The Momentum of Love-- Sermon for Proper 18C, September 7, 2025

    

There's a sweet little video making the rounds right now. About a month ago, at the halftime for a WNBA game in Las Vegas, the team held a baby crawl race. Ten babies were lined up by their dads on one end of the court on the top of the key, and encouraged to crawl to their moms on the other end of the court. It was NOT a short distance. One little girl really took off, crawling steadily and with great concentration.

Just past midcourt, she suddenly stopped, scooping up one of the stuffed animals that were being slid onto the court as incentives. How could she continue, and keep the toy? In an amazing bit of problem-solving, she then stood up wobbily clutching the stuffie, and took her first little steps for all the world to see. The crowd went wild, and even the other mothers nearby celebrated as she hesitatingly but unfailingly walked into her mama's ecstatic arms.

I think about how determined that baby was--- to stand up on a slick basketball court in her stocking feet, while people all around her were cheering, clapping and screaming, flashes going off all around her-- and then she walked all the rest of the way. She was willing to take those first steps certain of her mom's loving embrace at the end. 

I think she was propelled by the momentum of love. Now she's internet famous, and she has brightened the days of millions of people who have watched the video. This kid is a risk taker, no doubt about it.

Our readings from Philemon and Luke are also about taking risks, and taking our first steps for living out our call to be disciples of Jesus, rather than mere worshipers of him, no matter the cost.

The brief letter to Philemon is notable, because in it, Paul demands, while pretending to ask, that one of his wealthy converts, Philemon, free an enslaved young man who had run away from Philemon and made his way to Paul, imprisoned at the time. Paul not only asks for the freedom of the slave, but asks that Philemon henceforth treat the formerly enslaved young man as a brother. At that time in the Roman world, slaves cost between one year and ten years' worth of the daily wage, a denarii.

Then in our gospel, Jesus, turning his face toward Jerusalem, tries to let the enthusiastic crowd following him know what the risks and costs of discipleship can be. The word "hate" here may be better translated as "turn aside from." This may sound harsh indeed.

The admonition to deny ourselves and take up our cross to follow Jesus is just as scary to us as it was in the time of Jesus’s earthly ministry. The idea that we have to be willing to suffer for our faith seems especially harsh here, too, especially after we have been hearing some harsh words from Jesus the last few weeks.

How can this be good news? It may sound to us at first glance like Jesus is telling us to be willing to throw our lives away—after all, the cross was a symbol of criminality and death. Trust me, to Jesus’s followers, crucifixion was no empty metaphor.

After all, the cross, when Jesus speaks of it in our gospel passage today, was a ROMAN execution method used for those who threatened their death-grip on power. It stood for brutality. It stood for the power of empire to crush and literally squeeze the breath out of those who opposed that power of domination and brutality. How can it be that, in too many people's minds today, they cynically and hypocritically claims that the gold crosses they wear around their necks gives them the power to do the same thing to others?

Theologians from Paul up through today remind us that, after Jesus's execution and resurrection, the cross has been transformed from a symbol of shame to a symbol of the victory of love over death, thanks to Jesus’s willingness to embrace it. That cross has been transformed into a symbol of God’s grace-- and we as Christians must be willing to fight to keep it that way, rather than let it be transformed into a symbol of those who embrace the cruelty and violence of the Roman Empire among us now, just as the Ku Klux Klan attempted to pervert the cross in its campaigns of terror.

And that’s important for us to think about as we try to make sense of what Jesus is saying. Jesus is not asking us to embrace death, but instead, to truly embrace a life grounded in God, who loves us no matter what. To be willing to sacrifice, and in sacrificing, to strive to trust in God completely-- which is an aspiration for us all, given the cynical, even cruel world in which we live that makes us mistrustful of almost everyone and their motives. Jesus is asking us to be willing to use our God-given lives for the good of others and for the good of the world. As we begin today to observe the Season of Creation,

Deep in our hearts, many of us have a hard time believing that God’s love is that limitless for us. It is a fact that every love we experience in our lives changes us in some way. Choosing to embrace God’s love for us will change us, too.

Now, change can be a scary thing. It’s scary, because any real change in our lives involves embracing a death of our former selves- letting go of all that is familiar to us, that made us who we have been in the hope that we will become something better.

It’s like when we went to the circus when we were kids. I was always fascinated by the trapeze artists. Sure, there was a net stretched below them. But even with that, I was always amazed by their willingness to let go of the first trapeze, and for several heart-stopping moments to be clinging to nothing at all as they tumbled through the air. There was always a moment when their hands were empty, with nothing but a net far below. But through trust in the laws of physics and their own skills, they have the courage to let go-- and are rewarded with the ability to fly.

Our own lives are often just as risky at times too. We move from one swinging perch to another throughout our lives, as we develop and grow. In between the letting go and the grasping, there are those heart-stopping moments when we are holding on to nothing. But without the momentum of love, without opening our hands, we have no way to grasp the new life-change coming toward us. This is also true of our lives as followers of Jesus. Unless we empty our heads, hands, and our hearts in a similar manner, letting go and emptying ourselves of all that has tied us to the way we have been and the way we were, we cannot take hold of the abundant new life to which we are called through the loving voice of Christ.

Listen. We are given the gift of each day from God. We are given the abundance of the Earth for our flourishing, and for the flourishing of all the living beings who depend upon it. We are given the gift of this parish and its ministries as gifts of God to us and to the world. Caring for each of these things will cost us, but it's a cost worth paying.

Jesus calls us to use each one of those days as much as possible making the most of that life by living our lives for God and for others. It means that the only life worth living is one in which we are willing to be transformed by the power of God’s grace to live for others.

Jesus stretched his arms wide upon that cross as God Incarnate to remind us that God’s arms are themselves stretched wide to encompass the entire world—no exceptions. Jesus stretched his arms wide upon that cross as a fully human person to remind us that we are all capable of loving each other that much, that abundantly. God loves us into being and breathes love into us from the moment of our births, and we are called to try to breathe that love and grace into a world that, through our own human folly and selfishness, is gasping for it. We just have to be willing to take the risk of love, and take that first step onto the path of discipleship, without fear and with an open sacrificial spirit. The momentum of love will propel us forward.

Amen.



Readings:
Deuteronomy 30:15-20
Psalm 1
Philemon 1-21
Luke 14:25-33

Preached at the 505 on September 6 and the 10:30 Holy Eucharist on September 7, 2025 at St. Martin's Church in Ellisville.

Seen, and Loved: Sermon for Proper 26C

This weekend’s gospel passage includes the well known story about Zacchaeus encountering Jesus on the road to Jericho. It’s a staple of probably every children's Sunday school curricula you've ever encountered. And then there's the song, which, if you are like me, you have a compulsion to sing the minute you see Zacchaeus’s name. It has been an earworm for my entire week. We have heard it and we have sung it countless times. But that also means that we may need to shake off our familiarity with this story and really pay attention to what is said—and not said—in this familiar tale.

I wonder if one of the reasons why this story is so popular with children is that it is deliberately silly-- intentionally so. A grown man, probably used to being catered to due to his wealth, hauling himself up high into a tree while wearing what to American eyes is a dress. The comedic potential is undeniable.

But I also wonder if children don't love the story because at its base there is a beautiful, welcoming truth: that Jesus looks upon all of us, no matter who we are, how big we are, or how much other people think we might need correcting, and truly sees us, knows us by name, and wishes to spend time with us. No matter how old we get, experiencing that kind of not just acceptance but treasuring fulfills our deepest human longings. someone who will never give up on us.

The story of Zacchaeus expands upon the theme we heard in last week’s gospel. Jesus once again encounters someone who is considered an outsider from decent society by virtue of their collaboration with the occupying Roman empire. In both last week’s parable and this week’s encounter we see Jesus talking about or with tax collectors. We see here in this story with the promises of this tax collector what we hope was initiated by the tax collector we met in last week’s parable: not just acknowledging one’s sins before God, but promising restitution and just dealing where before there was exploitation and corruption.

This setting this time is in Jericho rather than the temple. I remember hearing about Jericho in my Sunday school days, when Joshua lengthy newly arrived armies of Israel around its walls, blowing a trumpet repeatedly, until the walls came down and the Israelites were able to take the town and make it there. By the time of Jesus’s lifetime, Jericho was a wealthy city, where King Herod had a palace, which means it was also the city in which the apparatus of taxation was particularly powerful. Zacchaeus is described as a “chief tax collector,” so he is well placed within that system, possibly notorious even among the townspeople.

All the markers are there to assume that Zacchaeus is corrupt to the bone—and yet there he is down mixing among the crowd that is gathered to see this wandering holy man, and he even behaves in the most undignified manner, running ahead of the crowd and eventually climbing the tree in order to merely get a glimpse of Jesus. Once again, the tale is more gently humorous than mean-spirited. Could it be that the crowd is the one wrong about Zacchaeus?

There are lots of details in this story that are surprising. Even with the crowd all around him, Jesus looks up and sees Zacchaeus perched precariously in his tree. Jesus then invites himself into Zacchaeus’s home. Then and now, that was a pretty significant breach of etiquette. Furthermore, by doing this, Jesus shows that he does not care about one of the Pharisees’ main complaints, first mentioned in Luke 5, that he consorted with known sinners and tax collectors.

Yet even the mere idea that Jesus would seek fellowship with him moves Zacchaeus, whose name means “pure in heart” in Hebrew, to publicly proclaim a scrupulous concern for living compassionately among his neighbors. That way of living involves being righteous toward the weak and powerless and seeking reconciliation with those whom you have harmed. Zacchaeus is, as we were first reminded, a very powerful man, regardless of his physical height. He is a man of public prominence. If he embraces Jesus’s insistence of walking the path of mercy and demand for restorative justice for love of those on the margins of society, who knows how many other people we will be affected by his example? If that isn’t what salvation is, I don’t know how else you can define it.

Yet—look closely. Neither Jesus nor Zacchaeus make any mention of sin. At the very end, Jesus says that salvation has come Zacchaeus’s house, because the Human One has come to those who are “lost.” Zacchaeus defends himself against the murmuring of the crowd calling him a sinner by promising publicly to give half of his goods to the poor, and to recompense anyone he may have cheated fourfold. But he uses the PRESENT tense in the original Greek. He says he GIVES half his goods to the poor, and that he compensates those he may have harmed four times over.

The crowds see Zacchaeus one way. Jesus sees Zacchaeus in another way—as a beloved brother (as evidenced by the language calling him a “son of Abraham”). Perhaps Zacchaeus has been “lost” because he has been discounted and abandoned by the assumptions of the community. Once again we are reminded that God’s sense of justice and ours are different, because God sees clearly where we see only “through a glass darkly,” in the words of Paul in the 1st letter to the church in Corinth. As we are reminded over and over again, God is especially concerned about those who are “lost”—whether through their actions or the actions of those around them. And some of those who are lost are not lost through any actions of their own-- but by others denying them as being worthy of remaining in the flock. It's not OUR job to judge this-- it's far beyond our pay grade.

How does this apply to our world? 

Good grief, how does it not? 

Our society is filled with self-righteous people casting out all kinds of people based on their assumptions about them being unworthy, or calling them sinners. Our society is mired right now in casting all kinds of slurs at people who are different than us, or who disagree with us—and ironically, at the same time, excusing all sorts of bad behavior on behalf of those whom they perceive as being “like them.” We see people who are differently abled mocked. We see it when people with accents are mocked or thought of as stupid when they speak. Parents at school board meetings screaming at teachers and administrators. We hear it in attempts to shame people, even children, who do not conform to rigid expectations about their identities or clothing styles or hairstyles or body art. None of which has anything to do with the person anyone is inside—in the place where God sees us and loves us most clearly.

I heard off a pastor asking the kids in his youth group how they thought God saw them—and the overwhelming answer was that they thought God was disappointed in them or angry with them for their imperfections, much less failures. And I remember feeling the same way in those fire-and-brimstone churches I attended as a child. Our kids already have a hard enough time growing up—and many of us have a hard enough time getting through the days in which we do not hear a kind word. And we see the bitter fruit such hate and division has as drug-abuse and suicide rates skyrocket, as school shootings proliferate—even among our children! And this week, we had a school shooting right here in St. Louis, which is why I am wearing this orange gun violence stole. We celebrate and encourage violence and hatred and bullying far too much. And often in doing so, we push others out-- beyond the margins of who is in and who is out.

There is a reason why Jesus constantly reaches out to the margins—and encourages us to do the same as his followers. And it is simply because the judging of others has never won anyone’s heart to God—not really.

Our world is too filled with cruelty and name calling toward other people based on no other evidence than how they identify themselves. There is no doubt that one of the greatest plagues of our modern time is refusing to really see each other- to see each other, to honor the divine spark in each other without questioning who is worthy and who is not. Just like that lawyer who asked Jesus "Who is my neighbor?", we want to know what the limits of the people we have to acknowledge as our neighbors are. But what this world needs is radical acceptance and radical empathy. We are called to lend our strong backs to those bent over from bearing burdens we have no idea that they are carrying..

Too many of us—and it seems to be growing!-- are far too comfortable with failing to honor each and every person as fellow human beings. Too many of us are far too inured to each other’s pain and suffering. Some even take pleasure in the suffering of others, especially those different from them, and see that suffering as justice, and I am not just talking about the criminal justice system.

Embedded within this story is a call to action to us—to examine our own minimization of others. To examine our failure to truly see each other—especially those who are far outside our familiar circles. And even more, to examine our silence in the face of others being minimized. We are not called to simply "like" Jesus-- we are called to BE like Jesus. We are the face of Jesus in the world.

I invite you to think back to the last time you experienced such a feeling of companionship, comfort, peace, and contentment. We live such hectic lives now, it can be easy to forget to make time for each other and to spend time with each other, sharing companionship and enjoying the presence of those we love and giving people the benefit of the doubt. And as we've been talking about prayer the last few weeks, to think of how to apply that same intentionality and loving kindness in our time spent intentionally in communion and prayer with God.

As always, our lives as disciples don't come with an instruction manual-- other than our commitment to follow in the example of Jesus. So this week, I hope you get find the chance to slow down, look up, look around, and share the love of Jesus with those you see. It is the best and only way to be disciples of Jesus in word and deed.


Preached at the 505 on October 29 and at the 10:30 Eucharist on October 30 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.


Readings:
Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4
Psalm 119:137-144
2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12
Luke 19:1-10

Prayer 3045: In continued remembrance of the Tulsa Race Massacre

In silent adoration,
we pray to You,
O Creator, O Reddemer, O Spirit of Truth,
and seek your guidance in our daily journey.

Author of Life,
inscribe your law of love within our hearts,
that we may be vessels of hope
and instruments of peace and reconciliation
in all we do today.

Merciful One,
you call us to justice
that flows like a river from our hearts:
may we confront the injustice we have inherited
with honesty and remorse,
and seek ways to restore
our relationships with our kindred.

Give us the will
to sacrifice and persevere in faith,
to build bridges among communities
and seek the common good for all.

Blessed Jesus, heal us of our fractured hearts,
that we may turn back to You rejoicing
and bring praise to your healing power in the world.

We lay our prayers before You,
O God of the Oppressed and Forsaken:
grant the blessing of your comfort
to all whom we lift before You.

Amen.

Prayer 3043: On the centennial of the Tulsa Race Massacre

God of Justice and Mercy,
we kneel before you in humble prayer
acknowledging our sins and divisions,
emptying ourselves of our pride
asking your aid as we seek your wisdom.

Give us the courage
to seek the truth where it is under assault,
and to seek to repair the breaches in our communities.
As children of truth,
may we acknowledge and repent
where we have profited from the lie,
and work to right the wrongs of our past
which have continued consequences today.

Holy One, we mourn for those
who lost their livelihoods and their lives
to the evil of racism, violence, fear, and envy.
We mourn for those who were forced into silence
by the demands of their tormentors
to preserve the edifice of power
founded upon the rock of exploitation and threat.

May we stand alongside the survivors
and work for true justice
as the foundation of peace and fellowship.
May we call for redress and reparation
to mend the fabric of community
and demand equity for the wronged.

Blessed Lord, give us the will
to put our shoulders to the wheel of unity
that is your vision for our lives together.
Help us to persevere
in the pursuit of righteousness and integrity
that is our duty to one another
as your children, O God of Our Ancestors.

Grant us the blessing of hope, O Eternal Light,
and rest your protection on those
whose cry is to You.

Amen.

Entangled Loves: Sermon for Trinity Sunday B

 

It’s a blessing that Trinity Sunday falls the day before the centennial of the Tulsa Race Massacre. On May 31, 1921, a white mob attempted to lynch a black man accused of rape in an elevator in downtown Tulsa. Even though the police were dubious about the entire story, they arrested the young man. The Tulsa evening paper called for him to be lynched. Black veterans showed up at the jail determined to protect him, and a gunshot went off when a white man tried to seize one of their weapons. 

 

Within the next hours, forty square city blocks of one of the most prosperous black communities in the United States was reduced to rubble and ash. Twelve hundred buildings—churches, homes, businesses-- were destroyed, some by firebombs thrown from airplanes. Machine-gun fire raked streets filled with those trying to escape. Probably 300 African Americans died, bodies dumped into the Arkansas River or unceremoniously into unmarked mass graves. Although at first Tulsa’s leadership was appalled, soon, the story of that terrible time and the truth of the deadly consequences of division and hatred were buried, unmarked, as well. The estimated death toll of that day makes May 31, 1921 the day of the worst act of domestic terrorism in United States history.(1)

 

This massacre began with the great evil of division—the sin that denies our common bonds as humans, that encourages murderous jealousy and greed, that tries to divide us so that we are isolated and weak.

 

It is an unfortunate fact that we humans often find it easy to tear things down into their constituent parts. We categorize and separate. But to take a step back and see how all is connected, and to feel that as a reality, is a spiritual as well as a imaginative challenge. Yet scientists are discovering all the time how things we formerly thought were separate are actually united in community.

 

And so it is with us. We have a tendency to break ourselves off from the rest of creation as humans, and then we have the tendency to divide ourselves up further still, by race, language, gender, sexual identity. Chop, chop, chop. Some people even use the Bible to justify such division.

 

But creation tells a very different story, and science is just now beginning to catch up.

 

Physicists now talk about something called quantum entanglement. This is a phenomenon where when a group of particles come into proximity or relationship with each other, they remain influenced by each other even after being separated by distance. Though they separate, they behave as a singular whole. Ironically, many of these same physicists who are also people of faith see the similarity – including the difficulty of describing what this means—in the concept of the Trinity. 

It also reminds us of how even fleeting relationships can change us and remind us of our essential similarities. Even botanists are now seeing similar unifying principles where once only separateness was admitted.

 

In Fishlake National Forest in Utah, in the south-central part of the state, near Kanosh, just east of Interstate 15, south of Salt Lake City and Provo, there is one of the oldest and largest organisms on earth, nicknamed Pando. He covers over 106 acres, but Pando is estimated to weigh 13 million pounds, so he certainly is both more visible and largest in term of weight than any living thing found so far on Earth.  He is also 80,000 years old, born in the Pleistocene epoch, during the last Ice Age. He spent the three-fourths of his life before humans ever stepped foot on this continent approximately 15,000 years ago—indeed he has been alive for half the time that homo sapiens has roamed the planet. He survived and flourished at about the time of a massive die-off that killed three-fourths of large mammals in North America.

 

He (for he is male) is a colony of Quaking Aspen that has been named “Pando” (Lat. “I spread”) by the scientists who have studied him since his discovery in 1968. Above the surface of the ground, he appears as if he is simply 47,000 individual trees. However, under the surface of the ground, Pando is actually one genetically identical organism that spreads via vegetative reproduction, developing a complex and expansive root system that from which shoots rise to pierce the surface of the ground. 

 

Probably there were other seeds that sprouted on that same day and in the long years since. Yet Pando was born at the right time, and in the right place, and with the right characteristics for survival and endurance, as the rest of his generation have themselves subsided back before memory. As he grew, he raised his arms toward the sun, and with all the other trees of the forest, he sang songs of joy and praise before God, dancing in the breeze like David before the Ark. 

 

Pando was already old and wise by the time that stories of Moses were being passed from generation to generation at the juncture of Asia and Africa, thousands of miles away. He had barely begun living alongside humans by the time, half a world away, a wandering teacher named Y’shua began calling disciples along the banks of a small sea called Galilee. 

 

And Pando is not a solitary example. We are now finding that trees talk to each other through their root systems even across species. The beat of a butterfly’s wing on one side of the world can generate a storm on the other. All of this leads to one thing: Separation is an illusion. It also leads us to deny the nature of creation, and the nature of God. Being is relational. Our lives are entangled with others even when-- especially when-- we can't see it.

 

Trinity Sunday is our dedicated yearly reminder—hopefully we think about this more than once a year—that community lies at the very center of God’s inner reality. When the Bible insists “God is love,” it says so because at the heart of the mystery of God lies the Trinity: Holy Spirit, Son, and Father, all drawn together in mutual love that the flows outward to all creation. I deliberately wrote those in a different order than that to which most of us are accustomed, because even as some theologians affirm that each "person" of the Trinity is equal, there often seems to be a preferencing for God the Father to always come first, even though scripture itself often uses other orders. 

 

Why does this matter? Because it puts a sharp point to the lie that our lives within God are hierarchical, solitary, individual, or self-centered. God’s essence is joyful community, equality, affirmation, sharing. The relationship within the Trinity is often described as a dance, and there’s even a fancy word for that: perichoresis.  God’s very self exists in love, kinship, and community, and we are called to be children of God. Further, God draws us into the loving relationship of God through Jesus as Incarnate One in particular. 

 

There’s a story of a monk who was asked by a man if Jesus Christ was his personal savior.

 

“Nope,” the monk replied. “I like to share him.”(2)

 

Sharing is at the heart of God. It is at the heart of the life of faith. And it is at the center of the web of life and love that makes up the universe.

 

We are made in the image of God, and whatever that vague phrase might mean, it has to mean that we are called, with our free will, to choose to live a life worthy of God. To live a life in which we see the concept of the Trinity as a beautiful mystery, yes, but as a beautiful challenge to us all to let love’s call sing out in our lives. If we might truly take hold of the truth that our lives were meant, from the time of creation, to be entangled with each other in love, fellowship, and kinship, how might we be changed?

 

Through Christ, the Beloved Son, we are taken into the very heart of God. We are called to inhibit the same spaces and graces that Jesus himself inhabited as one of us. And it IS possible to love that much and that freely. It’s countercultural, but it is possible. We are called to live as Jesus lived, here on earth, yes—a life that had a beginning and an ending. 

As theologian Mary LaCugna states:

 

“Living trinitarian faith means living God’s life: living from and for God, from and for others. Living trinitarian faith means living as Jesus Christ lived, in persona Christi: preaching the gospel; relying totally on God; offering healing and reconciliation; rejecting laws, customs, conventions that place persons beneath rules; resisting temptation; praying constantly; eating with modern-day lepers and other outcasts; embracing the enemy and the sinner; dying for the sake of the gospel if it is God’s will. Living trinitarian faith means living according to the power and presence of the Holy Spirit: training the eyes of the heart on God’s face and name proclaimed before us in the economy; responding to God in faith, hope and love; eventually becoming unrestrictedly united with God. Living trinitarian faith means living together in harmony and communion with every other creature in the common household of God.”(3)

 

We are all one, held together by the love of God that is the heart of God. May we rejoice in our entangled lives, and our entangled loves. Only then will we know the peace and justice of God.

 

Amen.

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

Readings:

• Isaiah 6:1-8
• Romans 8:12-17
• John 3:1-17
• Psalm 29

Citations:

1) See Tim Madigan, "Remembering Tulsa: American Terror" in Smithsonian Magazine, April 2021, at https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/tulsa-race-massacre-century-later-180977145/

2) Related by Scott Cairns, in "The End of Suffering," in Image Journal, Issue 52, 2006, at https://imagejournal.org/article/the-end-of-suffering/  

3) Catherine Mowry LaCugna, God For Us: The Trinity and Christian Life, 400-401.

The Shepherd's Duty: Sermon for Easter 4B (Good Shepherd Sunday)

Deep in the Western Australian countryside, two tourists were walking through a quaint town sightseeing. They suddenly ran into what in that town was a traffic jam—caused by a smallish herd of newly shorn sheep being moved through town. Drivers in their cars stopped their engines and got out to stretch their legs as the flock threaded through the dusty center of town. Black and white dogs darted back and forth, keeping the sheep bunched together. At the rear of this mass of animals walked a man. He was yelling out commands with little effect, driving the sheep with a whip in his hand, snapping it over their heads and at times on their sides and at their heels. When the whip made contact, the sheep would jump and scatter, only to be brought back together by the dogs. It was slow going.

“That’s funny,” said one of the tourists to her companion. “I didn’t know that shepherds used whips.”

A bystander overheard and leaned over. “They don’t,” he confided. “That bloke’s no shepherd. He’s the town butcher.”

Today, this fourth Sunday in Eastertide, we hear-- as we do each year-- passages from scripture about shepherds. It might seem strange if this was less usual, but we hear these stories every year, and so even in our context where I am betting most of us have only been near sheep in a petting zoo at Purina Farms, we listen and nod appreciatively. We work with a kind of limited understanding of what real shepherding is all about (it’s lonely, and exposed to the elements, and kind of stinky and dirty in real life) because we know this to be a metaphor to talk about our relationship with God and God’s relationship with us.

But I am hoping we can lean in a bit today to what our readings say to us in our own lives right now—both in our lives together as a community and a nation, as well as our lives together as disciples of Christ, mostly through the lens of our beloved 23rd Psalm.

I started with this anecdote because the part of this psalm that has been speaking to me most loudly is the image of the rod and the staff that is at the very center of our psalm. It’s like the fulcrum. So let’s actually start there. 

The rod and the staff show up in our psalm when the sheep are in the most danger—in the valley of the shadow of death. Now in normal times, shepherds lead their sheep from the front when they are guiding them. But once in danger, the psalm suggests  that God goes from walking in front of us to walking beside us, as our companion who will use the rod and the staff to protect and comfort rather than to abuse or chastise. That’s why this psalm doesn’t mention the one who cares for us driving us with whips. That would only add to the terror, and change the role of the shepherd from protector and shield to one who rules by fear and infliction of pain.

As I've been thinking about the verdict in the trial of the murderer of George Floyd, and meditating upon this psalm this week, that image of the rod and the staff have been haunting me. I've been thinking about when we invest people with tools and authorities that can cause injury and even death, we do so with the idea that those tools and authority are going to be used not against us but for us. In fact, most of us take that for granted. But we have to acknowledge that our own lack of concern is not shared by all of our kindred. 

On the night of the verdict coming down, I listened to our own Presiding Bishop speaking with great emotion about how he too grew up knowing that the color of his skin could lead his interactions with the police to not be those of protection but to be those of suspicion at first sight. And this usually optimistic man of God, whose greatest theme is that God is love and God is the answer, was weeping in relief that perhaps with this small measure of accountability we could begin the work of making our justice system and law enforcement less a means of control of people of color and more a system in which all receive equal guidance and protection under the law.

We give our shepherds authority over us, expecting that they will protect us and care for us so that we may live together in peace and without anxiety. We see the presence of the rod to be used against those who terrorize and pose imminent threat to the sheep—not against the sheep themselves, even when they do stupid things, as sheep-- and people-- are prone to do.

It’s part of the lore of this psaslm that King David himself wrote this psalm, and before he was king, he was a shepherd. His musical skill was honed as her practiced his harp playing to the sheep, singing to them during the long days, and in that singing, intimately acquainting them with the sound of the voice of the one who was there to protect them and lead them. The shepherd constantly sings out to his sheep—some even read to them—so that running to the sound of his or her voice becomes instinctive. And indeed, in all my years working with adolescents, the best educators knew it was the power of their voice and the power of their relationship with the kids that most helped guide them and help them to feel safe enough to lower their guard and trust us as teachers-- and to de-escalate when the kids needed to calm down. It is the same way with shepherds.

So there are two roles being described here as we consider the shepherd as model of the good leader or protector, and that of the sheep as the protected, and what that protection means. This psalm is about the leader—and those who are led. And there are implications for our lives in examining both of these roles.

The psalm starts with a simple declaration: God is my shepherd. It’s a straightforward, wonder-filled statement in sureness (and sureness will be featured again in the last verse of the psalm). And if God is my shepherd, I know that he will feed me and care for me so that I will not be in want. All anxiety is therefore vanquished --dispelled in the imagery of green pastures of plenty and still waters to lie down beside. And all of us deserve that assurance in our lives with each other, too.

This reminds us of the responsibility we bear as sheep. In our current political climate, the term sheep is often used contemptuously to represent someone who just blindly follows without thinking for themselves. But the obverse is just as dangerous to our common life together: those who refuse to follow any guidance but their own prejudices, their insatiable appetites, their refusal to privilege facts over their own often paranoid opinions certainly seemed to be the loudest sheep around us at times. And that not only endangers the well being of all of the members of the community, it also denies the authority that God rightfully is owed within their lives --and ours.

We know that provision is also a vital part of leadership, despite what some leaders who are only interested in power say. They want to divorce their obligations from their power, and that only leads to the tyranny of the whip.

The power of the rod and staff is a grave responsibility. We know that the rod and staff are meant for assurance and protection rather than intimidation by our next image in Psalm 23: that of God as host and provider. That same shepherd who was willing to put his life on the line to protect us is also willing to offer us plenty even in the face of those who wish us ill. God doesn't just provide us with a meal --God provides us with a banquet right in the face of those who would torment us. Where we might otherwise be afraid to take our eyes off of those who wishes harm, God instead calls us to lay aside any concern, and instead to feast at a banquet prepared of the best things.

The descriptions of safety, plenty, belovedness, and abundance described in verses 1-5 of our psalm lead the psalmist to come to a conclusion of what this special relation of protection care and guidance means for their life: With God leading us, goodness and mercy will follow us through every moment of our lives. In other words, our lives are bookended by God In God's plenteous, unwavering gifts. God at the forefront, goodness and mercy bringing up our rearguard.

And so where does that leave us? Dwelling within the household of God for all eternity, yes, but most importantly, in the time we have right now. Some scholars originally took this last line to mean that the best life was one that was lived in the temple, within its boundaries. And yet the bulk of the Psalm actually doesn't suggest so. This is a psalm about living your life out in the world in the certainty of God’s love and in testimony and witness to God’s love --not shutting yourself up away from the vagaries of life. This last observation gives us the courage and strength to persevere through whatever may come, knowing that in the end nothing will ever separate us from the love and care of God. Not even death. 

The purpose of the shepherd is not to conquer by division. The purpose of the shepherd is to make possible the creation of a good life. This psalm reminds us that God as our shepherd walks with us through our trials, even our own mistakes and foolishness, guiding and delivering us. We are never alone. We are always beloved. God has chosen us and anointed us, and provides us with all our hearts and souls need. But it also reminds us of how we should remember our common cause with all of the members of God’s flock, and how the leadership that God especially in Jesus models for us is a path of goodness and mercy for all of us as leaders and as followers. Jesus states flatly that he is willing to “lay down my life for my sheep…. of my own accord.”

Jesus seeks out all the lost sheep, and calls for us to do the same, remembering that we all fall within that category at times in our lives. Jesus calls to us, relentlessly, compassionately, taking the initiative to move toward us because only he can, and it is only when we still our own bleating that we can hear him. Luckily, he will wait and call us in the spaces and brief silences of our lives. We are scattered—but he calls us into one flock, despite our tendency to wander. Despite our tendency to fear. And goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our lives, bringing us into our true home.

With God, and with each other.

Amen.

Preached at the 10:30 online service on Good Shepherd Sunday (the 4th Sunday in Easter) April 25, 2021 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church in Ellisville.

Readings:

• Acts 4:5-12
• 1 John 3:16-24
• John 10:11-18
• Psalm 23

Citations:

1) Top image: The Sheep, the Gate, the Shepherd, copyright Laura James. Used with Permission.

2) Last Image: The Good Shepherd, copyright Laura James. Used with permission.

Prayer 3006: After the Verdict, When the True Work Begins

God of Wisdom,
Holy and Compassionate One,
we praise you and bless you
in gratitude for your gifts.

We turn to you for guidance
in humility and hope,
O Ground of Our Being,
that we may honestly examine our lives
and the common life we share,
and demand equity and true justice for all.

God of Grace and Mercy,
may we have the wisdom and will
to tear down the edifices of violence and oppression
that conflate your true and holy peace
with pacification at the point of a sword.

May we remember that true peace is established
where amity and justice abide
for the least as much as for the great;
where the powerful empower and support
the cry of those who bear the burden of injustice;
and where ease and freedom is available to all
and generated by love of neighbor--
by the renunciation of vengeance and malice,
embracing our kinship with all.

May we always treat each other with the mercy and respect
that we ourselves hope to receive,
no matter the recipient.
May we examine the influence of our fears
in generating anger,
and the influence of our anger
in injuring and demeaning those we encounter.

May we remember
our own failures and sinful impulses
before judging the lives and liberty of others forfeit.
May we choose accountability over vengeance,
and never fool ourselves that we can flourish
if our security is built by crushing our neighbors.

Help us recover a reverence for
and recognition of
the image of God
woven into the blood and bones
of every soul.

May we embody resurrection
in devoting ourselves to the work
of healing
and accountability.

May we be devoted to waging justice in your Name, Lord,
led by our duties and obligations to one another.
May we embody that our well-being
is bound up in the well-being and protection of all.

Almighty One,
your lovingkindness is our shield and our breath:
extend now the balm of your comfort and healing
to those for whom we pray.


Amen.






Written after former Minneapolis Police Officer Derek Chauvin was found guilty of the murder of George Floyd

Not Empty But Open: Sermon for Proper 20A

As I was pondering this Sunday’s readings I was enjoying a gorgeous afternoon to sit in my backyard garden. I decided while I was sitting there to water all the different plants in the hillside garden around the seating area where I like to work. Then I just turned on the hose and let it start running down the hill to water all the hostas, ferns, and other plants that dwell under the canopy of trees in our backyard.

After about 10 minutes, suddenly there was great rejoicing in the Land of Birds, and dozens of sparrows, finches, chickadees, and wrens began to wing their way over to wash themselves in the birdbath and in the puddles of water on the ground. One of them, a particularly raucous bluejay, even had the temerity to land on an empty birdfeeder, give me the stink eye, rap the base of the empty feeder sharply with its beak a couple times, and then flutter off in a huff, and then cuss at me in blue jay-ese.

Never mind that I had generously turned on the hose, which is what had drawn these birds here in the first place.

Are these birds never satisfied? And the answer is: yes, and no. Once I started providing them with birdseed and water, they expect me to keep doing it.

In our reading from Exodus this morning, the Israelites are the same way, but their situation is more dire than those of my birds, who can always just fly to the neighbor’s birdbaths if mine run dry. The Israelites are having a hard time trusting God to provide—and to be fair, they are in a wilderness so hot that, if they do not find fresh water each day, they WILL be in serious trouble. But, because they lack trust in God, they turn on God, and God’s prophet Moses, faster than the speed of sound.

Forgotten is the groaning that they raised up to God—groaning so loud that God could not ignore it—and that God has promised that God will always be in their midst—exactly what they question when the water bags start to empty.

And we should be able to have some sympathy for the Israelites, since, after all, we currently stand on similarly vulnerable ground. We are more than six months in to this pandemic, and we are just as much lost and disoriented in a wilderness at were the Israelites in this story. It’s so bad that we are looking back longingly at the time before this pandemic—even those of us for whom the situation wasn’t all that great. At least it was familiar.

We too, stand in the midst of a trackless wilderness, and that can lead us to wonder where God is for our own situation. We are also months and years into a struggle for equality and liberty for all in this country, as more and more people see the prejudice and division that shreds the fabric of our country in very deadly ways.

The uncertainty we have been thrust into is very real. The anxiety that hangs over us is very real. The shifting sand beneath our feet, the changing situation from day to day with no obvious end in sight. And the more the clamor in our heart and head increases in volume, the harder it can be to hear the still small voice of God murmuring in our ears.

It’s at this point that our reading from Philippians reminds us that we truly have God-among-us, as the Israelites did, and we can trust that, if only we can still the frantic beating of our hearts. Jesus shows us a different way, a better way, of calming our fears and anxieties.

And it’s by looking beyond our own concerns to see how we stand in solidarity with others—and to realize that the gifts of unity and community can help us all not only survive this time of testing but emerge on the other side of the wilderness stronger as both individuals and as a people of faith, and hope, resilient against the forces of fear and scarcity.

We’ve been hearing for weeks now that the least will be the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Paul starkly reminds us that Jesus himself is our model in how to do this.

Paul speaks of Jesus “emptying himself” of all his rightful honor and glory due to him as the Son of God, and choosing to be born as one of us. The Greek term for emptying is “kenosis.”

In Jesus, as Paul explains, one who was the greatest became a humble human, and not just a human but a peasant in the farthest, out-of-the-way occupied corner of a vast and relentless empire. Jesus faced rejection again and again, even to the point of being accused of being a rebel and blasphemer and dying for it.

Jesus lived out of a love that sustains the world, a love that challenges the calculus of exploitation and injustice, and that made him an enemy of the state and a threat to those who thought themselves righteous. Jesus did this so that we would know that God has experienced all our suffering, and stands in solidarity beside us. As his disciples, Jesus calls us to be brave enough to likewise empty ourselves—but in our case, what we are called to let go of is what SEPARATES us from each other, and from God.

Now that can still be scary—in a time of crisis, the human things is to hold tighter to what we have, even if it’s really not good, like those Israelites, rather than let go of the familiar. But what exactly is Jesus calling us to let go of and empty ourselves of? What does kenosis mean for us?

Kenosis is emptying ourselves of our willfulness, all of our prerogatives for self- aggrandizement, in order to make room for the beauty of living from in truth, rather than self-delusion, to living for each other in unity rather than fear. That’s the foundation of discipleship—loving and embracing each other, creating the beloved community in which no one is an outcast. It’s opening ourselves to the possibility of love.

Our hearts are about the size of a fist, but a fist cannot take hold of the good. It’s only when our hearts are open that we feel the presence of God alongside us.

This is not the terrifying emptiness of the wilderness, the emptiness of fear and scarcity that besets them and us as we long for proof that God is with us. This emptiness we are called to embrace is to make room for God within us—so that we can never again wonder where God is, because God will dwell within us and guide us to a deeper faith and unity.

Discipleship has to be oriented to doing God’s will, not our own. It’s too easy to fall into the belief that Jesus, God incarnate, is just like us, rather than embracing the more uncomfortable call of trying to be more like Him.

The writer Anne Lamott has a wonderful observation: “You can safely assume that you have created God in your image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.”

That’s always been one of the main challenges in Christianity. We anthropomorphize God, turning that whole “made in God’s image” thing from Genesis on its head. We don’t need a God who is more like us. We need to be a people who are more like God. And the good news is, we already have a template: God has lived among us as one of us, and God continues to live among us. And as self-proclaimed members of the Body of Christ, there is our charge. Even though it is clear, it certainly is not easy. Transformation never is. Transformation, both of ourselves and of our world, requires work, and that starts with the will to do it.

That’s our main role as the Church, as Christ’s body in the world. Jesus calls us to empty ourselves, yes—but empty ourselves of all that weighs us down in misery and fear. And in the dual crises we have going right now—the pandemic, and the fight against racial injustice that infects our country, and harms all of us. These twin pandemics reinforce the same truth spoken by Martin Luther King, preaching from the gospel of Jesus—that we are all interconnected. That injustice anywhere leads to injustice everywhere unless we demand something better and are willing to stand up for it.

Jesus calls us to transform the dry rocks of our hearts into springs of life and hope for the good of the world. Out of love for us, Jesus encourages us to empty ourselves of all that prevents us from seeing the inherent unity God has woven between you and me and all of creation. To empty and open ourselves, so that we may be filled with something better. We let go of the death-dealing fears and hatreds of this world so that we can make more room for God, more room for love within us. To make room for transformation not just of ourselves, but of the world around us. And as it begins to transform each of us individually, that love set free within us will transform our parish, and the world. God’s presence becomes clear to us when we open our hearts to see God’s presence in each other.

We can choose to empty ourselves of fear, to interrupt the downward spiral that seeks to grip us; to still the cacophony in our heads and hearts. To remember that we are beloved, and so is our neighbor. And if that neighbor is oppressed by injustice, to stand in solidarity with them as part of our witnessing to the power, right now, of the transformative life of Christ. Episcopal priest and theologian Stephanie Spellers puts it this way:

Kenosis, cracking open, embracing disruption, releasing control, giving your life away -- these are only one part of the equation. We let go of one life in order to take up new life, the life of the beloved. We release what we hoarded in order to receive gift upon gift from God. Our cracked open hearts are at last roomy enough to hold the lives and hearts of others. We practice kenosis in preparation for solidarity.

Solidarity is love crossing the borders drawn by fear and selfishness, in order to enter into the situation of the other, for the purpose of mutual relationship and struggle that heals us all in enacts God's dream of beloved community.

Solidarity is the voice that finally comprehends: “You are not the same as me, but part of you lives in me. Your freedom and mine are were always inextricably entwined. Now I see it, and because of what I see, I choose to live differently. I will go there, with you for your sake and for my own.”

The dream of God is that we all experience the conditions to thrive, and that we sacrifice in order to create those conditions for one another. If you've got privilege, as Jesus did, don't use it for your own happiness or to elevate your circle; leverage it as part of Jesus movement to ensure everyone flourishes.(1)  

Jesus calls us to be of one mind with him, as Paul reminds us. This means to look beyond the narrative of hopelessness and look back to see a record of endurance and resilience. To see how far we have come at this point, and look for lilting notes of grace that run as a counterpoint to the basso profundo of despair. To see the flickering light of those small gifts that we have overlooked along the way, even something as simple as signs of community when people of good will take care of each other, when we’ve seen people recognize strangers as neighbors and companions along the way. Sharing each others’ burdens.

May we have the will to embrace the blessed emptying of all that holds us back. May we embrace the gift of being one with the mind of Christ in his embrace of all creation. May we allow God to be at work in us, so that we may do God’s work in the world.

Amen.

Preached at the 10:30 am worship service livestreamed from St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO on September 27, 2020.

Readings:

Exodus 17:1-7
Psalm 78:1-4, 12-16
Philippians 2:1-13
Matthew 21:23-32

References/sources:

(1) The Rev. Canon Stephanie Spellers, The Church Cracked Open: Disruption, Decline, and New Hope for the Beloved Community, to be published in March 2021, made available on September 26, 2020 at Medium.com, https://medium.com/@revsteph/on-kenosis-solidarity-and-stewardship-of-privilege-by-stephanie-spellers-30d5fce95152  

Prayer 2798: Reclaiming the Day in the Name of Love

Merciful and Beneficent Creator,
we rejoice in your blessings without number,
and lay our hearts before you
that they be hallowed and purified:
uplifted by the love
of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

This day have you given us, O God of the Ages:
it has been woven on the loom by your hand
and lays before us like fine linen,
full of possibility and hope.
Where we see division threatening to rend it,
may we mend it
through the unity of the Holy Trinity.
Where we see hatred and contempt staining it,
may we cleanse it
through the power of love and affirmation of worth.
Where we see the heat of injustice unraveling it,
may we reknit ourselves in solidarity as one,
shoulder to shoulder with the oppressed.

May we reclaim this day in the name of Love Incarnate,
and be known as your children
by our steadfast love and compassion.

Blessed Savior, Healer, and Teacher,
place your hand upon us
to guide us, to heal us, to strengthen us,
and cast wide the net of your peace and hope
to encompass all those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2748: Walking in the Way of Jesus

God of Mercy, God of Grace,
grant us the wisdom to see your image
in each and every face,
and, with humility,
to acknowledge your imprint within us.
May we marvel at the beauty
of every living thing
created by your hand,
including this bountiful Earth, our home.

May we wear your mantle, O Savior, with integrity,
working as one alongside the oppressed,
the impoverished,
the suffering,
the silenced.
May we walk in your way, Blessed Jesus,
to give voice to those
that cry from the wilderness of injustice.
May we offer water
to those parched in the desert of insecurity and need.
May we give hope
to those who have lost their faith
in the power of compassion and love in the world.

Blessed Trinity, extend the shelter of your compassion
over all who cry out for help, we humbly pray,
and give your angels charge over those
whose needs we lift before you.

Amen.

Prayer 2735

Most Generous God,
You have brought us in safety to this new day:
help us use it to your glory,
that we may reflect your light and witness before all.

Blessed Savior,
you took on human vesture
that we might see how to live
according to God's commandments:
may we be healing hands in the world,
reconciling the lost and freeing the oppressed
in your Name.

Spirit of Truth,
draw us deeper into community
and enflame our hearts with charity and wisdom
as we answer the cal of discipleship
dependent upon your grace and truth.
Holy Trinity, draw us into your dance of love,
and welcome those who seek You,
for we lift up these beloveds as we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2717: The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

O God of All the Nations,
with one voice we join in the song of all creation
in worshiping and praising you
on this day You have made.

Our hearts are filled with wonder
at the abundant grace with which You sustain us,
calling us to unity and kinship with all that is:
Your hand has shaped the mourning dove
and the human heart, both of equal size.
May our hearts take flight
to the glory of your gospel, Lord Christ,
and be filled with the Spirit you breathe upon us
so that we may be inflamed by love and justice
for the lifting up of the Beloved Community
You call us to embody.

May we bear your yoke with honor,
sharing each other's burdens
and caring for the oppressed and the weary
as You did, Blessed Jesus,
with gentle hands and a healing heart,
looking with love on the cares and the beauty of the world.

Loving One,
gentle us and center us within You,
that we may act out of our hope
rather than our fear,
and out of our faith
rather than our contempt,
holding fast to your promise of life abundant.

Spirit of God,
bless us and guider steps today,
and grant your peace to those we now name.

Amen.

Prayer 2716: For Independence Day

God of All Creation,

in wonder and awe we thank You

for your abundant gifts and blessings.

May we put those gifts and blessings

into service to You and to each other, O Holy One.

Make us a generous, enlightened nation

devoted to liberty and justice for all

regardless of race, creed, or origin.

May we never misuse our liberty to hurt others,

or to treat anything in your creation with contempt.

May we remember our country's independence

is only possible through shared toil,

shared sacrifice,

and shared burdens.

May we rededicate ourselves to our common life,

and renew our common bonds,

the knitting together of many nations

into one country, O God Our Shepherd.

May we always seek to strengthen the bonds of union,

and work for true justice and peace,

established upon the solid rock

of sacrifice, responsibility, integrity, and wisdom.

May we care for each other

with compassion and generosity of spirit.

Place the hand of your guidance upon us, Lord,

and grant us wisdom and courage

to grow in faith and lovingkindness.

Lift up the weary and the suffering by your grace,

and grant your blessing to these beloveds.

Amen.