Worship, and Love, Embodied: Sermon for Lent 5C

There’s a scene in the sixth Harry Potter movie where the teenaged students, now pursuing advanced electives, have their first potions class. Their new potions master, Professor Slughorn, has three potions brewing for the class as examples, but he doesn’t tell them what they are. When he asks his students for guesses, of course bookworm Hermione Granger knows the answer—she knows them all. She identifies one, a powerful love potion, by its smell, a smell which is different for every person based on what they find attractive. She notes that when she draws near the cauldron holding the love potion, she smells freshly mown grass, new parchment, and spearmint toothpaste (her parents are non-magical folk who are dentists).

What does love smell like to you?

When I was a kid, love smelled like pan-fried steak fingers and fried okra, my favorite meal. It smelled like Old Spice cologne and my dad’s coffee, which was stronger enough to dissolve silverware. It smelled like Cherry ICEEs and the Brahm’s chocolate chip ice cream, but NOT the abominations of circus peanuts or candy corn. When my kids were little, love smelled like a clean diaper and baby lotion and food that was still warm when I ate it. Now that I am older, love smells like a Thistle Farms lavender candle that I light when I pray, in honor of women survivors of the streets and the inspiring ministry of the Rev. Becca Stevens. It smells like incense and sun-warmed tomatoes from the garden and my beloved’s jacket draped over my shoulders.

What does love smell like to you? What does is feel like?

I ask this as our gospel today presents us with one of the most richly sensual depictions of someone caring for Jesus in all of scripture— through our reading we experience a scene of the tenderest of ministrations, redolent with exotic perfume, in a place filled with love and companionship. A place like home—at least the kind of home each of us deserves, a place where people are devoted to each other by bonds of kinship stronger than mere blood ties.

Each of the gospels records an occasion where Jesus is anointed with perfume by a woman—and yet each of the accounts is different. In Matthew and Mark, Jesus is in Bethany, which is only two miles outside of Jerusalem and on the southeastern slope of the Mount of Olives. In three of the gospels the woman is unnamed, but in Luke an added detail is that she is a known sinner. Luke also places this incident much earlier in Jesus’s ministry, in the house of a Pharisee near Capernaum.

Our version from John is different in several aspects: Jesus and his disciples are in Bethany, yes, but at the home of Lazarus and his sisters, just after Jesus has raised Lazarus from the dead. The raising of Lazarus is the seventh of the seven signs in that Gospel—and the one that makes the local authorities determined to kill Jesus. John’s account makes it clear that Jesus is among his friends—friends who are grateful beyond belief for his resurrection of Lazarus from the grave. Perhaps this is as close to having a “home”—and it is just outside of Jerusalem-- that Jesus had.

Our Lenten lectionary does a magnificent job here in terms of sequencing. Last week we were reminded of the extravagance of God’s love and grace in the parable of the Prodigal Son, and here again we have a tale of extravagance. Yet rather than being inwardly directed and selfish, as the prodigal son’s extravagance was, Mary engages in an extravagant act of love—one that is deeply tender and personal. She breaks open a jar of dramatically expensive ointment—one used as a perfume, as incense, as herbal medicine as a sedative—and also for burial preparation.

The drama of this gesture is in its sensory richness: the smell of the perfume fills the entire house, we are told, and that Mary kneels at Jesus’s feet and pours an abundance of the ointment over his feet, wiping away the excess with the hair she lets down, as her family, Jesus, and his disciples look on in a reverent-- or shocked-- silence.

Mary anoints Jesus out of a profound love- it is unlikely that she knew that Jesus’ death on the cross was imminent. Mary’s motive may be to anoint him as Messiah out of gratitude for giving back her brother, which means that she and her sister will not be left exposed and destitute. Her extravagance is shocking—and the fact that she let down her hair, which a woman of that era only did in the presence of her husband—is even more shocking. But this is also the beginning of the second part of John, and at the start of each section, Jesus is anointed, so this anointing shows that Jesus is embarking upon a new phase of his mission. Jesus is presented in John as always being resolute, and matter-of-factly explains that he will soon die.

One of the things I am struck by in contemplating this passage is the reminder to all of us that Jesus had a body—which of course we all know, and kind of take for granted. No, I mean Jesus had a body that was not merely a vehicle or a symbol of his solidarity with us important as that is. But to take seriously Jesus’s full humanity is to realize that Jesus had a body that could feel comfort and pleasure and tenderness as well as undergo fasting and torture and death. Mary seizes the opportunity in the moment to care tenderly for Jesus’s living body. Through her touch she worships Jesus, and offers him gratitude, love and tenderness. A love and tenderness he needs as much as the actual anointing, as we know from our perspective two thousand years later, as we see Jerusalem and Christ’s passion and death looming just two miles and six days away in Jerusalem.

As Jesus speaks of his coming death, I imagine Mary longing to hoard these sensations of the feel of him, as his potential loss looms over those gathered there. And even in our time, we can have photos, and videos, of those we love even after they are gone. But one of the most final losses is the loss of the touch of the ones we love when they have passed away from us. As we look back on this scene from John’s gospel, I think about how Mary must have been so grateful in the days and years that followed that she yielded to this impulse to serve and caress her friend, regardless of cost or scandal or criticism, especially once he was executed on a cross.

This is a fully embodied story. The senses of sight, smell, touch, and taste are all richly engaged. Maybe that’s why some find this scene uncomfortable. After all, we live in a time of great ambivalence about our own bodies. We judge people’s bodies on their height, their shape, whether we think they take adequate care of their bodies. We make snap—and deadly-- judgments about people based on what shade of brown their bodies are, and divide ourselves along color lines, hair types, and nose shape. Our society dominates and regulates the bodies of children and women. We mock the signs of aging bodies and even try to hide or reverse the signs of aging. And the way we depict Jesus gets caught up into all of that, as it is a source of contention to some people to depict Jesus in a way that hasn’t been filtered through two thousand years of northern European art.

These last years of pandemic have been hard on our bodies—at least for most of us. When we went into preventative shut-down, we were deprived of the ability to be with friends and loved ones. We were unable to physically gather and share in the embodied community of the church in the same way we always had—a way we probably took for granted until it was temporarily taken from us. And worse, a sizeable portion of people around us responded not by doing what can be done to prevent illness, but denied the obligation to care for each other if it meant curtailing their freedom or preferences in any way. If anything should have made us aware of how we actually ARE affected by those around us, you would think it would be a contagious, deadly disease. May we ourselves always be better than that.

There’s one discordant note in the entire scene—and that’s when Judas makes his criticism of the extravagance of Mary’s gesture, and we get that often misinterpreted remark about the poor. But we know that Judas had not real concern for the poor. And when Jesus calls us to remember that the poor are always with us, Jesus reminds us that caring for each other and caring for the poor are not an either/or proposition, for the poor are part of us as surely as Jesus’s anointed feet are part of his body. If the poor are always with us, it is because we have already failed to take seriously our obligation to them to see them as part of us rather than separate and different from us. As Brazilian archbishop Halder Camara remarked, “When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why they are poor, they call me a communist.” That kind of attitude towards other children of God is a true impoverishment of spirit—one that denies the unity of all people in heart, mind, and body.

Just as we do with the poor, too often we forget or ignore the reality of Jesus as a human being, who loved, laughed, wept, hungered, thirsted, despaired. We think him aloof to real human emotions, and real human relationships—and the scriptural witness, written for a specific time and place for specific audiences, does not help that. They didn’t need a Jesus who could break a leg or suffer heartbreak. They needed a Jesus who was more-than-human. And certainly, we do too.

BUT Jesus did have a mother he loved, and friends he cared for, and compassion for those who sought his help. He hungered and thirsted. He knew the power of a nap, as the incident in the boat during the storm reminds us. He had a need for solitude even as he engaged in ministry among multitudes, with all its demands.

In this story we are reminded of the importance of the senses, and of the body, as a sign and location of love and of worship. Luckily, we are Episcopalians, and we worship bodily every week—what the comedian Robin Williams famously termed as “pew aerobics.” Stand, kneel, sit; bow, genuflect, present raised hands to receive communion.

Touch is precious. And it is a very finite gift. We can only touch those who are here with us. As I related to you in my rector’s reflection this week. my dad’s touch is one of the things I miss most because there is no way of artificially preserving it. Touch requires vulnerability. At its most loving it expressed safety. Tenderness. Love.

This is a story of true communion. The use of the word “break,” in saying that Mary “breaks open” the jar of ointment and pours it lavishly over Jesus’s feet, reminds us of the extravagance with which Jesus offers himself to us in the Eucharist, where we break the bread, where we “break bread together” and share in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. We speak of being “the Body of Christ,” implying the bold witness of Christ’s visible, tangible presence we are called upon to make in the world.

Mary’s action is an action of love, and an act of worship. Both can be profoundly intimate as well as public. We are therefore reminded that worship itself is an embodied act. But we are also reminded that the greatest way we worship Jesus is to ourselves embody his love, his tenderness, his drive to heal and reconcile and call people together.

The words we say and the stories we tell as we worship urge us to that kind of committed, bodily-engaged life. And so, as we come to worship, whether physically in this space, or watching remotely via broadcast, may we take a moment and breathe, and become aware of the way all of our senses are engaged in worship. May we settle into our bodies as they sit, stand, and move, and be gentle with them and with those around us.

Our bodies are where we meet Jesus, and where Jesus stands in solidarity with us, no matter who we are or what we look like. Our bodies are where Jesus loves us—and where we love Jesus, God, and each other. And we ourselves are called to act as Christ’s physical body in the world each and every day—and the world sees us, and judges Jesus—based on how we embody Jesus’s message—or not.

May we take seriously the proclamation that we are one body, united in Christ. May we remind ourselves of how our bodies are the place we physically meet God and each other. Of the ways they are beautiful, and worthy of care. Of the way they enable us to worship. Of the shared existence we have with one another, and the mutual dependence we have with each other, of our obligations to each other out of the same love that Mary anointed Jesus with the care for each other, and the entire world, generously, physically, tenderly. That is our true worship.

Preached at the 505 Saturday and 10:30 Sunday Eucharists, April 2-3, at St. Martin's Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Isaiah 43:16-21

Psalm 126

Philippians 3:4b-14

John 12:1-8

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.

Prayer 3272: The Ninth Anniversary of the Prayer Circle and 3rd Sunday after Epiphany C

Eternal One,
God of Abundant Grace,
we gather in attentive gratitude:
Speak, Lord, for your serfants are listening.

You have called us
into the service of your gospel of hope and truth,
and made us citizens in your kingdom of mercy and grace:
may we center our hearts within your law
and pledge ourselves anew to your service:
to proclaim good news to the poor,
liberty to the imprisoned,
illumination to those in darkness,
justice to the oppressed,
and jubilee to the alienated and the lost.

May our hands be set to mending
the broken cords of love and faithfulness,
our shoulders aligned to the wheel of mercy
that it may run straight and true.
May we embrace the work of reconciliation
as a sacred offering to You, O Savior,
our Shepherd and our Light.
May our testimony sing out
the truth of your lovingkindness and redemption.

In humility, we lay our lives before You:
bless and hallow them to your glory, O Merciful One.
Spirit of God, rest upon us,
and extend the shade of your blessing over all for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 3126: Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 16B)

With joy, we come before your altars, O God
and lift our voices in song and praise

for your saving love!
Bread of Life, you offer yourself to us
for the life of the world:
strengthen us in wisdom
to abide in you, and you in us, Blessed Jesus.
There is no place we find ourselves
that you are not our companion and shepherd, Lord:
for God so loved the world
and all of us within it
that we are given your Son in reconciliation and love.
By your grace, redeem us, O Savior,
and unify us to serve the cause of love always.
Merciful God, by the power of the Holy Spirit,
purify us and consecrate us, we humbly pray,
and place the hand of blessing
over all whose hope is in You.


Amen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Prayer, day 2863: Third Sunday in Lent

We come before You,
O Love above all Loves,
gathered before your altars,
giving thanks to your Holy Name.
Cleanse us of all that separates our hearts from You,
Our Creator and Helper,
that we may worship You with rejoicing.
Open our eyes to see your wonders, O Living God,
that we may hear your call of repentance and new life.
You are our Home, O Savior:
may we carry your healing love into the world.
Joined as one Body,
led by the Spirit,
sanctify us to do your will, O Redeemer.
Pour out your blessing like a balm, Lord Christ,
and gather into your embrace those we now place before You.

Amen.

The Least We Can Do: Homily for Ash Wednesday 2021

Lent is a season that I doubt many people say that they look forward to. First of all, there is a broad swath of American Christianity that scarcely pays this season any notice. Then there is the common misconception of most things about Lent in popular culture. 

 

Even people who are NOT religious seem to know plenty about Mardi Gras, with its party-in-the-streets, purple green and gold, king cake eating, Southern-Comfort-drinking, bead-tossing, zydeco-dancing, costume-wearing, “laissez le bon temps rouler” attitude. One last chance to party it up before what is commonly held to be seven long weeks of denial and surrender during what in most of the US is the coldest part of winter.

 

After the big party comes Ash Wednesday, the official start of Lent, and to outsiders it can seem to be filled with morbid reminders of human mortality. It’s a day of fasting after the feasting of Mardi Gras—and THIS meaning of the word “fast” is one most of us view with at worst dread and at best resignation.

 

Christians who observe Lent are often asked “What are you going to give up for Lent?” Give up. As in surrender. As in submission. And these are very uncomfortable words. 

 

Then there’s the actual idea that you must offer up some beloved habit or treat for those seven weeks, denying yourself the pleasure of chocolate, or dessert, or soda, or caffeine, or swear words, or refined sugar, or red meat. You know—all the things that help us do the adulating during the day. And the giving up of something that our body may crave with the idea that it will make us more spiritual perpetuates some unhelpful stereotypes about suffering and pleasure, not to mention exaggerating the supposed divide between body and soul. Done right, Lent reminds us that our bodily existence is a gift from God, not something to deny. 

 

Too often, all of the things we associate with Lent can threaten to overwhelm us with distraction rather than leading us into a deeper understanding of how much God loves us and pursues us throughout our lives. Worst of all, it gives us the idea that God wants us to be deprived, or even miserable. As if devotion to God can’t lead us to true joy and praise! 

 

I fear we have allowed Lent, and much of our church-going experiences, to become transactional rather than transformational. We say we believe in Jesus, but we avoid following him. We get hung up on saying the right words to get into heaven, and forget to do the right things so that we can stake our claim in God’s love and abundant mercy right now. Instead of wonder, we scoff. 

 

We spend too much time eating the bread of anxiety. We hold ourselves back, thinking it will keep us safe, or we worry what our friends would think if we started placing God’s commandment to love each other at the center of our existence, rather than our own fears and suspicions at the heart of our day. 

 

Too often, we end up doing the least we can get away with, in the hopes that we can forget that we are God’s, and we are also God’s beloveds. We turn our backs on people and associations if they do not cater enough to us. WE put up our defenses rather than really allow love in, for fear of being hurt—and yet the binding of our hearts does far more damage than any potential heartbreak could cause.

 

Jesus urges us to a better way. In our gospel we are urged to enter into fasting and self-examination with joy and gladness, knowing that offering just this little thing to God still leaves us enormously outmatched by the gifts that God offers to us. 

 

The name of the season on Lent comes from the Middle English word for "Spring." We have it all wrong: Lent is a time of new growth, of anticipation, of hope, and of looking forward in joy and gratitude for the breaking of winter’s grip on our frozen hearts. Jesus calls us to joyfully embrace the turning into the greening of our spirits into a renewed commitment to God and each other.

 

The love that Christ offers to us, especially during Lent, is one of self-giving, of generosity. That love elicits in us the impulse turn upon its head the notion of doing “the least we can do” in our relationships with God and with each other—of avoiding the common responsibility and care we owe each other as fellow-creatures. When we seek to offer a sacrifice to God, may we remember that the purpose of a sacrifice is not pain and denial, but to make ourselves holy, and making ourselves holy is a step toward making ourselves whole. 

As we are marked with the ashes today, ashes derived from the palm fronds from previous Palm Sundays, may we remember that the ashes originated in rejoicing, in proclaiming Jesus as our ruler and Lord within our lives. And let us wear those ashes with joy, with hope, as people of love.

 

As we are reminded that we are dust, and to dust we shall return, may we remember that ashes are not just a sign of mourning but a reminder of our union with all creation, and that being dust makes us kindred of the stars that dance overhead, and set ourselves the task, during these 40 blessed days, to be drawn back into the knowledge of our one-ness with all things, our fellowship with even the most common stuff of creation, and be drawn therefore into love and care with each other and with all the whole earth, that we may we dies to the casual sins of complacency and disdain that so pervades too much of our world, and instead live in gratitude and joy --starting today and for the rest of our lives.

Let Lent begin the thawing of our gratitude—formed by the hand of God, who breathed life into us from God’s own Spirit, the God who then gave us God’s Son as the ultimate sign of how beloved we all are—all of us. No exceptions. I am convinced that living out our days embodying that truth would be the greatest, most holy fast and offering of all. Nothing more, and nothing less, than all we are we are called to offer to each other, and to God.

 

And that is the least we can do.

 

 

 

Amen.

Preached at the online noon service on Ash Wednesday, February 17, 2021, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO

Readings:

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

Prayer, day 2886: The Fourth Sunday of Advent

Almighty God, we sing your glory,
joining the joyful song of creation
as our souls sing out your greatness!
How beautiful upon the treetops
is the rising light of morning:
O God, you bless us beyond measure with beauty
and our hearts kneel before you in praise!

Give us your favor, O Redeemer,
in leading us to consent to your will in our lives,
that we may join our hands in unity
in the pursuit of justice and peace,
pulling down oppression from its throne,
filling the hungry with good things from the bounty we have.

Strengthen us to bear you into the world, Blessed Jesus,
as a mother carries her child
close to her heart.

Holy One, place the protection
of your mighty arm and heart
over us this day,
and guide us in paths of gentleness and compassion.
Stretch out the awning of your mercy, Beloved Savior,
over all who rest in your care.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2857: Last Sunday After Pentecost (Christ the King)

Lord Jesus Christ,
we bow before You
and offer you our humble praise
for Your countless blessings in our lives.
Reign over us and remake our hearts, O Savior,
that we may follow you wherever you lead us,
and joyfully bear your gospel into the world.
Give us the wisdom and will
to acknowledge you, O Holy One,
as our teacher, model, and guide,
that we may plant our feet firmly
in the path of justice and peace.
Supported by your grace and mercy,
may we serve You with faithfulness
and be a blessing to others, Mighty Counselor,
standing alongside the oppressed, the poor, and the marginalized,
the stranger and the seeker.
Prince of Peace, grant your healing
to all those in need,
and your blessing to all those we now name,
as we humbly pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2850: Twnty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost

Holy One, 

You are the author of all our hopes 

and the ground of our Being: 

we rise to give you thanks and praise. 

We thank you for this day to come: 

may we serve you in newness of heart with joy.
May we offer You 

our talents, time, and treasure, 

transformed by the power of your love.
May we work for justice and mercy, 

having faith in each other 

and in Your holy goodness and lovingkindness.
May we strive to purify ourselves inwardly, 

to be worthy vessels 

for your gospel of peace and compassion.

Live in us, Lord Christ, 

and make us wholly yours: 

take all that we are

and renew it through your love. 

Send forth your Spirit 

to lead us into new life, 

that we may walk in the way of Jesus 

prayerfully, reverently, and mindfully. 

Heal us of our hypocrisy, 

and open our hearts to your truth and transformation 

as children of Light.

Bless us and all those whose hope is in You, O God,

especially those we now name.

Amen.

Prayer 2841: The Twenty-third Sunday after Pentecost

Eternal God, we open the doors of our hearts:
enter into our lives this day,
and make us whole.

Reconcile us to You, and one another,
that we amend our lives
and repair our relationships.
Teach us to tend
to the oil of our lamps,
and remember that
You are the source of all sight.
Make us not just wise but compassionate,
putting aside the fear of scarcity
that grips us by the throat
when we forget your promises.
Make us steadfast in protecting
the rights of all to food, shelter, and care,
that justice may roll down like waters
and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.

Draw near, O God, to the broken-hearted:
give your angels charge over those wait upon You.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2829: Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost

O God, our help and our rock,
we join in creation's morning hymn of praise
and offer you our hearts: hear our prayer.

Teach us to love as You love, O Holy One,
who forgives all our sin,
and whose mercy endures forever.

Teach us to love even those who oppose us,
and pray for those who hurt us,
that their hearts
and ours
may be turned to amity.

Lead us to do good for the sake of good,
as a testimony to your truth, Lord Christ.

Plant our feet in the way of justice and mercy,
upholding each other in love in your Holy Name.
Spirit of God, breathe your love into us,
and shelter those we lift before You in hope.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2022: Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost A

Blessed Savior,

You call us to walk in love,
and are the Light that illumines our steps.
All that we have and all that we are
is a precious gift from God,
who calls us to generosity and compassion,
knit into our hearts in creation.

Help us to hear your life-affirming Word,
and respond generously and joyously,
in awe of your grace, O God.
We know that you call us to praise
as well as sacrifice-
making holy our lives,
which belong entirely to You.
So let us give to God
that which is God's,
and sing praises for God's grace and mercy--
the breath that supports our song.

Spirit of Life and Light,
envelop us,
enlighten us,
inspire us
to humbly serve the cause of Love.
Gather us together in hope,
and place your seal of comfort, Lord,
on all for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2815- The Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Most Merciful God,

You call us into your feast:
may we enter into your kingdom rejoicing.

May the food we share and the cup you offer,
O Blessed Savior,
nourish us in love and compassion.

May we take delight in each other,
led by the Holy Spirit,
and seek to embody your message of love and healing.

May we never make idols
for ourselves,
or of ourselves,
and instead remember that love--
love for You O God,
and love for each other--
is the sustenance for life in your kingdom,
the living water that satisfies the soul.

Your table of fellowship is broad:
even in the presence of enemies we know you care for us,
and call all to reconciliation.

Lord, let us be your healing hands in the world today,
as we ask your blessing upon those we now name.

Amen.

Prayer 2801: The Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost

Blessed Savior,
we gather to worship You,
to walk in your ways
that we may carry your light and praise.

Holy One, help us practice
the self-emptying Way of Christ,
that our hearts may be open
to be filled with love rather than fear,
with solidarity and community rather than division.
May we build up our hope
for the lifting up of those around us
suffering in body, mind, or spirit,
as Jesus gave us the authority and privilege to do.

Make us a blessing for others,
and our words align with our actions,
that we may live not for ourselves
but as children of God,
and God's radical dream of shalom,
for the glory of your Name, O God of All Creation.

May we be struck by your power,
O God of Mercy,
that the hard stones of our hearts
may flow with the water of compassion and justice
into the parched and barren places around us.

Grant your blessing upon us, Lord,
and upon all those for whom we pray.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2794: The Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Most Merciful One,
we gather this day to worship and praise You,
intent on hearing your call to unity and justice as your children.

Let us remember that the kingdom of heaven
is your dream for us right now, O God Our Maker,
not in some distant future,
and that You call us to the vineyard
for the restoration of your dream among us.

Let us make melody in the praise of our God,
and remember the common bonds we bear in your image
rejoicing in the flourishing of all
who are given by You, Blessed Savior,
according to their need.

Let us rejoice in the labors you give us, O Lord,
and glory in each moment we work for your kingdom.

Help us bend the arc of history toward justice,
and stand for those oppressed in body, mind, or spirit.

Let us remember your justice is restorative,
and tell out the fruits of grace in our lives.

Lord Jesus, transform us and reconcile us,
and heal and comfort those whose needs we lift up.

Amen.

Prayer, day 2780: Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Most Merciful God,
we kneel before You in humble thanks
for your steadfast lovingkindness.
Lead us in paths of reconciliation,
and let us never abandon each other
when hurt or anger threatens to divide us.

We lift up before You
all who are in danger, sorrow, or any kind of tumult.
You are our hope and our stay, O Lord,
and we know You are with us always.

Strengthen all who work as rescuers and helpers
and place them and the vulnerable under your sustaining hand.
Give us wisdom to seek the higher ground of service and compassion,
caring for each other as children of God.

Bring us together as one community,
united by love,
secured by service in your Name.

Resting in your abundant mercy and grace,
we place our needs and concerns before You as we pray.

Amen.

Prayer 2773: The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Almighty God,
your love sustains us in every moment,
and we rest within the embrace of your mercy:
hear our prayer.

Give us ears alert to your call to us,
as you called to Moses as he did his daily work.
May we hear you call us by name,
and turn to hear your voice
taking your instruction to heart
that we may be a blessing in the world
and join ourselves
to upholding your work of reclamation
in your Name.

Set our hearts aflame
to burn with joy by your Word and Spirit,
O God of Grace and Mercy.
Hear our prayers and petitions and longings
as we lift them before You,
and grant your blessing to all who seek You,
especially those we now name.

Amen.

Prayer 2766: The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

Amen.

Almighty God,
the weight of your hand comforts us:
hear our prayer.
Help us to proclaim who you are, Lord Christ
in all we do and say
even when we think no one is looking.
Grant the blessing of your peace
to all in anxiety from the day that has passed,
and open our hearts to your wisdom
that we may choose to walk in your ways
as day draws to a close.
Bend near, O Blessed Savior,
and give your angels charge over those
whose needs we place before You.

Embodied Worship: Speaking to the Soul, August 20, 2020

“I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.”—Romans 12:1-2


Chapter 12 of Paul’s letter to the Romans begins with a series of exhortations based upon the points Paul has made in chapters 1-11.

Paul begins by urging us to present our bodies as a sacrifice—a living sacrifice, an offering not made in a single moment to be burned upon an altar, but an ongoing offering of all that we are from that moment forward, an offering of our time and potential and talent to be put to the use of the kingdom of God for the life of the world.

Through our faith in Christ, we are called to transform our thinking and our way of life, so that what is pleasing to God is more important to us than the values of this world. Too often, we think of worship as a set-apart few moments in our busy lives, a respite from our ongoing engagement with the world. That is exactly what Paul calls us to reconsider. Instead, by unifying our whole selves with Christ, in aligning ourselves with his example of how to live a fully human, fully devoted life, our entire life becomes worship and honor and praise to God.

Our bodies and the way we use them and where we place them are a living witness to God and our understanding of God. We offer our entire self to God—all of us—as a “living sacrifice,” and that in itself is indeed counter to the norms and standards of the world. This is not a sacrifice of dead animals, as was common during biblical times. This is a “living” sacrifice, and of course sacrifice means both “to make holy” and “to give something up.” From the time we give ourselves to God, our lives change by this very real commitment. But what do we give up? Only that which would not be “good and acceptable and perfect (v.2).” As the body of Christ, our community is described by Paul as an alternative to the world, not conforming to it.

It was not too long into this pandemic that some Christians here in the US began to complain about the closing of in-person services at their churches, and some went so far as to claim that government mandates to limit gatherings of people infringed upon their freedom to worship. Yet if we take seriously what Paul is saying here, we are assured that worship is not just bound up in rites, no matter how beautiful; or communal singing of praise songs, no matter how uplifting; or even in sermons, no matter how illuminating. Of course worship online can feel isolating, but it also can be a powerful tool of evangelism. So long as people of faith set their hearts and minds on living a life dedicated to following the Way of Jesus in the mundane moments of our lives, true worship can never be halted.

When we worship, we unite the bodily and the spiritual planes of our existence. As members of faith communities, we devote precious time from our lives within the liturgy, and even in this time of online worship we nonetheless form communities online with the insistence that the liturgy can only exist with the work of the people. That is literally what the word “liturgy” means- the work of the people. It’s not a show or a performance, but a group endeavor and offering. This is why the rubrics of the Book of Common Prayer insist on the active participation of the laity in the worship service- as readers, as lay Eucharistic ministers, as leaders of the prayers, as acolytes, and so on—and they are to be represented at the altar, along with deacons and of course priests and bishops. But the goal of worship is not to check off a box within the week’s activities. The goal of worship is to transform the way we live the rest of the week so that, in the words of a hymn of my childhood, “they will know we are Christians by our love.”

Beyond the shelter of the doors of the church, worship as daily living is a generous, mindful sacrifice, a worthy response to the grace of a God who offers us all that we are in the first place. Our lives, from our impulses to our actions, become a fully-realized testimony to the ethic of compassion and healing which lies at the heart of Jesus’s message. This offering of embodied worship is more precious and costly, as that way of being is lived out as a quiet yet forceful testimony before the sight and judgment of those unfamiliar with the beauty and value of living a life dedicated to something greater than themselves.

How can you live more deeply into the embodied worship to which Christ calls you today?

This was first published at Episcopal Cafe's Speaking to the Soul for August 20, 2020, as well as as the Rector's Reflection in the Beacon for the week of August 16-23, 2020.