Seeing Signs and Scars- Sermon for Easter 2B, April 6-7 2024

I imagine many of us are eagerly anticipating the solar eclipse predicted for Monday.

An eclipse happening right now is particularly interesting timing, since just on Good Friday mere days ago, we heard that at the crucifixion of Jesus, there was not only an earthquake, but the sun darkened in the sky. This has led some people to speculate that there was a solar eclipse on the day Jesus died on the cross. But it was just speculation—until modern science has ridden in to provide insight.

Come to find out, in 2012, a group of German scientists looked at historical data of earthquakes as well as the Jewish calendar, and theorized that Jesus was crucified on April 3, 33 CE. However, the problem is that Passover occurs on a full moon, and solar eclipses require a new moon. But then NASA stepped in with a chart of 5000 years of eclipses and where they occurred—and found that a LUNAR eclipse occurred on—get this—April 3, 33 CE over the Holy Land.

Many people get really excited about eclipses. Even though one happens roughly every 18 months, WHERE they are visible shifts all over the globe. The last time we had a big eclipse over the US was in 2018, and we were just a couple of miles from totality. We pulled our son from school and took him to my favorite retreat place to make sure he could see it—and it was amazing. Some people would be satisfied with seeing the event on TV—but that’s not the same thing as experiencing it live and in person. Seeing is believing, as they say.

And that brings me to my yearly defense of poor ol’ apostle Thomas. Hearing about Jesus being risen was not enough for him—just like it’s hard for us to believe it too. Seeing is, after all, believing.

Paul Simon, in a song off his Graceland album of 1986, sagely sang, “Faith is an island in the setting sun; but proof, yes--proof is the bottom line for everyone.” Thomas wants proof. Like we all do.

The author of John knows this, and this story is meant to encourage Christians from John’s time until now: those who have not seen, but take the leap of faith anyway. We live in a time two millennia after these events. Of course we have doubts- we have even more reason than Thomas. We are caught just as much as those disciples were in the thrall of empire where the powerful never have enough power, the wealthy never have enough wealth, the influencers never have enough influence. We are as much held in thrall by emotional as well as economic scarcity is those who lived in Jesus’s time were. If Thomas—and all the other disciples at that time-- can doubt and emerge the stronger for it, so of course can we. Further, given our distance in time and culturally from the events depicted in the gospels, it is only through engaging our faith through questions and doubts that we can seriously engage our faith. Just as a muscle only gets stronger, when stressed, so too our faith.

Sadly for Thomas, this is the only story in which he plays a starring role. And so he gets that “doubting label” attached to his name like it was superglued there and very unfairly, too.

However, there’s a lot going on here besides Thomas demanding proof, and that gets obscured when we fasten just on Thomas and his very understandable reaction. So let’s circle back to the beginning.

While we have loudly proclaiming alleluias all week, our gospel today takes up the story on Easter Sunday evening. The first emotion that is noted right from the very start is “fear--” which is right where the end of Mark’s gospel leaves us at the end of that gospel, as we can hear in the alternative gospel for Easter Sunday in the B years of the lectionary. The doors are locked because the disciples are still afraid of the religious authorities, which John’s gospel troublingly refers to as “the Jews,” even though practically everyone in the story is a Jew as well. It is despite those locked doors that Jesus appears before his fearful followers. In response to this fear, Jesus gives them his peace. Ever since John 14:27, Jesus’s response to fear among his disciples has been to wish them peace. He also links peace to courage at 16:33, as well.

At v. 20, Jesus then shows the disciples his wounds—or more specifically, I believe, his scars. If they were still wounds, Jesus might still be a ghost. For his wounds to become scars indicates that his living body has engaged in the process of healing. This is another important point that gets overlooked by focusing on the “Doubting Thomas” story. Jesus’s risen body will always be the body of the Crucified One. His wounds and scars do not disappear—but now they are a part of who he is, and their presence helps prove his identity. And knowing that those wounds are there are important to us. We all carry the wounds and scars of our lives with us.

Upon seeing Jesus’s wounds, the disciples go from fear to joy, because now they know that this is truly Jesus. It could be that his face is different, but the wounds convince them, and they are filled with joy to know that Jesus has risen. At v. 21-23, Jesus again wishes them peace, and then in the same breath (word choice deliberate) commissions them with the same mission Jesus himself had from God: to go and forgive sins and engage in the reconciliation of the world to God. In an action reminiscent of the creation of Adam in Genesis 2, he breathes upon them the Holy Spirit. Remember, the fact that he has breath also proves that he is truly alive, not a ghost or a spectre or a spirit.

There are people who have been shamed for questioning, for doubting, like that’s a bad thing—just like poor old Thomas there, who gets that damning “Doubting” adjective permanently glued in front of his name forever, even though what he experiences is SO common and relatable, unlike all the apostles except for Judas. 

Going back to church for those who have been hurt and marginalized by this kind of Christianity is more like returning to the scene of a crime than getting your spiritual batteries recharged. And those of us who identify ourselves as actively Christian thus are presented with our first chance to ourselves take part in the salvation of Jesus which bring healing and reconciliation. And we don’t even have to do it by glomming onto every stranger that walks through our doors, especially at Easter.

We don’t have to do this work by starting at trying to scare people into belief and by that I mean a bargain with God so that they can avoid “hell.” We do this by defining salvation as a life moving toward healing even for those who feel like they have lost every shred of hope they ever had. We can start by actually SEEING these people the same way that Jesus did—as beloved. Beloved as we all are and not excluded due to some checklist created by fearful people. Beloved even as we all are, even as we find our ways out of various wildernesses like addiction, racism, homophobia, taking advantage of others, or misogyny. 

Jesus showed his own scars to his believers after resurrection because our scars are the signs that we all bear of what has shaped us, for good or for ill. We are all known by our scars—and with wat we do with them. Do we use them as excuses to hurt others and leave scars of our own as we pass by? Or do we see them as signs that we have persevered and have healed? After Jesus shows his scars as a sign that the cross did not have the last word with him, Jesus commissions his followers—including you and me, even those of us who have to cross our fingers behind our backs at a lot of the claims made in the Creed to go out and continue his work. Not a transaction, but a transformation.

We can with honesty and hope share our scars with those around us too—share our scars, and the healing grace we have received from God in our own specific lives. That’s a sign we can all see, and a sign that heals the scars we carry all our lives.

Readings:

Acts 4:32-35

Psalm 133

1 John 1:1-2:2

John 20:19-31

Preached at St. Martin's Episcopal Church on the weekend of April 6-7, 2024.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope is what brings us here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Readings:

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

Links/Sources:

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

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

Prayer, day 2854- Lord's Prayer Cycle, 6: Save Us From the time of Trial

Our Father in heaven, 

loving Parent and Creator,
tender Mother,
save us from the time of trial,
for we are prone to wander
and lose our way.

Make us stronger in our faith
and more willing to wrestle with the angel of doubt.
Guide us into living and loving more fully
according to your precepts.
Help us turn aside all vain ambitions
and concentrate fully upon your Word.
Give us courage to make our hearts bigger,
even if that makes them bigger targets,
for love is always the answer.
Help us to persevere
through the difficulties of life,
knowing that You are always with us.
Give us the sight to see hope amid darkness.

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

Amen.

Prayer 2840: Like a high-flying bird

Like a high-flying bird,
like a hawk upon a current,
let my soul arise on wings of hope
to You, my God and Savior.

Like a dawn sparrow
let me sing out my praise
for all the blessings and opportunities
of the coming day,
O Holy One.

Like the flash of a cardinal

as it hops among branches,

let me give joy and bring wonder

to someone today, O Savior.

Bring us within the bounds of your mercy,
Lord Jesus, we pray,
and gather us to you,
as a mother hen guard her nest:
hold us within your hands,
and nurture us in wisdom
that we may grow stronger in faith.

Give us courage
in the face of our trials and uncertainties,
O Rock and Redeemer,
and let your Spirit brood over us
and create within us clean hearts
to strengthen us to work and praise this day.

Draw within the bounds of your mercy, O God,
all those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2767: For Strength and Resilience

With gratitude we embrace this day,
Most Merciful Creator,
and together we offer You our praise and thanksgiving.

Envelop us in your love and care, Lord Jesus,
and awaken our hearts to seek your ways.
Blessed Savior,
give us the will to follow you and serve you,
for you laid down the path of righteousness and justice
to teach us to live in contentment, joy, and peace.
Make us seekers of wisdom,
protectors of the vulnerable,
and true disciples of your Word, O God.

Strengthen the hearts of all
who are in danger, turmoil, sorrow, or pain,
and give them rest within your embrace,
O Shepherd of Our Souls.
Renewed by your everlasting love and mercy,
we lift our hopes and prayers to You,
Almighty God,
our Rock and our Redeemer.
Pour out your blessing over all who seek You,

and grant your peace to those we now name.

Amen. 

Prayer, day 2623

Be among us, Lord Jesus,
as we make our prayers to You.

Be among us, O Almighty One,
as we meditate upon your Word
and remember your saving help.
Be among us, O Spirit of Truth,
to guide our hearts, minds, and souls
and make them holy offerings to our God.
Be among us, O God,
as storms rage without and within,
and lead us to safety and reconciliation.

May peace, justice, compassion, and love reign
in our lives today, O Merciful One.
May we embody God's grace in our words and deeds,
and testify always to your mercy and care as we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2607: The Path of Faith

O God Our Rock and Our Redeemer,
with one accord we lift our hearts
and commit ourselves to your path today.

Strengthen us in devotion and compassion
 O God Most Merciful,
as we care for each other
in this time of anxiety.

Turn our gazes outward
that we may look with the eyes of Christ
on all we meet today, Blessed Savior,
seeing the divine imprint in each face.

Holy One, even in the midst
of the changes and chances of this life,
may we ever give thanks
for the blessing of your love,
and reflect that love into the world unceasingly.

Kindle anew the flame of our faith,
O Spirit of Wisdom,
and pour out your blessings on those for whom we pray.

Amen.

How the Light Gets In: Sermon for Proper 18C, the Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Last year the long-awaited sequel to Mary Poppins hit the theatres, with Mary Poppins taking care of Michael Banks’s children, who have just lost their mother. In one of the scenes, the children break a bowl that had belonged to their late mother, a bowl that she had told them was priceless. So one of their adventures occurs when Mary Poppins takes them and the bowl to her cousin, played by the incredible Meryl Streep, who is known to be able to fix anything. They arrive to find that the cousin’s life itself is a bit topsy-turvy at the moment, and set about to try to help put it right. I don’t want to spoil it—you need to watch the movie. 

But it got me to thinking: What do most of us do with a broken bowl? In our culture today, most often the answer is to throw it away. After all, goods are relatively cheap. But sometimes, we decide we want to try to mend the pot. Maybe it’s got sentimental value, like the bowl the Banks children had. So if we decide to keep the bowl, we look for the crazy glue or the clear gorilla glue, and we try to make the bowl look as if it had never been broken. We like things to look perfect. But really, are we just fooling ourselves? In our hearts we will probably always remember that the bowl has been broken. 

When I was 12 our family visited friends in Japan, and I learned that Japanese have another answer for what to do with a broken pottery bowl: they embrace the breaks and imperfections and mend the bowl if possible. The Japanese practice an art of repairing broken pottery known as kintsugi, that embraces the broken places and spaces within the pot, embraces the cracks—and even embellishes them. As the poet Jane Hirshfield notes in an essay on the healing quality of poetry, and its ability to sit within the broken places, the words “healing and health” come from the word “wholeness.” She explains: 

 “Wholeness does not mean unmarred, or simple, or ignorant of suffering. It does not exclude any part of experience or history. Consider kintsugi, a Japanese repair technique that is both an aesthetic and a philosophical stance. In reassembling a broken tea bowl, a cup, or a plate, the repairing artisan uses, in place of transparent glue, a mix of lacquer and powdered gold. The end result is not an object trying to appear as if it had never been damaged: kintsugi, done well, offers damage made visible as part of the cup’s history, damage made beautiful because the cup was repaired without denial. It may be that any fully rounded truth, seen without denial, will appear to us as beauty. …Kintsugi accepts life’s irreparability and embraces it.”(1) 

Can there be beauty in brokenness? I am reminded of the line from the great singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen’s song, “Anthem:” 

The birds they sand
At the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
will pass away
Or what is yet to be

Yeah the wars they will
Be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
Bought and sold
And bought again
The dove is never free

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in  (2)

In our reading from Jeremiah today, the prophet is sent to watch a potter at work at his or her wheel. He observes the potter’s activity so that he may see the metaphor of the clay as synonymous with the people of Israel. Yahweh is the potter. The warning contained in Jeremiah is that if God realizes that the clay is misshapen, God can smash it and destroy so that Yahweh can begin again—we remember that, because it scares us. At any moment, the prophet perceives, the potter could simply destroy the pot rather than repair it, deciding it is too spoiled. This is intended as a warning for the prophet to convey to the people: because of their resistance to God, they too have become misshapen, and risk being destroyed by God as punishment. 

The message communicated there is one that still remains powerful for some people, especially in dominant American Christianity. They see someone's suffering as being placed upon them by God, in punishment for something wrong they have done. It’s a simple proposition: they believe that God punishes wrongdoing with suffering, so if they are suffering, it must be due to their own sinfulness. 

Others of us see flaws in this reasoning. First of all, sometimes people immersed in wrongdoing prosper and innocent people suffer. Sometimes people emerge from trials in their lives scarred and misshapen through no fault of their own. On the other hand, others scoff entirely, and deny any agency of God in times of suffering or trial. 

In the centuries since Jeremiah was written, we have acquired great knowledge about science, medicine, and technology. We explain human behavior through relatively new fields, like psychology. And for some people, that is enough. They think they’ve got it all figured out, and that we human beings are in charge. Yet even with this mindset, most would agree with the idea that we, like clay, are molded and shaped through life. There are many influences that shape us throughout our lives. As much as we like to think that we are responsible in making ourselves and our lives, Jeremiah reminds us that God is there all the time, asking our willingness to be shaped and molded into healing and wholeness. 

But we also have to acknowledge that God is not our only influence. We also have to acknowledge that we are also shaped by others. And indeed, every person who has passed through our lives has a role in shaping the person each of us have become. Sometimes, we are shaped lovingly, kindly, and we become better, stronger, more beautiful. Sometimes, we fall into harsher hands, hands that attempt to squeeze us too tightly, or press upon us too hard, and we have trouble maintaining our balance as we limp away, misshapen, listing to one side. 

Some people have the utter gall to see others’ brokenness as fatal, and to declare them useless, fit only for being thrown away. That, my friends, is spitting upon the image of God that resides within all of us and all of creation. It also ignores the fact that we all have wear and tear within us, we all have brokenness. It must be a way of refusing to acknowledge their own pain and imperfections—I don’t know. It’s not up to us to decide who is worthy and who is not. It is just our job to love each other. 

We are called to acknowledge that a good portion of the rest of us may spend a huge chunk of our lives trying to make up for the injuries inflicted upon us by some of those influences in our lives. Some of us have lived through episodes in our childhoods that haunt us and have threatened to crush us—the shouts of our mothers and fathers that arose in the night and awakened us from childhood sleep night after night, or alcoholic rages that break the dishes. Hands that have touched us in anger, seeking to break us rather than shape us. Hands that have attempted to shape us for their own ends, who have used us and then discarded us. 

Those of us on a journey of faith often arrive here because we are crying out for God’s healing hands in our lives, to help us come to peace with injuries or breaks like the ones just described. To talk about a God who is waiting to crush us is to show that we do not understand God’s message at all. It just doesn’t fit with the God we have experienced in dark moments in our lives—a God of incredible power, yes, but the power to support us with limitless love, a God whose faith in US forgives us for our sins and foolishness and lack of faith over and over again. 

Of all the books in the Bible, according to Old Testament expert Walter Brueggemann, it is Jeremiah that depicts God suffering real distress when faced with our casting God away.(3) The most important message to take from the full sweep of Jeremiah is this: it is a broken-hearted God who is taking the initiative in trying to renew and reconcile the relationship between humanity and God, both as individuals and as groups. The book of Jeremiah is notable for its portrayal of God as suffering real pain and hurt from the betrayal by the people. That’s what should stand out to us—not the threatened destruction that too many people like to imagine God holding over human heads. 

The problem with using verses like these to attempt to frighten us into some sort of rigid behavior is that it ignores the overriding thrust of the truth that God has revealed to us over and over again: that God reaches out to us repeatedly, and loves us unconditionally, even when we go our own blind way. 

God also uses us human agents—friends and relations who care about us—to try to help us toward healing from the places we have been broken in our relationships with others. If we really observe our pain, and open ourselves to healing, we become aware that, like we have heard in our reading from the letter to the Hebrews last week, we have encountered angels within our lives, usually unaware that they were such until later. God is also there both as a presence and in sending us healing friends and companions, offering healing to those of us who have been harmed and marred by the actions of ourselves or others within our lives—if only we will accept the hope and promise of God’s grace and healing hand to help us. To make us whole. And the Hebrew word for wholeness is “shalom.” 

And we can do the same for others. Our own brokenness is how the light gets in, as Leonard Cohen sang, and brings us to empathy and compassion and the practice of forgiveness and grace with others. That’s a gift from God—that our mended places can give us insight into helping others along their journey to healing and wholeness of God. Rather than marinating in old hurts and resentments, and allowing them to continue to mar our lives, we have another choice—we can let that light in, shining on all the darkest places within us, and accept God’s healing love, and become forces for healing ourselves. 

As the parable of the Prodigal Son reminds us, God is not a vengeful father waiting to crush us into dust. Rather, God runs to us the second we turn back from our errant ways, and just when we think we are as far as we can be from God, in our repenting we turn and find God right alongside us all along. God sends God’s own son to be one of us—and thereby experiences all the pain and loss that is part of our human existence. 

That is why this image from Jeremiah of a potter at a wheel is the centerpiece of a medieval poem prayed during the Jewish observance of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. On a day that is dedicated to repentance and seeking forgiveness, the liturgy still reminds us that, like an artist, God has made us, and continually is working within our lives, even when we go astray. God understands our weaknesses, and through the gift of unlimited grace calls us again and again to reconcile with God and with each other, to allow ourselves to be shaped, to acknowledge that God can transform and sustain us even in our darkest moments because God made each of us, whether saint or sinner, cares for us, and loves us for all eternity.

That’s actually right there in the same readings that others twist for their own ends. But there is also good news about healing for those of us who have been bruised and battered by some of the hands that have shaped us throughout our lives. We are not called to be perfect. We are not called to be unafraid all the time. We are not called to never have doubts or questions. We ARE called to embody God’s healing, reconciling presence into a broken, divided, hurting, fearful world, as best we can. To be bearers of God’s grace because we have been recipients of God’s grace. 

As our readings from Jeremiah and our psalm reminds us, God presses upon us behind and before, God’s hand is upon us, shaping us, never giving up on us, reconciling who we are with who God intends for us to be – a people forgiven, healed, renewed, shaped! A people empowered to go forth into the world, reconciled and at peace with ourselves, and with our God, and with one another. A people called to help embody God’s healing hands in the lies of others. That’s how it works. 

The hands of God’s love never stop trying to ease us, to soothe us, to work with us and within us to help shape us into our best selves. Like a potter at her wheel, God’s hands are creating within us, right now, offering us a profound sense of release, a profound reconciliation, a profound sense of peace and wholeness—the kind of peace that comes from being in the presence of a love that is so amazing that we are reshaped, and are never the same again. 

 A peace that comes to us through a God that reaches out to us, again and again, constantly trying to embrace our brokenness as avenues toward beauty. Because that is how the light gets in.

Amen.

Preached at the 505 on September 7 and at 8:00am and 10:30am on September 8, 2019 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:
Jeremiah 18:1-11Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17Philemon 1-21Luke 14:25-33

Citations:
1) Jane Hirshfield, “Poetry, Permeability, and Healing,” at The American Academy of Poetry, July 1, 2018, at https://poets.org/text/poetry-permeability-and-healing
2) Leonard Cohen, "Anthem," from the album The Future, 1992.
3) Walter Brueggemann, A Commentary on Jeremiah: Exile and Homecoming

Prayer, day 2264: God's eye is on the sparrow

(Matthew 6:25-34)
Most Merciful God,
our awakening spirits give you thanks and praise,
and we rise from your rest secure in your embrace.

The Earth is illumined with the glory of God:
You adorn the dogwoods with a lacy veil,
and the forsythia glow with golden joy at your coaxing;
the canopy of pine and oak enclose a cathedral choir
as all the Earth sings out your praise, O Creator.

Your eye is upon the sparrow and hummingbird, O God,
you brood over the Earth like a hen over her nest,
and gather all safely within your care:
we are secure and comforted upon your breast,
and soothed by your steadfast love.

You spread your mighty wings, O Holy One
to shield and shade us in our need,
and nourish us in wisdom that we may grow in your ways,
upheld by your unending love and compassion.

Spirit of the Living God,
pour out your comfort over all who turn to You in need:
relieve the suffering, and dry the tear of those who mourn.
Lord Jesus, lead us in paths of healing and mercy,
and grant your blessing over those we remember before You.

Amen.

Prayer, day 1840

Most Merciful God, we thank You for the protection of your holy angels through the watches of the night. O Comforter, shelter and shield all those who are in distress, and grant them strength and perseverence. 

Enfold us like little children in your mercy, Lord Christ, and forgive us our sins and offenses, we humbly beseech you. Make us gentle and faithful caretakers and friends, seeking to serve others as we serve You. 

Grant us wisdom and patience, O Holy One, that we may replace our hearts of stone for hearts of tenderness and grace. Guide us in pathways of peace, and give us the humility and compassion to follow, we pray. 

Send forth your Spirit of healing and comfort over all who call upon You, O God, especially those we now name.

Amen.

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