Being Made New: Sermon for Pentecost Sunday, 2023

Descent of the Spirit, Ivanka Demchuk (Ukrainian), 2022. Used by Permission.

Today is a day of creation.

In our readings we just heard, we were taken from the very first beginnings of this precious Earth upon which we all depend, filled with marvels great and small; to Peter’s recounting of God’s love for God’s people throughout history to Easter Sunday to fifty days later, to the Day of Pentecost—and imaginatively, to today.

It’s the birthday of the Church—and we are the ones who have been given the presents. Yet this may be a present that at first glance we are not sure we really like. In the film, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Ferris complains that his parents, rather than giving him a car, gave him a computer. Never mind that that gift of a computer allows him to take his “day off” from school—and even erase the evidence from the records at school. Like teenagers everywhere, he equates what he doesn’t have with freedom.

Perhaps that is how many of us feel about our relationship with the Holy Spirit. It’s the part of the Trinity that lots of us most want to hold at arms’-length. Flames of fire popping out over our heads like we’re Bunsen burners? The way she seizes control of people by the hairs of their head and drives them out into the wilderness or into the streets speaking a whole new language? We are post-modern people, and if there is one thing that is true about most of us, it’s that we want to be in charge of our own lives. Mmmm, not sure about all this.

But today is the day we remember that without the Holy Spirit, there would be no Church. There would be no fellowship. There would be no communion. Without the Holy Spirit, all we would know of the life of faith would be in the words in a dusty library of books written by people who thought the world was flat, claimed that there was really only one gender that mattered and that women were at best defective males, and would have reacted to the fact that we can carry access to libraries greater than the library at Alexandria around in our pockets and to our loved ones voices even when they’re thousands of miles away probably with an accusation that we were practicing witchcraft, which never ends well for those accused, my friends. You can look it up.

The Holy Spirit has been there all along, as our psalm today reminds us. And without spoiling next week’s Trinity Sunday sermon too much, our psalm portion today reminds us that the Holy Spirit contains the playful creativity and imagination of God, even if it’s the part that is the hardest to depict without resorting to drawing floating, curly red flames over noggins or pretty white doves, which seems altogether too meek and mild to describe something that also creates mountains just so they can smoke when touched by God’s hand. Maybe the Scots have it right when they at least depict the Holy Spirit as a wild goose, because if you have ever encountered one of those defending its nest while out on a walk, you know what it’s like to meet something that hisses like a viper and charges with the ferocity of Godzilla or Gamera or some other Japanese monster movie character.

So what exactly does the Holy Spirit do within God that helps us?

First, she gives us the courage and the inspiration to put to embody the very best of our natures—the things Jesus came to teach us, the Holy Spirit takes and sets on fire within our souls. All the best of humanity as implanted into us at our creation: our courage to selflessly lay down our lives for others like that our Memorial Day holiday tomorrow also enshrines.

And we need that courage and sense of community. With Jesus’s rising and then ascension we are assured we will never be alone. And with the gift of the Holy Spirit, that promise is brought to fulfilment—even when things seem the bleakest. And so as we meditate upon what it means to welcome the Holy Spirit into our lives, I ask that you take a look at the beautiful icon on the cover of our bulletin. It is by a Ukrainian iconographer named Ivanka Demchuk.

Ms. Demchuk was born in 1990 in Lviv, Ukraine, which is a city on the far western border of Ukraine-- a city that has been batted back and forth between countries since its founding in the 13th century. It has at various times been claimed by Poland, Lithuania, Austria, the Soviet Union, and then, right as Ms. Demchuk was born, the restored nation of Ukraine.

Although technically Russia and Ukraine have been at war since 2014, the invasion of eastern Ukraine by Russia in February, 2022 was a cataclysmic intensification of Russian aggression, resulting in the internal displacement of 8 million Ukrainians within the country, as well as over 8 million more fleeing as refugees into Europe as of May 2023, creating the biggest refugee crisis in Europe since World War II. Many of those internal refugees are sheltering in Lviv—or pass through it on their way out of the country. It is no exaggeration to wonder how much this long threat has influenced Ms. Demchuk’s icons.

Of this particular piece, Ms. Demchuk explained to me that she had a commission for an icon on the descent of the Holy Spirit right before the Russian invasion. This invasion then led her to consider the similarities between the situation of the disciples in that upper room and the Ukrainian people as their country was being invaded. She writes, “I was thinking all the time how relevant in some meaning the situation is, especially for Ukrainian people who are under occupation of the invaders. Same as the apostles, they were hiding and in anxiety, and hoping- so I was praying for the Holy Spirit to help them to find a peace for their souls and help to endure these difficult times.”(1)

And if we are paying attention, we have seen the people of Ukraine respond with courage, with faith, with determination to resist the evil that seeks to tear them apart. And in our two depictions from John and the Acts of the Apostles, the Holy Spirit descends upon the gathered disciples the same way it descended upon Jesus at his baptism, and for the same reason: to empower us for them, and therefore us, for our mission into the world for the sake of the world. Nothing less. To realize our true ministry is not behind locked doors of buildings or hearts but out into the streets of the world.

At Pentecost, through the power of the Spirit, we are reminded that language is power, empowering us to carry the gospel of Christ throughout the farthest reaches of the world as disciples, evangelists, and teachers—as Christians who are the Church.

But the disciples’ first new language came as a challenge even earlier, for them as well as us. As soon as those early disciples answered Jesus’s call to follow him, they had to learn the language of Jesus—a strange language, then and now, awash in a grammar of grace rather than a grammar of vengeance.

We are still learning Jesus’s language of reconciliation today. It is the language of salvation, but not salvation for selfish ends. Rather, this language calls all disciples, them as well as us, to find the vocabulary for helping to repair the world and our relationships within it, with each other and ultimately, with God. This idea of responsibility of faithful people to repair the world is what our Jewish brothers and sisters call tikkun olam.

This language was filled with strange ideas, in which the greatest is the least, the least is the greatest, in which forgiveness and grace are more important than being right or self-righteous. Even after Jesus’s life on Earth was done, we can see that the disciples were still trying to make sense of that language. And we are too. We ourselves as Christians 2000 years later also continually work at acquiring that same language and it’s still just as alien and difficult for us as it was for them. The power of the Holy Spirit is here to help us continue learning Jesus’s counter-cultural grammar of grace and reconciliation.

Three of our readings today—from Acts 2, Psalm 104, and John 20-- hearken back to creation, and remind us that creation is not a one-time event. God did not make heaven and earth so much as God IS MAKING heaven and Earth. With the same breath or Spirit or wind that hovered over creation at the dawn of time, Jesus breathes that same life-giving, empowering, creative Spirit over and into the disciples and sends them en masse out into the streets, where they are then empowered to go and make more disciples of all nations and all peoples. Rather than the end, they begin anew. Our celebration of Pentecost today reminds us to begin anew, too, and draw closer to God so that we may serve God in all our lives.

Presiding Bishop Michael Curry makes this connection between Pentecost and creation clear in his book Crazy Christians: A Call to Follow Jesus. He says,

“When we draw closer to God, we draw closer to each other, for we are all children of the one God who created us all. And when God draws us closer, the Spirit moves, and we experience the power of Pentecost, that day many Christians over the centuries have regarded as the day when the Church was born. Paul said, “If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!”(2)

That doesn’t mean we have to be perfect. Seriously. Remember those same apostles. They took being NOT perfect to an art form. And thank God for that. That allows us to have hope for ourselves.

The Spirit moves over the world at creation, and the Spirit moves over us seeking to restore and renew creation within us. I want you to listen in a few minutes during the Eucharistic prayer we are going to pray together as Christ’s Church for the world. Listen as we call down the Spirit to move over the bread and wine, and therefore over US, so that WE can be made a new creation before God as we lift our hearts in thanks. Listen as we ask that same Spirit to transform us as God’s children and heirs, to be sent out into the world to continue Christ’s mission to all the world as his Holy Church.

Just as creation is ongoing, the Church is not something tied to a specific time or place or event in history. The Church is not a building. The Church is not a hierarchy. The Church is not a denomination. The Church is not a social club. The Church is the Body of Christ, bound together in bonds tighter than the closest family bonds we may have known. The Church does not exist for its own sake, and that’s a crucial point to make, I think, in this day and age, when institutions can run roughshod over people, and when it seems we are more divided by ever.

As members of the Church, empowered by the Holy Spirit, called to live out the gospel of Christ, we too do not exist for our own sake, or for our own salvation. Instead, we are called into discipleship for the life of the world, to go out into the places that most need the light of Christ, starting with the corners of our own hearts-- and then spreading outward into the entire world.

By the power of the Holy Spirit, the Church is part of the mystical Body of Christ and as such, is given FOR the world as an offering. As each of us remember this day that we are the Church we are called to offer ourselves for the good of others. We are called to build bridges between people who are all so different, and yet united by bearing the image of God that was planted in all of us at creation, no matter what our race, background, social class, or perceived “goodness” or “sinfulness.”


Pentecost reminds us to open ourselves to the power of God in the world right now. Jesus is still creating a new Spirit within us, calling the Church out into the streets to testify to this ongoing creation in the world—and that is you and me, not an institution or a building or just the clergy, but all of us who are baptized by water and the Spirit, as our Baptismal liturgy reminds us. Each and every baptized Christian, whether lay or ordained, is a minister of the gospel of Jesus. Each and every one of us, as Christians, is called to testify to the power of the love of God as revealed in Christ Jesus in the world, by living lives of joy, compassion, wisdom, faith, hope, and healing—all of which qualify as grade-A, bona fide miracles in this day and age of cynicism and greed.

Pentecost, Dame Warburg Welch

In a few moments, we are going to be called to say together the words of the Nicene Creed, which is the description of how the Trinity works and moves within our lives. We haven’t said those words since Easter Day—something that three of you all have asked me about, which earns you a gold star.

I hope you hear those words anew on this Pentecost Day. I hope, no matter how much certain parts of it make you want to cross your fingers behind your backs, you listen especially to the escription of what the Holy Spirit does in our lives there in that last paragraph where she is the star of the show. And then I hope you listen for what the Spirit does as we pray together the Eucharistic prayer—especially as we all collectively call her down into our midst to change ordinary stuff of creation and human hands into the very Body of Christ into our midst, so that we can be formed and sent out, strengthened and encouraged, just like those apostles on that Pentecost Day two millennia ago.

We can be the miracle. Let us go forth by the power of the Spirit. Let us be the Church in and for the world.

Preached at the 505 on May 27 and the 10:30 am Holy Eucharist on May 28, 2023, at St. Martin's Episcopal Church.

Readings:

Acts 2:1-21

Psalm 104:25-35, 37

1 Corinthians 12:3b-13

John 20:19-23

Citations:

1) Email exchange wit Ivanka Demchuk, May 24, 2023, on Etsy. Copies of Ms Demchuk's art can be purchased at Modern Icon Art.

Michael B. Curry, Crazy Christians: A Call to Follow Jesus, Kindle edition, kindle location 1347-1350. 

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

At our former home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that not beautiful?

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

Created for Wonder: Sermon for the Feast of the Ascension (transferred)

There are a variety of images of the Ascension that have been visualized by artists throughout the centuries, and they range from straightforward illustrations from one of the readings we just heard, to the somewhat weird and then to the sublime. 

Icons are usually pretty straightforward: Disciples gathered around, Jesus rising to heaven, maybe a rainbow breaks out. Weird ones show just Jesus’s feet dangling in the top center of the picture, focusing on the comically awe-struck faces of the disciples. But the sublime ones express the mystery that is at the heart of the Ascension in a way that promoted thought and wonder.

One of my favorite images of the ascension of Christ is one by Salvador Dali, painted in 1958. It’s actually called Ascension: Pieta. This is not one of his stranger paintings with crutches and melted watches, or impossibly spindly, toothpick-legged horses or robotic humanoid figures.

This one is hyper-realistic. Christ is depicted floating directly over the viewer’s head, so you see bare feet, thighs, ribcage expanded like a diver getting ready to plunge, arms outstretched, hands powerfully flexed, straining and grasping at the air. Jesus’s chin is pointed skyward. The feet are smudged; Jesus’s time walking with the disciples is over.

But this diver is plunging upward, upward into the center of perhaps the nucleus of a cell, but more probably the center of an atom. See, this painting was inspired by a dream he’d had years before, soon after mankind first began creating atomic weapons. Dali depicts Jesus entering the nucleus of the atom, literally becoming one with all, part of the building block of the universe, which is actually a beautiful way of thinking about God using a scientific metaphor. Dali’s Christ turns thus bodily transforms a figure of destruction into a hope for new creation and unity. 

The "pieta" part of Dali's vision shows Dali’s wife Gala posing as the Jesus’s mother Mary, looking down on the world, weeping; knowing how her son has suffered and continues to struggle against the evil in the world. Yet even here the risen Christ, on his way to heaven, acts to unify with what we have used all our vanity and skill to break apart, offering to bring peace where we have unleashed destruction. Dali uses the Ascension to insist on the inherent unity of faith with science, and of Creator and creation, with Christ as the mediator.

Given that the Feast of the Ascension is about Jesus leaving his disciples and ascending to heaven, one might wonder, first of all, how this is something that should be celebrated, and whether anyone in their right minds can actually believe it happened at all. I can’t tell you how many times I have seen sarcastic pictures of Jesus dressed like an astronaut noting that, unless he obtained warp speed, even after 2,000 years he would still be zooming through the space in the Milky Way, our own galaxy.

The meaning and truth of the Ascension, or any biblical account, does not depend upon whether writers 2,000 years ago could describe what they experienced and witnessed with scientific precision. The Bible was never meant to be a scientific text—nor was it ever meant to be used to oppose or contradict science, reason, or knowledge. Whether in theology or in literature, great stories can expose deep truths about ourselves and our world even using fictional events and characters. The beauty of the Anglican strand of Christianity is that most of us are quite willing to imaginatively engage with both science and faith, and see them as complementary.

For instance, we no longer believe in a three-layered cosmos, with the Earth surrounded by waters and held up by pillars. And hopefully most of us have abandoned the idea that the Earth is flat too. Hopefully! 

We now know our galaxy alone has 50 galaxies within it, with maybe as many as 100 billion stars, most with their own systems, and that there are possibly 200 billion galaxies in the observable universe. That we know of right now. Where “heaven” is in relationship to all that is not a fruitful line of inquiry for most of us.

But that doesn’t mean that the Ascension is untrue. It is true in what it expresses—that Jesus lives, and is available to all of us and seeks out relationship with all of us that we may change the world. While in his earthly ministry, as a human he accepted certain limitations. He couldn’t be in two places at once, for instance, and so his ministry was limited to a small part of the world. Even in his resurrected body, he was still limited to this constraint until his ascent.

It's funny—we supposedly live in a scientific age, but most people’s actual knowledge of science, mine included, is not that great. Yet we use the tools of science to assault anything that threatens our own assumptions. We are now at the point when people simply block themselves off from information they don’t like—a perversion of not just the so called scientific revolution, but the tactic of tyrants and despots throughout history.

Yet God created us for wonder. And that’s part of what faith is all about.

So what might we take from the Ascension that would have meaning in our own lives? There’s enough there for a book (or many). It is about the uniting of creation with God, the completion of the unification of human with deity that began with Jesus’s entry into the world and continues after his return to God. It is the same mystery we celebrate every time we prayer together the Eucharistic prayer and unite ourselves with the ongoing heavenly banquet before God’s throne.

The Ascension is a mystery.

WHAT heaven is, and the kingdom of God is, is what Jesus came to us to reveal— and, as our scriptures today remind us for us then to reveal to the world. And he was clear that it was not a place as a state of existence beyond life and death. He was clear that it IS a state of existence that we could and do participate in, seeking it, working for it, NOW.

Heaven, the kingdom of God, is now—where peace, justice, equality, communion, compassion, generosity, abundance, grace, sacrifice, the common good, empathy—otherwise known as love in action-- reign. And we are called to help exemplify that and build that with our voices, our actions, our advocacy, our time, our choices, and our very lives.

And where Hell is now, where violence, injustice, oppression, hatred, contempt, deprivation, want, fear, selfishness, destruction, and cruelty—otherwise known as evil and sin, from individual to systemic-- reign. And we are called to resist that not just with “thoughts and prayers,” but with our voices, our actions, and our advocacy, our time, our choices, and our very lives.

That’s where Jesus’s Ascension comes in. The Ascension is the fulfillment of the Incarnation. In Jesus’s birth, God entered time and history. In the Resurrection, Jesus defeats death. In the Ascension, humanity is taken into the Godhead, for the Incarnate One sits at the right hand of God in his humanity and well as his divinity. Creation becomes one with Creator.

Jesus returns to God, the first resurrected one, completing the work in incarnation, in which humanity and creation become physically, truly one with God. Through Christ we are empowered by the Holy Spirit to witness to the Good News of God’s dream for us. Through Jesus’s Ascension, he is no longer rooted to any one place but becomes available to all as a living, loving presence in each of our lives. Through Jesus’s Ascension, the focus of Jesus’s followers moves from “What must we do to be saved?” to “What can we do to serve God and each other?” Inward to outward. From Jerusalem throughout the world.

Jesus’s leave-taking as necessary for us to continue to grow toward spiritual adulthood and fuller discipleship. Jesus promises he will NOT leave us orphaned, as we heard in our gospel reading last weekend; but he also commissions us to carry on his work in the world as both individual disciples and as a community known as the Church. Jesus honors us by placing the task of witnessing to him and his gospel in our hands.

We are not called by Jesus to stand looking up. We are called by Jesus to look around. To look around, to see the wounds of the world, wounds human hands have inflicted all too often and human silences have made worse. We are then called to look within, to look within our hearts and to the very atoms of our bodies and all creation, where Christ longs to dwell. To look within, and then around again, and see the wonder of the intricacies of creation, signposts of God’s love that is also embedded into the very atoms of this world.

The great 20th century poet and songwriter Bob Dylan underwent a religious conversion in the 1980s, and became a Christian. He wrote a song that combines this acknowledgement of the sinfulness and the beauty that is woven through our existence. It’s called "Every Grain of Sand:"

In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed
There's a dying voice within me reaching out somewhere
Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair

Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake
Like Cain, I behold this chain of events that I must break
In the fury of the moment, I can see the master's hand
In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand

Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear
Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer
And the sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way
To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay

I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame
And every time I pass that way I always hear my name
Then onward in my journey, I come to understand
That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand

I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night
In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintery light
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, at times it's only me
I'm hanging in the balance of a perfect finished plan
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.(1)


Yes, we can see the heartbreak of this world. But we can also see the wonder. Then go, empowered by love, and BE Christ’s own hands and heart to heal and reconcile. Because we know we are not alone.

The point is, we are not supposed to just stand there as Jesus ascends, gazing up at heaven, waiting for God to “do something.” We are commissioned to go do something—lots of things—ourselves in ministry to the world. We can do this because we know that God, Trinity and Unity all at once, is still with us within us, in every bone and sinew and atom, challenging us, inspiring us, urging us to practice resurrection in every thing we do.

Today, we celebrate the risen and ascended Christ, risen to his glorification so that he can intercede for ALL of us, risen, but never gone, never leaving us alone. And we can look around this creation that God tenderly created and continues to love and treasure, and be filled with wonder and awe. And then joyfully, filled with wonder, to take up Jesus’s call to witness, to reconcile, to heal, with every blessed, sacred atom of our beings.

Amen.

Preached at the 505 on May 20, and at the 8:00 and 10:30 am Holy Eucharists at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville.

Readings:

Acts 1:1-11 

Psalm 93

Ephesians 1:15-23

Luke 24:44-53

Citations:

1) Bob Dylan, "Every Grain of Sand," from the album Shot of Love, 1981.

Blessing Beyond Boundaries: Speaking to the Soul May 18, 2023

The rogation procession begins at the parish door, 

in ages past a lion leading the way,
priest and people tracing and beating the parish bounds,
icons aloft, each footfall a proclamation of hope and gratitude–
saints old and new, invoking and being invoked,
that our labor may ever serve each other
and you, Lord Christ, as you ascend.

Creator God,
who laid the foundations of the earth,
and filled the sky with light both by day and by night,
we ask that you bless us this day.

New life springs up from freshly turned soil,
each furrow tracing the hills studiously,
gratefully drinking in the spring rains
like a child at breast.

Bless the fields, our holy ground and succor,
that they may thrum with the song of the diligent bees,
who help make our harvests bountiful,
orchard blossoms releasing a redolent sweetness,
scenting the air with hope.

Bless the skies, dappled with dawn,
that they may bring forth sunshine and rain in good measure,
sustaining the tender plants as they burgeon and bud,
sun gazing benevolently, enticing seed to sprout,
clouds and wind reviving the sleepy dance of ripening grain.

Bless our common toil, our labor and industry,
as we offer our strength and skill
for the sustenance of your people,
that we may minister and midwife
your renewal of the gravid, engraced earth,
that the gifts yielded to us may bless one and all,
even to the communion we share,
offering and gift,
born of earth, hearth, and Spirit.

Ever enclose us within your bounds, O God,
and call us safely into your fold and embrace,
that we may flower and bloom anew
awash in wonder, sustained by goodness.
in kinship and in kindness to your glory
clothing the earth anew.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 18, 2023.

Image:  Jules Breton - La Bénédiction des blés en Artois, 1857

UnChained: Speaking to the Soul, May 11, 2023

“An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.”—Mahatma Gandhi

1 Peter 3:13-22

How should we respond when treated badly, even while doing good? How do we react when being good is no shield to suffering? Why do we think being good and then treated badly are even related? This is a question that hangs over the epistle reading from Peter’s first letter that will be read this coming weekend. Years ago, these questions even became the topic of a popular book by Rabbi Harold S. Kushner, entitled When Bad Things Happen to Good People. The question of why bad things happen even to people of faith is one that haunts followers of every faith, as well as those who have none—and often those who have turned their backs on faith have done so precisely because of this question. The insistence of God’s continued goodness in the face of injustice and evil even has a special name in theology: theodicy.

Let’s face it: God does not try to blackmail us into belief, but instead honors our free will that was given to us in our creation in God’s image. And as unsatisfying as it may be, it is true that sometimes things just happen. If believing in God would protect people from everything from everyday betrayals to suffering and oppression, there wouldn’t be atheists—but many people would also have a shallow, transactional faith, which really is close to no faith at all. Yet the story of Jesus himself, his passion and betrayal in particular, reminds us that we are framing the issue the wrong way. If Jesus himself could be betrayed by a friend and suffer a horrific death, then we ourselves cannot assume that we are inoculated from pain or suffering, either. We can, however, be reassured by the knowledge that Jesus not only understands our suffering and pain, but is alongside us in those experiences. We can also determine that we ourselves are going to be part of the healing, rather than part of the wounding. We are not promised a reward when doing what we should, just as we don’t always get punished when we are doing something wrong. These kinds of situations occur more often than we would like, certainly.

It is said that “Hurt people hurt people.” This is a profound truth for many hurtful acts deliberately committed. Threatened people lash out, jealous people try to tear others down—and on and on it goes. This is the chain of pain that often gets passed down through generations. And let’s be honest: previous generations didn’t really know how to move toward healing, either. Trauma, revenge, and belligerence are handed down through generations just the same as hair color or blood type. The difference is, we ourselves can decide to break the cycle of pain, develop an understanding of suffering that it is universal, and even pray for those who seek to do us harm.

But, if we practice the gift of listening, and of honesty, we can decide how WE are going to react to the residual pain that reverberates in our souls from the pains inflicted upon us or upon those in our lives. Not by repaying wrong with wrong, and by letting go of the injury that has been done to us, trusting in God that the grace we receive through love that knows no limits can put in perspective the harm we have suffered. While there is life, there is hope, and while there is hope, there is forgiveness and peace.

May we all seek first of unchain ourselves from our own woundedness, and seek the assurance of Christ’s love for us, and determine to walk gently among each other and upon this earth, forging a new cycle of community and love—the very definition of God’s kingdom come and God’s will be done.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 11, 2023.

Words and Actions: Sermon for Easter 5A

In 1988, a little-known jazz and folk musician named Bobby McFerrin broke nearly every rule of popular music and popular culture with a little ditty he wrote that rose all the way to number one on the Billboard Hot 100 charts.

First of all, the song was a capella, which means vocal music with no instrumental accompaniment, and we are talking about rock and roll.

Second of all, it displaced Guns N Roses’s “Sweet Child o’ Mine” at that number one slot-- a song that one can both simultaneously love and hate. You can love it for lead guitarist’s Slash’s musical genius, as guitar aficionados consider his lead guitar work to be #37 of the top 100 guitar solos of all time. You can also hate it because first of all, this damn song never seems to die. You can hate it due to Axl Rose’s whiny vocals blatting all over a six minute song—one that was so long the band didn’t know how to end it, which is why Rose sings “Where do we go? Where do we go now?” as they look for some kind of musical stopping point. Seriously. And if you are from St. Louis, you can hate it even more because a 1991 riot at the- then newish Riverport Ampitheatre here in St. Louis ignited by Axl Rose almost destroyed the joint and got the band banned from St. Louis until 2017. For real. You can look it up.

But back to Bobby McFerrin. The little song he wrote, as he himself tells us in its opening lines is called “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” McFerrin was living in San Francisco, and he saw posters reminiscent of the 60s for a jazz duo named Tuck and Patty (look them up, they are also fabulous) repeating this slogan from the 1960s: “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” which had first been popularized by the Indian guru Meher Baba.

The song starts out with happy whistling and scat singing, which is repeated in between each verse. Then the singer, in a humorous accent, begins:

Here's a little song I wrote
You might want to sing it note for note
Don't worry, be happy
In every life we have some trouble
But when you worry, you make it double
Don't worry, be happy…

McFerrin then goes on to list things that one might worry about: not having a bed, your landlord threatening to begin eviction proceedings, being broke, being unfashionable, not having a girlfriend… The answer to all these things is “Don’t worry, be happy!” and happy whistling like you don’t have a care in the world. The video, since this was the age of MTV, was also charming, and included our favorite Hollywood Episcopalian, Robin Williams.

It was infectious. And it was amazing—especially when we learned that every single sound on the song was produced by McFerrin using his voice and his body. And by the way, how many of you now have this tune echoing around in your head? You’re welcome.

Now, there are always going to be naysayers who sneer at the idea of a song making much of a difference, and there are also those people who will fight you tooth and nail if you try to encourage them NOT to be miserable.

But.

The world NEEDED this song in 1988. It was an intense year, and not just because that’s the year I got married. The US was embroiled in the Iran-contra affair, which alleged that government officials had illegally provided the Iranians weapons in their war with Iraq in exchange for secret payments that could be laundered to fund extremist rebels against the extremist government in Nicaragua a half a world away. 

Iraq, meanwhile, was poisoning the Kurdish people who lived within its borders with poison gas. We finally concluded yet another treaty trying to control the spread of Intermediate Range Nuclear Weapons, because yes, we were still afraid that some madman would launch a nuclear war that would extinguish the human race and indeed the planet. In southwest Asia, Myanmar erupted in pro-democracy protests led by students against its military dictatorship, as Poland experiences the rise of protests against its Communist government by the working class movement called “Solidarity.” 

The Soviet Army finally withdrew from its invasion of Afghanistan after 8 bloody years, and the Space Shuttle program flew its first mission nearly three years after the tragic Challenger disaster. An earthquake in Armenia killed 60,000 people.

We were tense, afraid, worried about the future for a variety of reasons. So thank God for Bobby McFerrin trying to reassure us with five minutes of light-hearted piece of perspective altering. The success of this song actually disproved the claim that telling someone to calm down never actually calms anyone down. As light-hearted as this song was, it was much-needed medicine. It was wrapped around the truth that worrying never solves ANYTHING, and that keeping our perspectives firmly fixed in what we have right now can help us avoid needlessly torturing ourselves about what might, or might not, be.

We all NEED these reminders. We are hard-wired to notice and hyperfixate on things we perceive as threats, and when we let that take up all our capacity, we then fail to notice and appreciate things that are gifts, blessings or causes for joy. Our adrenal system takes over when we worry, and we become blind to anything good. Ironically, one of the things that can most soothe moods is music. And so, yes, I am convinced Bobby McFerrin did us all a great service that year, and it paid off for him too. He received the Grammy for Song of the Year, Record of the Year, and Best Male Pop Vocal Performance in 1989.

The opening words in our gospel passage today depict Jesus trying his best to encourage his followers not to worry as they too face some of the darkest days of their lives—so dark, they still don’t understand how dark it is about to get. And so he starts with “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.” He then promises that even when his physical presence is no longer with his beloved friends and disciples, they can never be separated from him or from God.

We need that reassurance, because several of the readings for this week sound like the plagues of 1988. In Acts, Stephen, deacon and first martyr of the infant Church, is stoned to death by religious authorities who accuse him of blasphemy as he testifies to his experience with Jesus. Yet even with this horrific fate, he rejoices because he sees Jesus sitting at the right hand of God, and breathes forgiveness of his enemies even as he meets his fate—just as Jesus did upon the cross. Our psalm also has violence and betrayal as a subtext, yet the psalmist declares their faith in God for deliverance from those who are setting nets to entrap the psalmist. Our epistle scorns those who rejected Jesus, and calls him instead the chief cornerstone. And then here our disciples are huddled with Jesus, their heads swirling with his enigmatic statements as he tells them he will be leaving them, and that one of them will betray him.

We need that reassurance, because we also live in a time when it is hard to see and know Jesus within the world around us. Yet our Easter proclamation and faith is that he IS here, alive, and active in the world around us. He asks us to trust in that bedrock principle of faith.

Jesus tries to remind us that perception is key, just as McFerrin’s little song does in a whimsical way. Jesus also reminds us that there are many ways to see and to know someone. As anyone who has ever been separated from loved ones, either by distance or by death can attest, you can still see and experience the presence of someone even when they are not right here with you. Perhaps that’s one reason why this gospel passage is also used at funerals—so much so that many of you may be thinking about funerals as your first thought when you hear this passage.

Others of you may be thinking of the way this passage may have been misused in your own life to exclude people rather than comfort and include them. Because it certainly has been used to claim that ONLY professed Christians are the true children of God. And that is not the intention of this passage, especially when we look at the reality of Jesus’s ministry and actions during his human lifetime. Far from it. Just think of the stories we have heard in the previous weeks: last week, Jesus reminding his followers that he had other sheep than just this one flock, for example in John 10. Jesus treating the Samaritan woman at the well with courtesy, acceptance, and seriousness rather than condemnation and rejection.

I don’t know about you, but I do find comfort that those who have been Jesus’s closest friends and followers still have a hard time really seeing and knowing him, beyond mere physical presence and sight. I find that comforting, because it helps us have perspective about our own doubts and misunderstandings of Jesus. Let’s remember, the Gospel of John begins with equating Jesus, as the Word of God, with God Godself. This passage refers back to that assertion in the Prologue when Jesus asks Philip “Have I been with you all this time, and you still do not know me?” in v. 9.

Now here is a place that perhaps can shed some light upon us in our time. Even in this secular world, one would have to be willfully ignorant to claim that they have heard nothing of Christianity. We still have a very vocal portion of the American population claiming to be acting in the name of their Christian faith in all kinds of ways within our government, our schools, and our society. Often they do this because they have misunderstood that the Word of God we worship is Jesus. The Bible is the record of the Word of God, and should be studied and interpreted again and again as the Spirit and Jesus continue to reveal God to us in the world today. We worship Jesus—not individual verses or words in documents, as holy as they are. The books are the lens, but Jesus is the light.

What has the world heard about Jesus? As the season of Easter reminds us, Jesus has been with us all this time, yet what does the world know about him? As our gospel points out, there are two ways to know Jesus: by his words, and by his actions. Not just actions in the past, but action right now, acting through the testimony and the actions of each every one of us who claim the name of “Christian.”

In the end, Jesus urges us not to worry, not to fear, but instead to believe. To try and sometimes fail but to keep trying in our journey of discipleship. And this kind of belief operates not at the intellectual level but above it at the level of trust. Part of our charge to trust is to not try to use Jesus as a way of dividing people and stoking fear.

One way to avoid fear and worry, I have found, is by activity. If the world around us does not know Jesus, we are called to respond by seizing the opportunity rather than apathy or despair. To turn away from gossip, slander, and trying to make ourselves feel better by tearing those around us down and instead embrace Jesus’s call to integrity, responsibility, and duty to each other. Jesus will not get any better known by our silence—or worse my our misdeeds in public. Jesus is best known and seen in the world right now through us and how we behave.

To the dirge of the world around us, Jesus calls us to sing a song of peace, of relationships healed and enemies reconciled, of embracing justice and compassion as our lodestars against the ignorance, betrayal, and corruption that swirls around us in this world that needs Jesus now more than ever. To remember that Jesus is our shepherd, and everyone’s. That there are many dwelling places in God’s eternal home, and to stop thinking we get to decide who gets in and who is left out. But most of all, for us to take up our own share in the kingdom of God right now, and live so that our words and actions reveal Jesus to those around us every day.

Amen.

Readings:

Acts 7:55-60

Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

1 Peter 2:2-10

John 14:1-14

Preached at the 10:30 Holy Eucharist at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO, 63011.

Citations:

Bobby McFerrin, "Don't Worry, Be Happy," from the album Simple Pleasures (1988).

God Our Refuge: Speaking to the Soul May 4, 2023

(inspired by Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16)

In You, O God, do we take refuge:
our trust is in You as we cry out in distress.
Even when the darkness surrounds us,
when walls close in upon us,
You are our mighty fortress.
Preserve us within the storms of life,
for though the tempest rages about us,
You are our God.
Mighty winds may blow and howl,
but You,
O God,
are our rock of refuge and stronghold to keep us safe.
For You take heed of our souls’ distress
and will never give us up to the power of darkness and despair.
We rest in the hands of the Almighty:
we rejoice in your mercy and lovingkindness.
Watch over your children, we pray,
and embrace those who rest within You.

Amen.

This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on May 4, 2023.

There Is Power in the Flock: Sermon for Easter 4A

Welcome to Good Shepherd Sunday, this fourth Sunday in Easter. I have a quiz for you.

What do sheep like to do in the summer? Have a baa-baa-cue!

What kind of car do sheep like to drive the best? A Lamborghini!

What do sheep wear to the beach? A baaa-kini.

What is the ultimate goal of sheep? To wool the world!

Where do sheep go on vacation? The Baahamas.

A math teacher was looking for a summer job. A farmer approached him and said, “I’ve got 47 sheep. I’ll pay you $200 to round them up for me.”

The mathematician smiled and said, “Sure. 50!” and put out his hand. (Wait for it—Math. Round UP.)

Why can’t you trust a sheep? Because they pull the wool over your eyes.

And now one for the armchair theologians in the house. Did you know the Protestant Reformer John Calvin, who promoted the idea of predestination, was first a failed shepherd? Yeah, the sheep refused to follow him because they believed in free wool.

One of the insults making the rounds these days is to call someone a sheep, or a group of people “sheeple.” It implies that that person or group is dim-witted, incapable of rational thought, is easily fooled, weakmindedly obedient rather than independent. It’s funny that many of us have this stereotype of sheep when most of us have no practical experience of them.

Other stereotypes about sheep are that they are docile, passive, stupid, easily fooled, and timid. Common, contemptuous phrases like “lambs to the slaughter,” or “follow like sheep” don’t help matters, either.

We don’t live in a part of the US where keeping sheep is a common thing. Now, places like Scotland, Ireland, New Zealand, the Navajo Nation in the desert Southwest—those places have more familiarity with sheep. But here in the Midwest? Not so much.

That’s a challenge when we get to the fourth Sunday in Easter, which is traditionally known as “Good Shepherd Sunday.” The only knowledge we have of sheep or shepherds is from the Bible stories, and they do reinforce those stereotypes, don’t they? We hear descriptions of sheep wandering off, and shepherds having to leave the 99 who stick together to go pull that one out of a bramble bush or a ravine.

However, those who spend time with sheep or even study them, get a different picture.

There’s a reason why sheep stories abound in the Bible. Sheep and goats were the first livestock species to be domesticated, more than 6,000 years ago in the Neolithic period in Europe, North Africa, and Mesopotamia in southwestern Asia—where Abram was born and raised, according to the story in Genesis[1]. Although originally kept for food, by the Bronze Age about a thousand years later, sheep were being bred to enhance their woolly coats so that the fibers could be collected and used as weaving was developing. 

By the time the Book of Leviticus was developed, in its 19th chapter, Jewish law prohibited what is called “Sha’atnez”—the wearing of cloth made of both wool and linen fibers[2]. It’s the breeding of sheep by humans for denser coats that is probably responsible for thinking of sheep as clumsy, because they are so overgrown with wool right before shearing that their bodies were just not made for navigating well with such weight and bulk to maneuver. 

The book of Exodus mentions sacrificing an unblemished lamb for the observance of the Passover of the Angel of Death while the Israelites were enslaved in Egypt—but then that practice did not become a custom, it is said, until after the 40 years in the wilderness was over.

So we would be forgiven if the picture we get on the surface from scripture is one of sheep as a means to an end, of passive victims.

The real story is much more complex.

Sheep have such a developed sense of smell that they can smell predators like wolves long before they see them—which is good, because their distance vision isn’t so great. Just like us, if you think about it, ha ha.

Far from mindlessly bunching together, sheep proclaim the wisdom that there is safety and even STRENGTH in numbers when they flock together. So much so that they get visibly agitated when they cannot see another sheep in their line of vision, even while grazing[3].

Sheep can overcome challenges—and learn by observation. For instance, in northern England, in Yorkshire, sheep farmers still claim the right of open grazing on public land. The sheep in one town were going everywhere—and eating up people’s landscaping on the edge of the moors. One person even got so fed up with his flowers being eaten to the roots that he held several sheep for ransom. To try to avoid sheep just going anywhere they please, the local authorities have installed 3-foot wide grids of round metal bars in the roads that were meant to keep sheep from crossing willy nilly all over town. Didn’t work for very long. Come to find out, the allegedly simple sheep figured out they could lay on their sides and roll over the grates to get to the other side—and soon every sheep in the flock was doing it, and munching down on the local gardens thereabouts[4]. I mean, can you imagine sheep figuring out and teaching each other how to stop, drop, and roll?

Sheep actually can, and do, learn their own names. And even with eyes on each side of their heads, they can differentiate human faces and interpret human emotions on them. And they can remember individual faces—both human and sheep—even after not seeing them for over two years[5]. Sheep have individual personalities, and have shown that they can have best friends within the flock—certain sheep whose company they simply prefer.

It is stories like these last ones that I share with you that, perhaps, rehabilitates the idea that Jesus intends for us to be HIS sheep, and his flock. Because if we are going to talk about Jesus being our shepherd, and what that means, especially in this time when people are worried about declining church membership and attendance, we might want to take stock of what it means to proclaim to a world that likes to denigrate sheep that there is power in the flock.

Because there IS power in the flock. But not just any flock. The sad truth is one of the biggest barriers to encouraging people to explore a life of faith is that some flocks have developed dysfunctional behavior. It can start with clergy—in some denominations, the ordained seem to be the only people that matter, and the members of the flock don’t get a say. That’s not good shepherding—that’s tyranny and even abuse of the ministry of all the baptized that Jesus, our good shepherd, calls us to embody.

But another fact is that the flocks themselves can sometimes be too resistant to outsiders. Some faith communities have groups within the flock that operate behind the scenes and actually exclude people from joining in their activities. Some have self-appointed “truth-tellers” who use their alleged dedication to “honesty” to say things and treat people in ways that they themselves would never tolerate. And this can be worse than wolves prowling around the perimeter of the flock, because betrayal can be far more destructive than straightforward attacks from enemies and outsiders, where you expect the predators to be.

Observing, once again, our animal counterparts, sheep, when threatened, bunch tightly together, with their heads to the center and their butts all pointing outward. While this may be practical in nature, when human church members mimic that behavior, we have to remember that the showing of our butts to the world is not the most attractive or inducive to newcomers. In order to add new sheep to the flock, everyone has to move over a bit, welcome new ideas and new faces in love rather than simply desperation. You can’t have growth and simultaneously have everything remain the same, and avoid change. The two things don’t go together.

Likewise, when individuals or teams step up to do things for the help of the flock, how often do they instead get worn down by constant critiques and criticisms in place of gratitude and thanks? 

This parish flock is particularly operated by a small staff and a dedicated core of volunteers. The flock will only be strong if two things happen: first, if everyone supports with their time and talent at least one outwardly directed ministry or internal need. Many hands make light work—that right there is proof there is power in the flock.

For instance, look at the bulletin in your hands. It takes at least ten people’s contributions—from Gail who schedules (or we could say wrangles) the worship ministers, to Barb who organizes the altar guild and Sherrie who organized the children’s chapel (itself a monumental important program), to Janet who helps keep track of the weekly financials with Page as well as the prayer lists and flower dedications to Denise who chooses the music to fit the readings each week and writes her music notes, to Page and Kelly and Derek who draft it all together to myself choosing the artwork and the prayers, making sure the liturgical parts are appropriate to the season and the needs of the congregation, just to make that bulletin each week, post it to the website, get it printed, and then for Bill to use it to program our broadcasts, which also takes hours. And then our volunteer communications director adding in announcements from all over. 

And that’s just the bulletin, folks. But naming this also reminds us of how we, as a flock, are interdependent upon one another—something Jesus himself reminded his followers of again and again and again. Because interdependence is not just a fact. It is a blessing, and we need to treat it that way.

And second, let’s talk about bleating—you know the constant noise from the sheep. Sheep do that to be able to locate each other—but they also need to use their magnificent ears, which are twice the size of their mouths, to listen. In applying that to our parish flocks, what would it be like if, before sending a critique or criticism (or worse, sniping behind the scenes), everyone would ask themselves first what they themselves have done to help bear the burden of the job being criticized, and if they have also been as eager to compliment as they are to complain to criticize. 

You know, especially within a flock, if you are not part of the solution, you may be part of the problem. What would it be like if, before anyone said anything negative about a task or event, they would make sure they had said at least three praises first—or at least considered what it took to get that task done, however imperfectly?

The power of the gospel of Jesus is the power of relationship. That’s a power the world around us is starving for, in this fragmented, lonely society in which we live. It’s the power of the flock—the flock that is bound together by true love in action, true grace in action, true amiability in action.

God’s insistence on being associated with the concerned, caring shepherd who knows us intimately and loves us deeply is one that we need to hear and treasure no matter how many times we have heard those words in the 23rd Psalm or every year during the Great 50 Days of Easter. Notice, though, that God goes from being talked about in the third person to be addressed personally in the second parson a third of the way in. This is a personal relationship. But you’ll notice that the relationship isn’t just one way—it’s up to the sheep to follow the shepherd, not wander too far off, listen when he or she calls. Because when our Good Shepherd calls us, that’s the voice of love calling us—calling us, and urging us to always respond in kind.

And may this ever be our prayer:

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.


Preached at the 10:30 am service on April 30, 2023 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO.

Readings:

Acts 2:42-47

Psalm 23

1 Peter 2:19-25

John 10:1-10

Citations:
[1] See See B. Chessa, F. Pererra, et. al, "Revealing the History of Sheep Domestication Using Retrovirus Reintegration," in Science magazine, April 24, 2009, at https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3145132/

[2] See Orit Shamir, "Sha’atnez – The Biblical Prohibition Against Wearing Mixed Wool and Linen Together and the Observance and Enforcement of the Command in the Orthodox Jewish Communities Today," at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln Digital Commons Center for Textile Research, 2017,  https://digitalcommons.unl.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1009&context=texterm#:~:text=Jewish%20law%20forbids%20sha%27atnez%20–%20wearing%20garments%20of%20mixed%20wool,of%20two%20kinds%20of%20material”.

[3] See Susan Schoenian, "Sheep Behavior" at Sheep 201, 2021  http://www.sheep101.info/201/behavior.html

[4] See Martin Wainwright, "Pennine spot where sheep won't be fenced in," at The Guardian UK, July 30, 2004, at  https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2004/jul/30/sillyseason.ruralaffairs

[5] See Keith M. Kendrick, Ana P. da Costa, et. al., "Sheep Don't Forget a Face," in Nature magazine 08 November 2001,  https://www.nature.com/articles/35102669

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

Let me give thanks and praise to God,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recognizing the Resurrected One: Sermon for Easter 3A

When I was in Camp Fire, one of my favorite activities was hiking. One of my favorite hikes was when our group went to a place outside of Tulsa called Redbud Valley. It was just to the north of Tulsa, right near the zoo. Given how close this area was to town when I had first learned where we were going my hopes had not been very high for it to be anything special. But I soon learned how wrong that expectation was.

Surrounded by farm fields and airport runways and state highways, Redbud Valley was an area that was unspoiled, except for a few small trails, probably first laid down by the native wildlife-- deer and coyotes and foxes. 

Butterflies like the ones that we just looked at in the children's message energetically flitted from blossom to blossom on the flowers that dotted the forest floor in sunny patches. Birdsongs of dozens of kinds echoed overhead in the treetops and the understory.

It was there that I first saw a pileated woodpecker. It was the size of a chicken, with black and white feathers, but the brightest red mohawk crest on its head. It zoomed right over us and then fixed us with a beady eye, daring us to move. And we didn’t. And suddenly we saw the beauty of our town in an entirely new light.

Even though I was in a crowd of kids and leaders traipsing single file through the woods, I was drawn so deeply into the beauty of the place that I also found myself thinking deep thoughts about nature, humanity, and our relationship between the two. To this day I have found that, often when a problem seems intractable, or if I just can't figure something out, it's a sign that I should get up and take a walk.

That's what I think these two disciples that we hear of in our gospel today might be doing. I wonder if they're not trying to walk off their grief and confusion over the events of the past three days. And as they were walking along, suddenly a stranger comes alongside them and ask them why they are so visibly upset and troubled as they walk. Now it might be helpful to understand that Emmaus was a place that was known for its resistance to Roman rule, it kind of birthplace of rebellion--and we remember that many of the people who had followed Jesus, possibly including judas who betrayed him, had expected Jesus to become a warrior king and physically expel the Romans from their oppression of the people of Israel and Palestine. So perhaps these two disciples are thinking about their disappointed partisan hopes, emphatically crushed as they watched Jesus be tortured and executed by the Roman Empire just three days prior.

Many of us might wonder why and all the stories that we've heard so far of Jesus after his resurrection, people cannot recognize him, or refuse to believe he is who he is unless they see the marks of the nails and the spear on his body. Surely, many of us might think, if Jesus walked up in front of us, we would know it.

But I think today's story, and all the other ones of encountering the resurrected Jesus before his ascension that we hear during the great 50 days of Easter, are actually meant to comfort and encourage us. Because after all if even the disciples who had known Jesus in flesh and blood have a hard time recognizing him beyond the cross and the tomb, that might help explain why we also fail to see Jesus in our everyday lives.

I wonder if all of those disciples who saw Jesus on the first Day of Resurrection had a hard time recognizing him because they had a hard time casting away their expectation of what THEY wanted Jesus to be. And if you listen to the way that Jesus is aligned by some to issues about which he said absolutely nothing, we know that we constantly walk in danger of doing the same thing ourselves. It’s so tempting to want a Jesus who confirms all of your own prejudices, rather than recognize a Jesus who calls us to be changed and transformed by following him, as hard as that may be. Sometimes we want a fossilized Jesus, one preserved in the amber of books and pages and verses, and resist the idea that Jesus could still be walking among us, transformed by resurrection—and calling us, too, to embrace resurrection and be ourselves transformed.

Because, as Christians, we proclaim exactly that: that Jesus is alive and present in the world and in our own lives right here right now. We just have a hard time recognizing him. Because I am convinced that sometimes he appears in guises that we do not expect--the same as those two disciples walking along the road did not expect to see the risen Jesus suddenly hove into view and start explaining scripture to them so powerfully that it made their hearts burn.

Where do we see and recognize Jesus today?

Sometimes it's in a stranger reaching out to help someone in crisis, even in the face of danger and terror. We saw that last week when a 16-year old Black teenager, musician, and honor student named Ralph Yarl, while trying to pick up his younger brothers, was shot by a white man in Kansas City, simply because he knocked on the wrong door of an armed man beset by fear. He was shot through the door and through the head, and then shot again as he lay on the porch. As he miraculously staggered away, he eventually found someone who came out of their house and started tending to his wounds helping him to avoid traumatic blood loss until the ambulance could come and take him to the hospital, helped by other neighbors. Those people, obviously, were Jesus.

But it doesn't have to be as earth shaking as that example. Jesus can appear before us and the woman who offers water and food to a stranded traveler. Jesus can appear before us in the person who helps acclimate refugees to the new life after they have fled all that they have loved and known to the violence war or natural disaster. Jesus can appear to us in the teacher who stays after school for hours each week on their own time to make sure that their students learn how to bake, like my sister does for her students.

And then it can be even more simple than that. Look back at this story and step back from it for a second. Can you see the shape of the liturgy and the story that we heard in Luke's gospel?

Disciples are walking along a road, weighed down by their thoughts. In answer to the pressures of their lives, to the situation that they are currently in, they hear the reading of the scriptures and have them explained so that they can see themselves and their situation in those precious words. They then joined together around a common table. And when the bread is broken, then especially, Jesus makes himself known to us, as our collect at the beginning of worship says, “He made himself known in the breaking of the bread.”

Nothing fancy. But nothing that we should ever take for granted. Each time we gather around this table, for strength as well as solace, out of a sense of need, perhaps, but always joined to our obligation to others, to the command for us to go and do likewise, we encounter Jesus as both host and guest, calling us to follow in his footsteps, to share the gospel with those we meet, and to offer spiritual encouragement and nourishment to those that we encounter after we leave these doors.

I imagined what their thoughts would be in a poem that I wrote earlier this week, entitled “We Had Hoped:

We had hoped
that he would redeem Israel,
make Israel great again, a power among powers.

We had hoped
that he would cleanse us of sin
without changing us too much--
that he would keep out of politics,
hate all the people we do,
and keep us comfortable in our prejudices.

But instead,
he appears to us as a stranger,
slightly shiny around the edges,
but a stranger
making our hearts burn,
setting us aflame
for the love of the world
including all those we render invisible,
powerless,
voiceless,
and excluded from the table.

In the breaking of the bread,
he is at once revealed and vanishes,
lightning crashes at our feet
and rolls away the stone of our hearts.

He vanishes into those he renders visible
by his companionship and kinship,
and bids us welcome all to the table
where he is at once both host and guest.

This is the eternal life he gives:
to be his hands
pierced yet restored
that break bread
and hearts
open
tenderly
on the way to Emmaus
and beyond.

Amen.



Preached at the 10:30 am service on April 23, 2023 at St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville MO.

Readings:

Acts 2:14a,36-41

Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17

1 Peter 1:17-23

Luke 24:13-35