you weave the silken tapestry of heaven,
glorious to drink in and refresh our faith,
spread overhead like the canopy of a mighty oak
drawn anew to contemplate the depth of your wisdom.

Our feet firmly planted among the grasses,
our eyes lifted to the spangled expanse
of the roof of the world You have made, World-Warden;
we stretch heavenward like tender saplings.

You have fashioned this Earth as our home,
and made it holy by the work of your fingers
for all to rejoice in your bounty.

Gratitude and wonder are the foundation of our prayer,
surging up like a spring of water from our souls.

And now, O Creator,
gather our swirling thoughts
within the bounds of your mercy,
and grant your blessing upon us,
and all who turn their hearts to your light.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, December 1, 2022.

Benedicite Missouri: Speaking to the Soul, November 10, 2022

All praise and blessing to our Creator,
   who tenderly shapes and sustains us:
O praise and glorify our God
   whose love tenderly nourishes us forever!

You constellations, meteor showers, and galaxies; sun and moon and clouds,
Sparkling Milky Way dancing overhead in velvet night:
give to your Creator your thanks and praise.

Father of Waters, rivers and streams, prairie, glade, and grassland,
Wetlands and forest, karst and cavern, limestone and chert:
give to your Creator your thanks and praise.

Shortleaf pine, pawpaw and hickory, canoe birch and cypress,
Redbud and dogwood blazing pink and white in spring joy:
give to your Creator your thanks and praise.

Sweet flag and cranesbill; brittle and crested shield ferns,
Dogtooth and birdsfoot violets carpeting the ground in beauty:
give to your Creator your thanks and praise.

Big Bluestem, foxglove and bluebells nodding in wind-kissed woods,
Little star moss, chantarelles and morels hidden like treasure underfoot:
give to your Creator your thanks and praise.

Sapsuckers and screech owls, kestrels and turkey vultures tracing the sky,
Waxwings in cedars, indigo buntings flashing electric blue:
give to your Creator your thanks and praise.

Swallowtails and monarchs, tiger moths and sulphurs warming your wings in sunlight,
Commas and fritillaries nectaring in coneflower fields, bats wheeling at dusk:
give to your Creator your thanks and praise.

Crayfish and mussel; painted mudbug, hellbender and harlequin darter shyly hiding,
Bluegill and bowfin; mudpuppy and milksnake; spring peeper and bullfrog dueting:
give to your Creator your thanks and praise.

Bobcat and coyote; mink, muskrat, and red-eared slider in sheltering riverbank,
Red fox and opossum, white-tailed deer leaping ravines:
give to your Creator your thanks and praise.

Children of the Middle Waters, Illiniwek, O-Gah-Pah, Jiwere, and Nutachi,
Farmers and businesspeople; parents and children; kindred united in this beautiful land
give to your Creator your thanks and praise.

Let all who breathe and live and turn their faces to the sun bless our Creator,
   Whose wisdom weaves us together as one family,
Joined together in mutual gratitude and sustenance:
   O praise and glorify our God
   whose love tenderly nourishes us forever!

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul, November 10, 2022.

Prayer 3334: On the First Full Day of Spring

O God,
as Earth turns in wakefulness
from the slumber of winter
to the rising dawn of spring,
as geese arrow southward overhead,
we too turn our thoughts to home,
the sunlit home we offer us in your kingdom.

Help us gather
beneath your shining countenance.

Help us sing out your love;
let halting harmonies
become intricate tapestries of grateful praise,
for your love is steadfast and true.

May we release the stones of our cares
in the deep well of your abundant grace,
casting all our burdens
upon the promise of your mercy and care.
Teach us to walk in paths of compassion
to share from the bounty we have received
of charity, forgiveness, and holy wisdom.

O God,
cast your finest net beneath our seeking hearts
that we may be gathered when our way turns to wandering
as we long to be drawn
within the sheltering wing of your loving-kindness,
and extend your sheltering hand
beneath those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Giving A Fig-- Sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent, Year C

I suspect that I am not alone in having some questions after that gospel reading, yes? Here are a few that jump out at the outset: What was the incident about the Galileans and the Tower at Siloam? (Answer: No one knows for sure—see below for an hypothesis. But Pilate, for all that he gets treated gently in the gospels for political purposes, was a ruthless despot who would stop at nothing to maintain power, more of a Putin than a reluctant crucifier.)

And in the second half: Why would a landowner plant a fig tree in a vineyard? No, really. It’s like planting asparagus in a hothouse meant for orchids.

But we’ll get back to that. About those tragedies: There are very few historical accounts to support this story, but apparently a group of Galilean men had been worshipping at the altar in Jerusalem, and they had been killed by Roman soldiers, supposedly at the command of Pilate. Their blood had then splashed against the altar, profaning it by mixing human blood with the animal blood that was sprinkled against it ritually. Also around that same time, several pilgrims were killed while worshipping at the Temple when a tower near the pool of Siloam fell on them. What is the point of bringing this up? Two possibilities: those questioning Jesus may want him to explain how bad things happen to good people, or they may be testing Jesus to see if he will denounce Pilate—and thus place himself openly in opposition to Rome.

The fact is, Pilate gets a pass here in this account too—for entirely prudent but political reasons, the gospel writers went out of their way not to blame Rome for anything lest they increase persecution on Christians by the powerful Roman empire, which had just crushed the Jewish people and destroyed the Temple by the time the very first Christian scriptures were written.

But our puzzlement also brings to mind a fact about human nature: there are so many catastrophes and incidents of evil and suffering that a great many of them occur out of our line of sight—even without a twenty-four hour a day news cycle that moves at the speed of the internet. And that same news cycle makes its money by overemphasizing terrible tragedies to drive audience size and advertising dollars. “If it bleeds, it leads,” goes the saying.

As we see civilians and maternity hospitals being targeted in the Russian invasion of Ukraine right now in March 2022, we certainly can admit that this question of why some would wonder why “God” allows such evil to be at the forefront of our minds. “There’s a problem here!” people of good conscience shout. “Why doesn’t God do something?”

In modern times, the Holocaust and other mass tragedies, the question still echoes—and becomes an accusation against God even by those who claim no belief in God. Too often tragedies befall the good, either through the evil agency of other humans or through natural disasters and accidents. Ukraine is an example of this and takes its place in a long, terrible roll call of the 20th century: The Tulsa Race Massacre in the midst of four centuries of lynchings, the Turkish slaughter of Armenians, Stalinism, the genocides of Pol Pot and Idi Amin, Romania, the AIDS epidemic, the breakup of Yugoslavia, Hurricane Katrina, the Boxing Day Tsunami, September 11….. on and on and on.

We ask that question because we don’t like the more honest question. God, out of love for us and respect for the gifts given us, deliberately chooses to limit God’s power to give us free will, and God made this planet with all its natural processes. When human free will causes terrible human evil, like in almost every example I cited earlier, the question isn’t “Why doesn’t God do something?” The question is “Why don’t WE do something?” Even natural disasters like earthquakes—and pandemics—may originate in nature, but can be made worse by human refusal to do what we can to alleviate suffering—look at climate change for an example of that. “Why don’t WE do something?” And we don’t like that question, at all. Never have, never will. So we blame God.

The ancient Jews, and I include Paul in our epistle reading in that, did not believe there WAS a problem. Instead, they believed that if something bad happened to you, you were being punished for some sin either you or your ancestors had committed. A bad thing that happened to you may not be “evil”—it may be retribution or divine justice. Throughout human history, many other people have adopted similar theodicies. Yet in Romans 3:23, Paul states flatly that “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.”

When faced with the question of theodicy, Jesus himself calls out that nonsense here. Those who were murdered by Rome and those who fell under the tower had not done anything to bring about their fates. One was the result of disordered human choices, and the other was either the result of shoddy engineering or just bad luck.

Jesus does not address this aspect of their question. He answers within the framework of the accepted belief of the day, but challenges it: those who died certainly did not deserve it, but all who refuse to repent WILL die still seeped in their sins. He thus neatly sidesteps the attempt to distract him from his central message of repentance. Death could come at any time—repent now!

The second half of this week’s reading is a parable about a fig tree that Jesus tells partly in response to the first five verses. It has been almost ten years since the tree was planted: three years to grow to maturity, then the first three crops were forbidden to be eaten, and now the owner of the vineyard has been disappointed three more years.

The first idea is to cut down, or dig out, the fig tree because it is “wasting the soil.” “Digging it out” represents judgment, as was discussed in the first half of our gospel. Jesus has the gardener propose another remedy: put fertilizer on it. Give the tree tender loving care.

THIS is where God indeed “does something” in the face of human suffering and trauma—we are often just too disoriented and spiritually worn down to notice it. I am convinced that in this parable, we ourselves ARE that fig tree. Especially as Christians in a post-Christian world, we are often at odds with the world just like a fig tree in a vineyard. On top of that, we have been through years of pandemic, which was a shock to our systems and our flourishing and our prayer life as much as a tree that has been scarred by fire or planted in the wrong place.

As we still deal with the disorientation and continuing suffering of this pandemic, many of us—myself included-- struggle with feeling spiritual barrenness. We have been isolated, our worlds upended. We have been bathing our brains and our hearts in nonstop anxiety, and some of us have seen loved ones sicken and die. 

We long for “normalcy” even if lots about our old lives, if we were completely honest, also sucked, because at least it was familiar. Sometimes, we cling to stuff that sucks because at least we know it sucks, rather than deal with stuff we don't know, because we fear it might suck.

So Jesus answers the question of responsibility for evil by talking about repentance. Repentance means to turn. To turn away from evil—even when evil is a matter of convenience. But also to turn away from those things which, although familiar, also do not serve us well.

How can we make the turn? Perhaps we can start with reorienting our perspective. Instead of seeing the things we lack and miss, where are there opportunities? Instead of seeing ways to lash out or disappear, where can WE re-engage and re-invest. Where can we choose to TURN our focus from our pain or barrenness to embracing ways to soothe it? Feel disconnected in your faith life? Reconnect!

Some of the most traumatic experiences in our lives can become sources of strength to ourselves afterward. This is not to say that that’s the point of the events, nor to fall into that terrible theological claim that “God never gives us more than we can handle”—making God out to be the cause of all our suffering so that we can, I suppose, make something meaningful out of the ordeal that we have been through and that we may be emerging from.

One of the graces we can give ourselves after emerging through a trauma is to mine that trauma for signs of our own strength and resilience, rather than blaming ourselves or allowing that experience to cripple and stunt our growth spiritually.

But—and this is important and must be emphasized—our gospel today reminds us that our own efforts only get us so far. The fig tree can’t fertilize itself. Jesus sees our trauma and the barrenness it produces—and reminds us that God is always with us, God’s hand underneath us, even, as our psalm beautifully insists. And Jesus urges us to take a breath, assess the box full of things we CAN control, and turn away from what inside that box further separates us from the love and fellowship of God and the love and fellowship of our communities of faith. 

Let me be blunt: if you are feeling the loss of God’s presence and fellowship, don’t further turn away from God and your faith community. Turn around—and open your heart to the possibility that God has been here all along, and when we are most barren and dry, God is ready and waiting to give us  nurture, protection, a sense of shalom or abundance, even peace and joy—and the easiest source is RIGHT HERE! Right here, in the form of our beloved faith fellowships, and our shared and vital practices of prayer, study of sacred texts, and exhortations known as “weekly worship.” Right here. Take a breath. Step up. Re-engage.

Here’s the good news. Jesus as the gardener understands our dryness—and is willing to see the potential deep within us. But we have to choose to spend our time cultivating our relationship with God, deliberately, as a gift from God but also a gift to ourselves.

We dream of renewal. We hope for nourishment. We can turn toward that renewal and nourishment when we turn toward God. That’s the tiny step WE can take, and decide that we are going to bloom and be fruitful despite where we are planted. We can decide to “give a fig” and embrace the vulnerability that embracing change—especially in our spiritual lives-- demands.

But also, there’s this incredible fact: Jesus intercedes for us, and offers us tender loving care. That’s the greatest good news that there can be.

No one is beyond investment—and that includes ourselves. Jesus calls us to lean into our trust and gratitude for all God does for us, even in – especially in—difficult times. The worst thing we can do is to continue in our ruts when we already feel that they do not serve us. Jesus (the gardener), who could agree with the unfaithful being cut down, instead urges patience—and better offers help to us. 

There is comfort here: Repent, turn toward God, who is merciful, filled with loving-kindness and infinite patience and forgiveness. Just like that fig tree not producing fruit, we fail in our purpose as human beings on this earth if we too do not produce good fruit, and we have heard what that fruit is: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. All things this world DESPERATELY needs from people of faith.

If we are aware that God is always with us—even when we have been in isolation and haze during COVID—there is an automatic remedy to our barrenness. God is our nourishment. Where we have felt barren, could we try taking a breath, engaging in gratitude for the blessings we have, and finding the joy in being in God’s presence (who is ever-present), and about what it is like to feel a physical wave of satisfaction in the presence of God. God sustains us. And then rejoice at the goodness of God—for there will be figs.

Amen.

Readings:

• Exodus 3:1-15
• 1 Corinthians 10:1-13
• Luke 13:1-9
• Psalm 63:1-8

Preached at the 505 Saturday and the 10:30 Sunday Eucharists at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO on March 19-20, 2022.

Attention, Astonishment, Witness: Homily for Ash Wednesday

 

Some might find it ironic about the gospel reading for today—to hear Jesus warn against disfiguring our faces when many of us are getting ready for the imposition of ashes. On the surface, it would seem that we are engaging in exactly the kind of grandstanding that Jesus is warning about. But when we have the ashes placed upon our foreheads, the purpose is to remind US that we are entering a penitential season, and that since we are ashes, it is important to live our lives in the most faithful way possible.

But also, Jesus spoke at a time when big shows of piety were often put to work for gain in social status or influence, because religious performance was something most people took for granted. And while many people nowadays may do the first part of that last sentence—putting on a show of their supposed religious affiliation, those numbers are getting smaller and smaller each year all across the West. For many of us, walking around all day with a sign of a cross on our foreheads makes us stand out in a different way in an ever-secularizing world.

It's not about showing off. It IS about what you most treasure and proclaim in your life.
The late, beloved American poet Mary Oliver, in her poem “Sometimes,” offered seven linked poems together. Right at the fulcrum, at number 4, she offered these instructions for living a life:

Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

I am convinced that those are also the instructions for discipleship:

Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

Attention. Astonishment. Witness.

So let’s start with paying attention right now. 

Just where did those ashes come from that we will soon have pressed into our brows? They came from the palms that we waved on Palm Sunday, ten months ago. They were once young fronds on a palm tree, and then we blessed them and waved them as we re-enacted Jesus’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem a week before his trial and crucifixion. Then they sat and dried out for almost a full year. Eventually the dried out remnants were collected, and then they were burned. A match was lit, and light and heat were released from the gases that remained in the palms from the materials they had absorbed from the ground during their life on the tree. They were then ground up, and mixed with the same chrism that we use when we anoint people at their baptisms and at their confirmations. Oil and ashes. Light and heat. And a human touch to press them onto our foreheads—one soul to another.

So what is the astonishing thing about this? We are reminded that we came from the dust and we return to the dust. That sounds dreadful—until you consider that the ash and dust that we are marked with contains atoms which resonate in you, me, everyone and everything, everywhere. The elements that make up that dust were in that palm frond and in that tree and in its roots, but have also been here all along in the billions of years since the Earth’s creation. And those elements were deposited here and fused together to create this beautiful planet, born from the explosions of stars halfway across the galaxy. As Joni Mitchell sang, “We are stardust….” That is indeed astonishing, and it reminds us that here at the start of Lent we are called to recognize the acknowledge the way that this common heritage makes us all one. Especially as the drums of war beat right now across eastern Europe in Ukraine, what could be more astonishing than that bold statement of fact? We are all dust, and we are therefore all one with each other and with all that is.

And then, that mark on our foreheads is part of us telling about it. We are not called to come to church merely to feed ourselves or tend to our own needs. We are called to TELL the world about what we have encountered in Jesus. We are called to let that black smudge on our foreheads be not just an acknowledgement of our finitude, our own mortality, but our own encounter with the love of God as it became human and mortal, just like us, to show us how to live a fully human life—one of love and concern for others, and faithfulness to our God.

And so how does Mary Oliver demonstrate that sense of attention, astonishment, and witness? Now that we have looked at the balancing point, let’s hear the poem in its entirety:

1.

Something came up
out of the dark.
It wasn’t anything I had ever seen before.
It wasn’t an animal
or a flower,
unless it was both.

Something came up out of the water,
a head the size of a cat
but muddy and without ears.

I don’t know what God is.
I don’t know what death is.

But I believe they have between them
some fervent and necessary arrangement.

2.

Sometimes
melancholy leaves me breathless…

3.

Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source!
Both of them mad to create something!

The lighting brighter than any flower.
The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.

4.

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

5.

Two or three times in my life I discovered love.
Each time it seemed to solve everything.
Each time it solved a great many things
but not everything.
Yet left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and
thoroughly, solved everything.

6.

God, rest in my heart
and fortify me,
take away my hunger for answers,
let the hours play upon my body
like the hands of my beloved.

Let the cathead appear again-
the smallest of your mysteries,
some wild cousin of my own blood probably-
some cousin of my own wild blood probably,
in the black dinner-bowl of the pond.

7.

Death waits for me, I know it, around
one corner or another.
This doesn’t amuse me.
Neither does it frighten me.

After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers.
It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy.
I walked slowly, and listened

to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing.


This is our chance to repent. I know that word makes many of us wince and edge away. So let’s try to rephrase it. This is our chance to re-center ourselves, not just for forty days but for each moment. 

Lent calls us to attention, astonishment, and witness. Lent calls us to see the potential rather than the dreariness and horror of pandemic and now war, to look for the beauty and unity among ourselves and all God’s sparkling mysterious creation placed here for our support and care. Lent calls us to proclaim, to tell, to be truthful and reliable in our witness to God’s love by embodying God’s love. I don’t know about you, but I have never needed that kind of Lent more than right now. A Life-giving Lent. A Lent of slowing down and inviting ourselves to wonder and gratitude. A Lent that calls us to stand for right and honor and compassion no matter what the price tag. Lent calls us not to more suffering and uncertainty, but to holiness, which is ALWAYS within our range of choices.

Lent is not a season to be endured, but a gift of insight into what we really should treasure. It is in the everyday world that we live, and we need to make our faith not just a Sunday faith or a Lenten discipline but a part of a living and breathing. Some call this mindfulness, and it is such a wonderful concept. 

Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

Preached at the 7 pm AshWednesday service, online and in person, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

• Joel 2:1-2,12-17
• 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
• Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
• Psalm 103:8-14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes that response may involve financial resources. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

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

Readings:

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

Notes/ Attributions:

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

A Prayer for Early Autumn: Speaking to the Soul for September 30, 2021

O Glorious, Creating God,
we thank You for being our companion
through the seasons of life,
and we praise and bless You forever!

You are our hope,
    which buds within our hearts like a sapling tree.
You are the green joy that springs up
    from the soil of our hearts and takes root,
    blessing us and holding us fast.
You are the lustrous light of faithfulness:
    you call us to turn to You
    as flowers crane their necks to the sun.
You are the song of praise
    that sings from the symphony of color
    of autumn forests and fields.
You are our warming fire,
    that sets our embered souls ablaze
    through the breath of your Spirit.
Open our eyes to see your dazzling glory, O Creator,
    and open our hearts to nurture your Word and Truth.
Hear the prayers
    that tumble from our hearts like fallen leaves,
and gather in your arms those we now name.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on September 30, 2021.

Prayer, day 3161

Lord of Life and Light,

we thank You for watching over this world
as it has turned from day to night.
We thank You for watching over us
as we rested through the night,
and we lift our hearts to you in the gathering light.

We bow the knee of our hearts,
confessing our failings
and the times we have hurt others
through carelessness or fear.

Guide us in the spirit of gentleness and faith
to see the beauty of your imprint in all we see
in the rosy light of dawn.
Give us healing hands and compassionate hearts:
help us to see ourselves
in the plight of those in trouble.
Help us to choose healing over hurt,
and unity over division,
and hope over despair.

Lord Jesus,
abide within our hearts,
and set our feet
upon the paths of peace and justice.

Anoint us by your love, O Holy One,
and envelop within your healing embrace
those for whom we pray.

Amen.

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

John 6:1-21

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

Amen.

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

Prayer 3041: Rooted in God

God of Abundance,
we lift our hearts to You
to be filled with holiness and hope
as we journey through this day,
praising You with all our being.

Mold us, O Creator,
Lead us, Lord Jesus,
Teach us, O Spirit of Truth,
that we may seek the path of true peace
founded on justice and reconciliation.

May we labor with joy this day
to seek the glory of your Name
by our faithfulness,
by our compassion,
by our walking gently with one another.

Draw us under the cool green shade of your love, O God,
and may we welcome all
to come join us there,
beneath the canopy of grace
You stretch over us,
and especially over those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 3039: Spring Rhapsody

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

May we echo the humble thanksgiving
sung out by cicada and tree frog,
who praise You and your provision without ceasing.
May we find delight in the labor you set before us,
as the hummingbird does.
May we lift our arms to you in praise
like the oak as it stretches skyward.
May we constantly sing your praises
like the wind that weaves through pine-needle
and sets them to resonating in joy.

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

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

Amen.

Prayer 3032

Blessed Creator,
who knit all that is out of love and holy wisdom,
we place ourselves within your truth today,
and seek your guidance as your children.

Lifting our hearts in gratitude,
may we be filled with righteousness
in the service of our neighbors,
and glorying our kinship with all the Earth.

May we be seekers after your Word,
joyful workers within your vineyard,
and ministers of your healing love.

May we walk the good road
you have laid out for us, Lord Jesus,
O Bread of Life and Fountain of Wisdom,
that we may be a blessing
and bring honor to your holy Name.

Mover of Obstacles,
Light of Our Hearts,
gather all who seek you
beneath the soft wings of your mercy,
and grant your blessing, O Spirit of Healing,
to those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 3010: Fourth Sunday in Easter (Shepherd Sunday)

O Lord, You are our shepherd;
help us to be better sheep.

When You give us green pastures,
help us to be grateful and not refuse to eat.

When You lead us beside still waters,
help us quiet our souls and be refreshed.

When our cups run over,
help us not to obsess about the mess

but shout for joy at the abundance
you give us always. 

When You lead us to right pathways,
help us not to be hardheaded and go astray.

When we are in the darkest valley,
help us to remember that You are ALWAYS with us.

When you spread a table before us
in the presence of our enemies,

help us invite them to join us,
that their hearts may be turned by love.

Help us to stop bleating long enough
to hear Your voice calling us to You.

May we remember that your goodness and mercy
follow all of us all the days of our lives

Amen.

Prayer 3009

The sun rises
and Earth rings out its joy and praise:
come, let us join in the song to our Creator.
We rise from our beds
with a prayer in our hearts:
that this day be holy,
and that we live in amity with each other. 

Bless and keep us, Lord Christ,
secure in your embrace
and strengthened by your gospel of compassion.
Blessed Jesus,
you know the worries and cares
we bear in our hearts:
we thank You for walking beside us,
your arm around us. 

Ease our fears,
that we may be generous to strangers
and compassionate to those in need or distress.
Pour out thy healing and comfort
to all who suffer any grief, pain, or anxiety,
O Eternal One,
especially those we now name.

Amen.

Prayer, Day 3007: For Earth Day

Creator of the Universe,
who is making Heaven and Earth,
let all that lives tell out your glory.

Rocks and hills,
ocean depths and craggy peaks,
the wind that caresses them,
all join to sing out your Holy Name.

You planted your holy song, O Lord,
in laughing brook and rambling river
fed by rain before time.

Murmuring grass and field of wheat
whisper “Alleluia!”
as the beauty of the Lord passes by.

Thunder and rain, summer sun and shadow
work together with soil and seed
to prepare a table in the wilderness by your will.

The works of your Hand, O Mighty One,
testify to your steadfast kindness and mercy:
You crown all you see as good.

Forgive us for our trespasses against each other,
and against the Earth, our mother,
for seeking to hoard her riches
and denying her integrity.

May we walk gently upon this Earth,
that bears us like a chariot through space,
upheld by your wondrous Love.

May we care for all creation,
being dedicated and blessed by You,
called to serve its renewal and guard its unity.

By the power of the Holy Spirit,
she that moved over the waters of creation,
the waters of birth and life,
renew and recreate in us
a reverence for the Earth and all her inhabitants.

Lord Christ, center us in your wisdom,
and pour out your healing
over all we remember before You.

Amen.

Prayer 3000

Eternal, Holy Creator,
we center ourselves in your grace
with songs of praise and rejoicing.
You formed the world
and all that is in it
from love and goodness:
receive our prayers,
O Searcher of Our Souls.

Gate of God,
Blessed Savior,
dawn within our hearts
with a blaze of hope and glory
that we may proclaim your gospel with overflowing spirits.
Fountain of Blessing,
well up within us
that we may bloom with your beauty
and join hands with each other
in obedience to your command of love.

Spirit of Promise, Spirit of Truth,
Light of Our Hearts,
extend the shelter of your protection
over all whose hope is in God,
Our Peace, and Our Shield.
Grant the gift of ease and aid
to all who call upon You,
O Blessed Trinity, One God, as we pray.

Amen.

Snakes and Complaints: Sermon for the 4th Sunday in Lent B

Have you ever been around someone who complained all the time? I have. It’s maddening. And the thing is, often grumblers have no sense of perspective. EVERYTHING is a grievance worthy of World War III to the kvetcher. I have known people who love to complain so much that they will complain to the empty air when those around them have stalked off and sworn to listen no more. They grumble just loud enough for their loved ones to still hear the griping, but not so loud that they can’t try to deny it if caught.

They grumble because everything is about THEM, and they have no perspective to see others who are suffering more. Nope, it all about meeeeeee. Gripe, gripe, gripe. Grumble, grumble, grumble. I mean, you don’t have to Pollyanna. But not everything is worthy of complaint. And it’s been one solid year since we were able to be together to worship together and have Eucharist around this altar. So God knows there have been plenty of opportunities to be not just sad, to be not just anxious, but also to grumble. But a little of that is to be expected.

Let’s face it, though, during the Exodus, those Israelites have been acting like petulant, faithless toddlers all through their time in wilderness, and that is an insult to toddlers everywhere. They have complained, and they have complained some more, and they’ve been impatient, and they have been faithless. They’ve made promises and broken them repeatedly.

And the thing is, when all you look for is what is wrong, all that you see is wrong. And the first few times they did it, God patiently tried to assuage them. Hungry? Here, eat the same bread the angels ate, and meanwhile, I’ll just have a few thousand quail drop down in front of you—all you gotta do is pluck ‘em, clean ‘em, and roast ‘em. Thirsty? Moses and Aaron will strike yon rock over there, and fresh water will come a gushing out.

Complaining and the lack of gratitude and perspective that come with it are a deadly poison to the soul. So no wonder then that poisonous snakes rise up among the people. It’s a symbol of the poison they have been loosing into the world rather than marveling at all the good things they do have: Family. Freedom. A return to their homeland. A God who cares for them again and again. In Moses, a leader willing to give up his own comfort for their sakes. And even though they claim that God has sent those snakes among them because God has finally had enough of the constant kvetching, I suspect that they knew that those snakes had sprung up from every disagreeable complaint that had fallen from their lips and gone splat like a lead balloon on the hard, rocky ground at their feet.

And it is often the case that in order to get well, you have to be able to name what made you sick, and evaluate what role you yourself might have played in your illness in the first place. So since their poisonous complaint set loose poisonous snakes among them, the solution is to fasten a visual representation of what is attacking them. In other words, God orders that the Israelites have to look on the image of their own guilt and ingratitude. They have to look upon that poisonous snake, and realize that the real problem was their own poisoned hearts and souls. Admitting that they had set the snakes loose among themselves was the crucial first step to healing and health.

In our gospel, Jesus compares himself to that shiny snake lifted up on a pole, and that sounds just as bewildering a comparison. Jesus is hardly a poisonous reptile. But that bronze or fiery snake was placed on that pole that the people might look upon the symbol of their transgressions, accept their sinful, hateful tendencies, and lift their eyes from their fear, their pettiness, their self-absorption, and their unpleasantness. They looked up at that snake and knew the snakes were actually themselves. And then determine to turn away from death toward life.

Likewise, Jesus is lifted up on a cross—a symbol or torture, a symbol of shame—and we too are called to look upon him , remembering that what put him there was the very worst evil fearful humans could devise, so that we might see him, believe, and live.

But believe what? To believe in the love that Jesus calls us to embrace that we might have eternal life. To remember that Jesus himself is Love Incarnate. And to remember that our own love of evil rather than love of good has put Jesus there. It was said those who lived by a sword would die by a sword—yet, except for overturning some tables and braiding a whip made out of his own frustration, Jesus has actually spent most of his life denying the power of violence and the power of the sword. And yet there he will be-- placed there by all the forces that rule through fear, and violence, and oppression, and exploitation. The living example of love in human flesh that Jesus is absolutely is anathema to the forces of evil and death to which we cling so desperately, because it is all we have known.

We know how to insist on our own way. We insist on our own way out of fear, out of jealousy, out of spite, out of a misguided calculus that says that one is only winning if one has more than all of those people over there. We know how to be vengeful. We know how to scorn others, to put others down based on their ethnicity, their race, their culture, the threat they pose in competition with us for things we have taught to covet because we believe they are scarce. We know how to complain when everything doesn’t suit us, and to let that poison run wild through our relationships with both each other, and worse, with God.

We are human, but that is not an excuse. It’s not that flesh is bad and spirit is good, as many people have twisted Paul’s words we heard this morning. If the material world were fallen and evil, Jesus would have never come to live among us as one of us, and we wouldn’t be eagerly looking forward in a few minutes to taking common things of the earth-- grain and grape, bread, wine, and water-- and together joining in invoking the Holy Spirit to make of these things of earth the Bread of Heaven and Cup of Life, a living memorial of just how much Christ loves us and gives himself for us, and calls us to give ourselves for each other. No, when Paul speaks of the “flesh,” it has to do with about our tendency to be self-centered, even “self-obsessed.” It’s that same self-obsession that caused the Israelites to spout their venom at God, blaming God for their discomfort. As we all are prone to do.

Too often we concentrate on how we are separate from others, and fearfully seek to protect ourselves against the perceived threats that others may pose to us through competition in seeking to fulfill their OWN desires. The problem is, extreme individualism doesn’t make us feel safe, but actually vulnerable and exposed to attack, since everyone else is a potential competitor for what we’ve been told are scarce goods and resources. This, to me, seems to be the ultimate crisis in our modern western society. For every passage like this, Paul also usually provides another passage reminding us that we are part of the Body of Christ and thus part of each other (such as 1 Corinthians 12-13). When we look at THOSE passages, we are reminded that the gospel of Christ is one of abundance: abundant mercy, abundant grace, abundant kindness, abundant healing. And that abundance is found within community, not against it.

All our fear comes naturally. But we have to be taught how to love. And so Jesus is given to us.

Jesus makes it clear in our gospel today that Jesus is God’s gift to us, given to us out of love, so that we might know how to live as fully human, fully beloved humans made in the very image of God. It’s right there in John 3:16-17:

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”

Likewise, Paul affirms “God is rich in mercy,” bearing us “great love” as we benefit from the “riches of God’s grace,” --even when we have stubbornly, fearfully, or selfishly rejected calls to repentance and atonement with God. God claims common cause with us out of love, and calls us to align ourselves with that love that we might have abundant eternal life. That is what “atonement” really means—say it slowly, and you hear it “at-ONE-ment.” Being at one with the love that creates and sustains the world. This requires dedication, determination, and discipline upon our parts—and a willingness to own up to our shortcomings and sins when presented with them. Atonement must never be seen as painful or denigrating, but of lifting up our eyes from our self-centeredness to a life of hope and healing.

So we must affirm that God sends Jesus NOT for judgment, but for love. For mercy. Because justice is such an important concept, central to the very identity of God and God's commandments, it has both an opposite, which comes from ignorance and even hatred, and a companion, which comes from love. The opposite of justice is injustice, and it is a sin, whether a sin of commission, or a sin where we benefit from unjust systems and shrug our shoulders at our alleged powerlessness. The companion of justice is mercy—in which we receive grace and forgiveness where we deserve wrath and punishment. God calls us to not just receive justice and mercy, but to enact it for those around us.

Jesus calls us to repentance not for punishment, but for healing, wholeness, and for joy. For eternal life. Right now. For us all as a community. God so loved the WORLD, we are reminded. And that includes everyone—even those at odds with us, even those we resist calling our neighbor because we like the word “enemy” so much better.

John’s gospel does not speak much about “the kingdom of God/heaven” that we hear of repeatedly in the synoptic gospels. Instead, the term which John most emphasizes is “life.” And in 18 of those instances, the adjective “eternal” comes before that—and he first time we see that pairing is right here in today’s gospel. So eternal life is NOT about what happens to us after we die. Eternal life is about what happens right now. It is a new way of living that brings ultimate peace, ultimate contentment, ultimate joy. We attain those blessings through walking in the way of Jesus, through joyfully taking up our cross of love for Jesus, through being brave enough to lift up love God calls us too rather than the sins to which we cling -- to look upon that love lifted up, and live.

We all take our turns in the wilderness. Do we look only to our own needs, or do we look, and act, for the welfare of those around us? This past year has put us to the test on that. It is only a life lived for others that can bring about the security and hope that we all long for. Anything else sets us at opposition to one another and makes us miserly in our response to God’s great gifts. And that is no life at all.

But love—love that redeems us and claims us as beloved, love that is lifted up to unite us with all creation—that is eternal life right now.

Amen.

Preached at the in-person and online 10:30 am Holy Eucharist, the first on Sunday in exactly a year, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville.

Readings:

• Numbers 21:4-9
• Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22
• Ephesians 2:1-10
• John 3:14-21

Images: Michaelangelo Buonarroti, detail from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel; Moses strikes the rock at Massah; Georges Roualt, Crucifixion, 1936; Complaint department button from Etsy.